On occasion while looking over works, I find a writer who sings just so, and the notes strike a perfect chord that resonates deeply. In those times I enjoy sharing bits of them in addition to the usual flow of my own posts. So please enjoy a guest posting by a writer, a poet, and colleague, a man with much to say, and one to watch for, Emerys Watchel.
“Have we reached the height of decadence?
Anyone can write meticulously constructed, sarcastically pointed prose statements, the failure is confusing these vapid, anorexic jibes with actual intelligence. Any two-bit word-smith can slant an argument with a jaded lean, that’s the easy part. Understanding the value of opposition however, takes patience. I for one, don’t believe that flowery prose can deepen the understanding of societal ill’s. That quest is a personal journey to levy uneven ground. To concisely weigh value charges with acceptance and the knowledge of equality. Falling victim to the masturbatory ejaculations of your own successes is vanity by definition. That literary road is ventured by too many minds whose singular aim is to stab out a piece for themselves. The enigma here is that, while scrambling to the precipice of your own dirt pile with intent to look down in contempt upon the writhing masses, you will see only yourself. An agent, acting in service under the Super Ego.
The great mind of any age is thought of as a revolutionary, surrounded by confederates of the enemy. The weak mind seeks out this position and stumbles at its contradiction. The writer who believes his station is to speak out because he has things to say is not a writer, but an adolescent toying with weapons he hasn’t the skill to master. Here we see his masterworks are merely the faintest gleanings of self-awareness only to be mired by a self prophetic delusion of greatness. Valiant name dropping and perfunctory comparisons become meaningless, transparent antics that say loudly “Look what I can do.” The pursuit of mastering these school-yard dejections is not for insight, but to crown the writers contrivances with a wreath of ineptitude. Your contemporaries will always see through this visage with a look of boredom mixed with brief levity. Winning one battle for a day does not gain you humble admiration for a decade.
There are clear and simple truths that can not be ignored. The most powerful of which is right in front of you. You can not show anyone anything that they haven’t already seen. You want to speak out against injustice? How can you compare a singular opinion with the genocidal horrors of the Holocaust. The men and women that fought for Liberty in Ireland, the American race riots, the innocents in Sarajevo, the millions of starving children in Africa? You can’t. As a people we have seen life at it’s worst for over a millenia.
Life is not tragic, neither is it comedic. Too often life is depicted by the opportunistic as tragic, veiled with the comedic. But this is only an ignorant jest. Those who have seen death, warily slander the living. When however, the scope of a writers imagination is limited to the infantile scandalous, tabloid drek he, or she must then boldly bear the mobs slings and arrows. We have seen starvation and desperation. We have felt the triumphant weight of loss and love. Can you pen this pain with dignity, or will you whittle it down to insignificance? Writing agnostic verses soaked in apathy is an emotionless mechanism wielded for one purpose; to shield the writer from the cruelties of his reality. To magnify the imperfections of the masses with one hand, while with the other, to write this reckless declaration, “I have no soul to bear.”
Such a pitiable waste for any writer to live a life selling apples to oranges comparisons. Like any fast-talking hoodlum or huckster who’s learned to articulate verbal images of commercial beauty to sicken the weak and hurt the ugly. To raise a turbulent cry above crowd, pointing fingers and condemnations at every heart, save his own. To claim that he alone has found salvation, saved from the carnal wreckage and disease festering all around him.
No. Long gone are the days when sociopath’s such as these were banished. Cast out and beaten to death with stones. Instead they are rewarded. Praised as idealists that have managed to paint explicit depictions of general malaise. Well, so what! He has only managed to cast his eye along the landscapes surface. He hasn’t penetrated the deep recesses of human thought. He hasn’t trudged the dark alley ways of madness with broken hands and blistered feet, crawling, bloody-bellied in the dark. And we know it. He writes without fear and we can sense it when his words ring, yet they fall hollow and tasteless.
We all seek an answer and an escape. Be it from responsibility, or from poverty, or even from sanity. In this realm the rich man and the poor man are equal. If we, each and every one of us have beliefs. Either faith or conviction. Or passionate drive to stay true to our selves, to achieve our desires by maintaining true to our individual sense of moral justice and vindication, I say we are equal! Any man’s views may differ from the next. But who among us holds the god-like divinity to play judge over the ultimate destination of any mortal soul? Who has the power to change me, to damn my appearance or the choices I have made. To dissect my creation? None. Not one insipid sinner amongst you, except my self. Who will I always answer to but my own consciousness?
The blind as led by the blind will always call this entertainment. The hint of scandal. The suggestion of infidelity and forbidden pleasures tantalize the mind and wet the lips and the gossip mongers know it! There’s a dollar to be turned with every page. As long as there are customers interested in this filth splattering and shit shoveling mock-journalism. Where has it led us except to pseudo-reality T.V with scripted events and rehearsed dialogue. Away from a better understanding of ourselves, struggling to juxtapose seamlessly with the backdrop of reality all around us. Does it teach us anything? What’s to be learned besides deceit for our neighbor and desire for their possessions?
So we are all torn between two worlds. One where criminality is punished according to societies laws. Enforced by brave men and women who are spat on like villains. And one where criminals are heroic, motivations are arbitrary, and corruption is pornographised. Where sex is in the eyes and on the minds of every victim and everyone’s a suspect. And so, we turn away from community, or from nature and instead invest in mindless self-indulgence and depravity. And our children learn from us.
Are you scared. Or are you not scared nearly enough?”
© Emerys Watchel, 2013