Polemic 1: Catalysts Forgo The Comforting Word —

 

 

          I can’t shake the notion any published writer I give a damn about— and the multitude of whom I know nought but would admire if I did —would despise every vapourish pixel of this endeavour. It needles me as much as, I presume, it demeans their private struggles. Those struggles, from what I’ve read, didn’t involve this inanity … those struggles involved tooth and nail and visceral rage howled at the moon. A bloody business … but honest nonetheless. Human.

          Great male writers may now be in touch with their feminine side … whatever that’s meant to indicate (when it can be believed or, at least, humoured) … but ALL great writers cosy up to their swinish shadowlands … it’s where you find, I suspect, a whorish but wise muse or two. Not on Authonomy apparently: shadowlands strictly verboten! How bizarre: a crèche for creatives.

          Great Art = … well, it used to have something to do with Truth. It usually has to be expunged … not paraded with toots on a parental trumpet like an awkward five-year-old’s parroted party-piece. (As the other five-year-olds receive digs in the ribs to pit-pat a polite applause and proffer the gleeful whoop-de-doos).

          Monkey see, monkey do, monkey pee, monkey poo.

          I can’t negate the niggle I’ve just placed myself in an enclosure where a simian choir of bonobos oop-hoop-hoop, into the void, their desperate mannered off-key duplicity— betwixt the flirty frottage of it all —while the ethereal publisher’s corporeal gofer shoulders, with nonchalant ease, their expanded remit for perusing what falls from chimp-digit flurry. One hundred years … tip-tap … oop-hoop … tip-tap … one Shakespeare …

… one was enough. And who, among us, HAS one hundred years?

          ‘What you condone; you perpetuate.’

          Is effusive praise not more damning than faint? (To both parties)? All for— the BIG PRIZE — the GLORY HOLE —a wee condescending pat-on-the-napper from an HC minion. If I believed what I’d thus far read: we should all be lobbying our respective parliaments to close down public libraries, bookstores AND publishing houses … because the collected wisdom of human artistic literary endeavour — in its entirety —comprise what parks its skittish arse on an Authonomy shelf. Aye, right!

          There’s a vein of Philosophy currently throbbing away at the temple:

          Mankind, without doubt, beds down upon the uppermost canopy of the primate tree … the elevation can be sourced from ‘his’ discovery and subsequent mastery of DECEIT. Look around you: any alphas, silverbacks etc? If so: why? Did they use brute force to get there? Are they to be feared? Does each Thread have a subtext? Is that subtext to do with the lowering of your own self-regard whilst raising the self-esteem of another … to garner the vaguish possibility of future favour/negation of wrathful disfavour? ‘Life-skills’ ’tis called methinks.

          It’s nice to have a talent … and it’s nice to be nice … but the greater weight of evidence would attest nice people don’t write Great Art … or assist the making of it by others. They’re too busy, by far, writing reams of ‘heartfelt’ glyphed kisses toward the pendant posteriors of others/’betters’ … and rubberstamping clique membership/pecking-order. In public that is … in private: just as concerned with Self and self-serving as anyone else. (But— usually —not the brightest bulb in the bucket of duds).

          As am I of course … and so … the new thread. I’ll do you a favour though: some friendly advice … do not believe a word you read … be it above or anywhere else. The planet’s supply of salt-pinches IS finite … and HC have no monopoly. And don’t REPORT abuse … let it nourish you …

… anger IS an energy.

          If Art, in whatever form, survives the next thousand years: anger perpetuated its motion. The duplicitous …

… shackled it to their selfish desires.

          Now … if you’ll excuse me … I have to go find a teat dispensing milk less sour.

 

(Posted: 04/01/2009 16:28:00 … Page 1, ‘Catalysts Forgo The Comforting Word‘ by Gil Grachison).