Sunday, June 7, 2009

On the Issue of Respekt, and Misuse of the Word HATE

I was recently introduced to someone who i have grown to have nothing BUT respekt for. In doing some research on my new friend's life, I discovered an overwhelming sense of humility, and an enormous sense of the power of my own voice. Albeit through pen and paper, I am not silent, should never HAVE been, and shall not BE again. I have lived this spare joke of an existence, having been taught from generations all the way back to Ireland, "You don't get above your raisin'," Or, "Who do you think YOU are, you're nothing but one of them white trash Blackburn's from the West End," as if, I HAD no right to dream, or that my dreams were too BIG for me. This friend has REFUSED to be silent, he has come from NOTHING, my Gahd I have some hope for myself!! As in, I KAN be fucking somebody and I WILL be heard, somehow. I have seen from this friend, that HATE is a terrible horrifying thing, and having just only recently identified what hate actually IS, the irresponsibility of misusing of the word, hate. My God, when Daniel used to scream at me and threaten to kill me, when he would punch me in the stomach or put me against the wall by my throat, THAT is what hate means to me. Not what i feel towards him, (because I DON'T wish him harm,) but HIS hatred. HIS anger, HIS violence. Looking back at it, I can see that what was IN that man was HATE...Just fucking, hatred. And man, to think that I could throw out that strong of a sentiment, with already attatched to my mind such a TERRIBLE set of broken memories of what HATE looks like, what an ugly fucking thing is HATE. Such a word that, to think of what I know of hatred, to attach the face of HATE to any word that comes from my sweet mouth, from my sweet heart, is just shameful to me. I must thank this friend because...I covered a beautiful yellow and pale pink peonie (pynie :) bush i had in my yard with balls and balls of manure, courtesy of Festus the Red Mule. I left them there and my bush just burned up, and it died. Even the strongest harshest shit imaginable piled high on top of the most beautiful plant, still must have a gardener to remove the shit, just a break it up and just sprinkle it out a little more evenly, so that the plant can breathe. Too much shit and eventually the plant will burn, dis-integrate. I am finally finding the coherence of thought and motion and consequence of action and word, and the blooms that are startin to grow on this straggly Kentucky flower are gonna be fucking somethin'.