Off that writing forum. Left it amicably. The moderators claim they’ll miss me. And we mutually hope to be able to work together at another forum that might be a better fit. But before leaving, yesterday, I dropped another comment, or six, on, others’ work. (six being the total number of responses I received on my stuff the entire week. I spread irony in my text deconstruction.)
Anyway, a religious blogger must have had a really bad day at the home front, because she was going off on how some people in her house were challenging boundaries, disrespectful of righteous feelings, and failing to walk the path of the Lord.
Employing a mash-up of the Royal “We” and the voice I imagine Noah heard just before it started to storm, she went on and on for paragraphs about trespass and boundaries. She was in a lather. Full fulmination.
I began to worry about that teenager caught single handle with a copy of Maxim, or her daughter in rebellion going all Revlon. If her husband is playing the heathen, Heaven help him.
She did have a loud defender. And he seemed to know exactly what the hell she was talking about. Right on! You go! Boundaries! Boundaries! I wasn’t surprised he played cheerleader. He had previously gotten all sanctimonious when someone used God in a post title with secular content which contained a profanity. In the main, the piece read young and dumb. But he couldn’t let it go. I pegged him as a guy with a quick match when matters of faith were at stake.
Most commenters were not kind. Her post was called abrasive, and divisive. There were hints at her ignorance, and questions concerning her literacy, and enough with your moral superiority, with polite proffers that she should take this shit elsewhere. A few tried to help; basically, sleep on the screed overnight, watch your you’re and your, and paragraphs might help.
I didn’t cheerlead, but I understood her. Not the subject matter. The fury. The indignation. The need to punch, counter-punch, sucker punch…push the hell back.
She was writing from heart. As light or as dark as one’s heart might get at any given moment. The worst poetry often comes from the truest emotions(*). And I’ve been there. So I defended her. And then offered here some, “do as I say, but not always do,” advice.
“I think rants are the bee’s knees. I like the way they sting. If one can’t righteously rant, they ain’t got any business buzzy around a blog. My kind of turf, the rant. And I’ve been known to often explore that territory. And I like it because a rant doesn’t have to respect boundaries. And it provides an emotional opportunity to roll verbal boulders at arbitrarily drawn borders. I think rants are good for geography. And I think rants are good for the soul. I think they overturn tables in temples, and have removed tyrants from power. ( well, often a catalyst) But.
I think the best rant is the refined rant. I have a private post for just that purpose. To let the stew brew. Cool the blood boil. Tempering the temper to better tag it’s target.
So my advice to you. Get a another site on wordpress . It’s free. Make it private, just for you. And when it all gets raw, then let it rip. And then rework it until it’s ready, really ready. Then drop it on the web, publicly . Good luck “………
For close to three decades when SNZ has informed me that the evening would provide a full moon, I would reply… NO. It’s 7/8th or 15/sixteenth…until last night. Last night I answered…”that’s nice.”
SNZ was disappointed.
When It’s Only Make Believe, Maybe
Forever a cliff
to go over
always an abyss
to stare into
and somewhere someone
draws another line in the sand
Events have become evergreen
News the new recyclable
Crisis the currency of last resort
While reality bears no interest
A Comment Without Context # 67
You write, ”Poetry is that thing we squeeze in between laundry, golf, and sitcoms.”
Well, yeah..because like dirty diapers and disappearing socks, because like trees, and sand traps, and handicaps, because like snickers, and pretending, and the inane, we are of the world but apart from the word.
The sun will rise without our description, and set unconcern by the spit shined seriousness of our syntax.
We’ve lost respect not for poetry, but for the play of tongues.
The parlance of patois, the cutting edge of an anachronism, the carnival barker, the vicar on vice, dice and absolution, the long haul truck driver on short term romance with a long stemmed pole dancer.
We favor form over flesh and blood, becoming syllable counter algorithms incapable of deciphering if she loves me… or …loves me not.
I know, I’m a snot.
But I’ll tell ya what I did like, your post. Made this word slinger take notice.
Dining Room Wall, Time Too
Spy that smart