I see pain, I feel pain, I scream.

[Guest guest]

E

 

Wed, 4 May 2005 00:51:57 -0400

I see pain, I feel pain, I scream.

 

 

4 May 2005

 

I see pain, I feel pain, I scream.

 

I've kept my mouth shut long enough. After reading this, you might

decide I'm wrong - that it should still be shut. Fortunately, we still

have a semi-free country, and the last time I looked, I still had the

right to voice my opinions. Nobody has to like them. To tell the

truth, sometimes I don't like them, either.

 

Today, as I write, I don't really care what anybody else thinks.

 

http://www.mytown.ca/denino/

 

4 May 2005

I see pain, I feel pain, I scream.

 

I've kept my mouth shut long enough. After reading this, you might

decide I'm wrong - that it should still be shut. Fortunately, we still

have a semi-free country, and the last time I looked, I still had the

right to voice my opinions. Nobody has to like them. To tell the

truth, sometimes I don't like them, either.

 

Today, as I write, I don't really care what anybody else thinks.

 

When I create a piece of art, it comes from deep within my own soul.

It is a dialogue between my soul and God. The best compliment I ever

receive for my art is when someone tells me it inspired them to deepen

their own internal dialogue. That's what art is. Of course, some won't

agree with that, either. Some will say art is what looks nice on the

wall behind the sofa. Fine. Have your own opinions. But this is my

column, and I get to voice mine here. Write your own damn column if

you have something to say. Spend the time, start the day every day,

writing, throwing away, writing again, throwing away again. Spend the

time listening, watching, feeling. Take the chance. Write when the

words get stuck in your throat. Write when you're afraid of what the

words may show about your own soul. That's only the beginning. Next,

share what you write. Submit to the editing process, where someone

pores over every word, checking and challenging for accuracy and

clarity. Then send it to someone who makes it public. And then stand

there. Look at your visual art on the wall. Look at your verbal art on

the monitor, exposed, naked, vulnerable, knowing that not only will

the thoughtful judge your creation, but so will the ass-scratching

thoughtless. Life's a bitch that way.

 

All the while I'm writing about my own pain and anger, it's really

nothing compared to the pain and anger out there that isn't being

shared in a public forum. A friend tells me the poet/artist sees more

intensely than all others the pain and suffering most flee from and

try to ignore. The artist/poet experiences it and gives it a voice.

 

Think about those words. We flee from and ignore pain. We know that's

true, each one of us, in our daily lives. We prefer boredom and

addictions to pain. But I'm going to cut to the quick here. This is

not about our petty little pains. No, not the annoying pain voiced by

those among us who plunk their asses down on the sofa at the end of

the day and complain about the high cost of gas, the current teenage

rude behaviors, or the fear of losing their investments. Petty pains.

I'm screaming about something else.

 

If the right wing is beating us over the head with it it's because

we've allowed it.

 

Here's my take on it. The t-shirt is " obscene. " The greater

obscenity is the degradation of peoples' lives and spirits. When my

child is left to die on a fence in Wyoming, or freezes to death as a

homeless person in the winter, or dies the slow death of deep

depression because his spirit is broken, then perhaps the best

response to a society engineered to allow this obscenity is indeed

F*** You! Shouted, stomped, marched, screamed, acted on with true

righteous anger. Many of us may not be comfortable with saying the

words. Fine. I'm cool with that. But we need to embrace the spirit of

" F*** you " , the spirit of contempt, and direct it appropriately. With

spirit, with anger, with resolve, with strength, with love for those

who are already victimized and are waiting for us to do the walk. We

cannot reason with terrorists, regardless of the country or politics

they claim as their own. We can dialogue until the cows come home.

When the dialogue runs out, they're gonna do what they're gonna do if

they have the power. So must we. Somehow we need to grab the mirror

and reflect it back at them, blinding them with our passion.

 

Maybe we're only angry in our brains. Maybe we need to be angry in

our hearts and feet. I'm frightened of the possibility of civil war.

Maybe more frightened if there isn't one. Learning to scream " f***

you " at the right target steadies my heart.

 

I am tired. I am scared. This is not the kind of growing old I had

envisioned. My experience with bullies, on the school playgrounds and

elsewhere, is this: they view us with contempt. They laugh at our

appeals to reason. They want what they want, and if they can take it

from us, they will. They are in contempt of the law. They are in

contempt of weakness. Contempt is all around us.

 

 

I wrote those words in response to some conversation about a girl

wearing a t-shirt with " F*** you! " emblazoned across it. Someone said

that accepting this kind of indecent mindset would be used by the

Republican party to show how they're the party of decency. As the

conversation continued, it seemed most folks just couldn't get past

the F word. Or, in other words, they want art they can put on the wall

behind their sofa.

 

My friends, it's not about the F word. It's about the spirit and

energy and resolve and anger behind it. Contempt? I see contempt all

around me, much of it perpetrated by members of the " party of

decency " . Contempt for the poor. Contempt for the environment.

Contempt for GLBTs. Contempt for non-Christians. And that's just the

beginning. Nobody sees the middle digit waving at us when jobs are

sent to other countries, when health care isn't available, when dirty

air is called clean air, when children bloat and die before their

parents eyes in other countries. Sorry, but I DO see that finger. I

was warned that I'd be getting into the mud with them if I maintain

that F*** you! posture myself. Well…yeah! And your point is…what? I

was a teacher. Playground duty is no fun, but somebody's gotta do it.

When the local bully drags another kid into the mud and beats him up,

what are we supposed to do? Stand at the sidelines and have a pretty

conversation about ethics and long range goals in a moderated

dialogue? You can have that kind of stuff both before and after, but

at the point where a defenseless person is being injured, you gotta go

rescue them. And your adrenalin has to be pumping to do that. In other

words, you have to care about something a little more important than

if your own new shoes might get dirty.

 

One more thought. I hold no contempt for people - any people - even

the perpetrators of the ongoing and growing pain and despair. My

contempt is for the spirit of ignorance, fear and greed that first

highjacks the powerful, then uses their power to destroy everybody

else. The powerful, the self-righteous, the bigots, the greedy are the

first victims. They're courting their own death and don't even know it

because of the cloak of contempt they've put on to cover their own

illness. Unfortunately, they've put themselves right in the line of

fire when we have to attack the real enemy. A pity, but I'll not let

that stop me from defending the helpless.

 

So there it is. I haven't lost a loved one at the front of any of the

wars being fought today, Yet many whose names I don't know have died,

been permanently maimed, or have broken hearts. Here is my rage. Where

is yours?

 

And in the end, to ride the wild mustang named Rage and master it,

empowers me to ride faster and harder than I could ever have done on

only my own two feet.