A Sea of Hypocri

I hate writers.
At least, I hate most writers.
Well, I hate quite a few writers, anyway.

And I know what you're thinking. Hate is such a strong word. Which is basically you telling me how I feel or should feel, to which I say, go soak your head. So perhaps you're wondering why my feelings towards said individuals exists in the first place. Why writers, of all people? Why not dictators, or terrorists, or pedophiles? Why hate a specific person at all when there are other forces to be reckoned with in the world? Hurricanes, Pollution, AIDS (not to compare AIDS to Pollution but ya have to agree they both pretty much suck and make Philadelphia and crappy place to live

Why, Sean, of all the billions of things to hate in this lifetime, have you chosen writers? I'll tell you why. Writers killed my parents. Ninja writers. With throwing stars fashioned from typewriter keys and their faces wrapped in ink ribbon. They killed my parents dead.

Okay, truth be told, Ninja Writers did not assassinate my dad and mom. As much as I would have enjoyed coming home as a child to find their lifeless bodies sprawled across the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood and ink, with a dozen or so type bars poking out from their font-covered faces, it did not occur and most likely never will. And I know what you're thinking now. Unresolved childhood issues much? And my answer to that is, no, but to each their own. You have fantasies of Salma Heyeck making out with Jessica Biel and Scarlett Johansson in a swimming pool of vanilla pudding and I, sometimes, day dream about parricide by way of hired Contract-Ninja-Writer-Assassins. So what?

But I digress. The reason for my contempt of aforementioned writers stems from, as most opinions do, my personal experiences with them. That being said, I will now attempt to summon my fondest memory of interacting with a writer. Please hold.

...................................

ok, I'm getting something here. Yup. Ok, here it comes. Wait for it, wait for it.....

*fart*

Nope. That was last night's pizza.

I got nothing. I sincerely cannot recall meeting a writer whose presence left anything other than a sour taste in my mouth. Much like...the flatulence...that is now...surrounding.....me an-blah. Blahflbbbt....blech, blech.

Ahem.

Now, I am willing to admit that my dealings with writers have been few and far between as of late, but, being the human that I am, I struggle with letting go of bad experiences in the past. In fact, I tend to do the opposite. I dwell. I let the resentment fester like an infected wound, allowing it to scab over before I rip it off and watch myself bleed. It's terribly unhealthy, I realize, but easy and efficient. No need to psycho-analyze myself. No deep reflections or mental explorations. It's just me, a bucket of fried hate, a bottle of bourbon bitterness, and a 24-7 television marathon of 'Why Writers Suck', most likely narrated by Morgan Freeman or Angela Lansbury.

So what is it about writers that makes them so detestable? How about the short version? Writers are full of themselves. From the start to finish, they are truly only writing about themselves and finding new ways for us to choke down their narcissist sludge. An amateur begins by writing about nothing but his or herself. Everything starts with "I" and ends with "ME". Their rants range from boastful to teeming with false-humility. Even the reclusive ones (which I find the most obnoxious) find a way to smother you with their elitism.

As a writer advances in his/her skill, their writing takes on a less ego-centric format but don't let it fool you. What they are really doing is burying themselves deep within each character, attempting to distract you with ideas of a solar-centric universe within their words, when in reality, they would, if they could, execute anyone who believed in anything other than a galaxy that revolved around them. They are creating a blanket of plots and personas, but it's really just an elaborate quilt, stitched together from their own vanities.

Upon reaching a degree of professionalism, writers turn to their early days and begin blatantly writing about themselves again. Their perspectives are sharper, they have exchanged the underdog position for a martyr role, and they really could care less what anyone else thinks because they have been around the block more than a few times and have earned the right to be BE right.

This typical evolution of the writer comes across in their demeanor as well. There is nothing worse than socializing with a would-be writer. Throughout the course of the conversation, the subject will undoubtedly turn to their life or their circumstance, repeatedly, and in the end, you will feel as though some part of you has died. You will spend the duration of the interactiong fighting for a chance to speak, and even when it's your turn to recant or share, you will feel as though the writer is hearing you but not really listening, and is in fact simply biding his/her time until they can contest your claims or speak of themselves once more. Much like their writing, their speaking will leave you despising yourself for having wasted precious moment of your life.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly the short version, but I could go on, trust me. I can't tell you how I came to feel this way, it just happened, just like all things just happen. Some of us don't like brussel sprouts. Others don't like chocolate. I can't stand writers. So it goes, as Vonnegut would say. In fact, the only thing I hate more than a writer, and don't get me started, is a reader.

But that's just me.

RumiNation

Sometime between 18 and 30,
an individual must decide for themselves
whether or not this Jesus thing
is nothing more than a pyramid scheme,
fashioned from a time-traveling Carl Jung,
or the real deal from Israel;
the pudding-pop of proof.
( or at least -circumstantial evidence)
Before or after those short twelve years,
it's all for not ~
being either
lost inside the claws of indoctrination
or
found inside a deathbed conversion.
The version of salvation may be varied
but the fear that serves as catalyst remains.

Finding myself within those precious few years before a decision must be made
I find solace in the human race - of all places.
If ignorance is bliss (as it would seem)
than fear is eternal happiness,
both of which remain too good to be true.
I have never known a perfect ignoramus,
just as I have yet to meet a truly happy human being,
And I often think we cling to certain fears
in order to fuel the flames of ignorance
that burn the coals of joy.

Sometime between 18 and 30,
an individual must decide for themselves
whether or not this Love thing
is nothing more than the Devil's scheme,
fashioned from mammalian byproducts,
or the real deal for all to feel;
the J-E-L-L-O of life
(It's aliiive)
Before or after those short twelve years,
it's all for not ~
save for
the starry-eyed child beyond it's years
or
the wonder-wall adult with a youthful heart.
Start this stanza again and you'll notice
there is no question to the Devil's existence

Finding myself within these precious few years has been a grueling task
In searching for answers, I find more questions to ask
If love is blind (as we've been taught)
than hatred sees infinity,
both of which remain too true to be good
I have never known a love that could not see,
just as I have yet to hate with acuity.
And I often think we cling to dull ideals
in order to maintain the vision of love
that visually impaired parents handed us

Sometime between 18 and 30,
an individual must decide for themselves
whether or not this Life thing
is nothing more than Death's grand scheme,
fashioned from Chance cards and Community Chest pardons,
or the real deal for us to steal
from destiny's grand mold
(There's always room for the Bold)
Before or after those short twelve years
it's all for not ~
for we are
the inquisitive children without concern or care
or
the indifferent offspring of a forgotten yesteryear.
Here is our greatest challenge:
To live, to love, to believe.

As for me - I will find myself in all three;
a faithful, happy, blind man deep in love ~
Sometime between eighteen and thirty.

1% aptitude - 99% beatitude

when witches pray

they say exquisite things.
they bless the light around your head
they dance in sync with goodness
they concentrate their efforts on removing what could be considered the hangnails of the soul
and everyone needs an animus cura from time to time

i met such a witch one day
on my way to the emerald church
she heard that I was headed to a four-walled sanctuary
and begged me to reconsider
what freedom can be sought behind a lock?
what worship can be offered in a box?
and then, as witches do
she ran her fingers through her hair;
pillars of pearl through a sea of obsidian
and began to dance around me

when witches pray

the day turns into night
the darkness into light
the evil of your goodness
separates like vinegar and oil; two entities whose densities may differ but long
for a strong shake into a mixture.

i met her choreography
with startled awe
she summoned guides from Gaia's core
and tore the veil of hesitance that draped between our temporal selves
what good can come from God's remorse?
what bad can manifest through force?
and then, as witches do
she ran her fingers through my hair;
alabaster tips within a strawberry champagne
and began to dance again

when witches pray

the fray of life is softened
the energy that hovers above your brow settles
the metal taste of blood and bile thins behind your teeth
beneath the folding epiglottis where your voice is born and
suddenly you find yourself at peace

i met her every evening
on a mount beside my path
she bathed herself in lavender and sage
and washed me with her words of timeless charm
what harm can come from blessing selectively!
what danger it is to follow a wounded sheep!
and then, as witches do
she ran her fingers through her hair;
ivory keys through curled piano string
and welcomed me in to her dance


when witches pray
they say those things that hatred cannot see
their mounted sermons reach the world
as simply, 'blessed be'

Between Max Cady and a Raging Bull

it was your peculiar fascination with Robert De Niro that first intrigued me.
i believe You saw in him the character of a man the world once knew
strong
silent when appropriate
not to be completely trusted
it was the precarious situation that kept me in check
i believed i could be those things You needed
substance
restraint
mystery
it was your uncanny likeness to nobody else that first stirred me.
i believe You saw in me the character of a man the world has yet to meet
stalwart
tacit
impulsive
it was You and Robert De Niro in my mind, like an elusive dream on parade
i believe (in) You, and the world won't know what hit them
stay
quietly
in awe
 

In Case of Emergency

My birth has been one thousand times, my death will be but once.

The woman had become more than an enigma.
She was 'As God'....or the omnipresent flavor of poultry.
I knew my efforts to escape would be in vain
and so I lowered my arms and fell into her pheromonal gravity.

[That was me ten years ago;
the archetype for a bright-eyed child, searching for the truth.
Truth be told, I enjoyed the binding ropes
of martyrdom far too much in my youth.
They inflicted just the right amount of pain
to keep me coming back again -
a curious case of Christ complex.
Fast forward to the present
and I still present myself in
pieces of a pious puzzle to
any would-be solvers who resolve to
save those who cannot save themselves.]

The woman was self-aware but did not know herself.
She limited her interactions to
controlled experiments and harmonious sound-bytes;
the idea being that those who heard her rich arrangement
would be distracted from noticing
the absolute lack of originality.
Originality being the natural, melodious momentum
gained from genuine life experience.
We often succumb to harmony
when the rapture of discord
falls on our deaf ears.

[And here we have five years ago;
wide-eyed and abrasive, casehardened by the truth.
Truth be told, I grew the most when seeded in accusation.
Point at someone else and you point at yourself
- or something like that.
Those versed in the language of fingertips may notice
their own hand speaks with louder allegations
than a chorus of adjudicators.
I preached to the choir,
sang to the deacons,
and baptized the son of god
- all for the purpose of fulfilling righteousness.]

The woman has become more than a mystery.
She is backdrafts and flashovers
inside my arson mind.
She is the constant need to break glass;
to rejoice in trembling,
to remember my temple-self constantly being destroyed and rebuilt.
She is manna during Exodus,
and the body for the Eucharist.
She is firetruck red and seven grain bread
and I love her for all that its worth.



My birth will be one thousand times.
My death has been but once.