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Dean Whitbread 2013

Dean Whitbread 2020

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Written on May 24, 2005, and categorized as Secret and Invisible.
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All this unwinding has been getting to me, and not entirely in a good way. Maybe it coincides with yesterday’s full moon, perhaps it is a result of the detox regime releasing trapped energies deep within my molten psyche. Maybe it’s just because I am a complete curmudgeon on a bad day to make up for being so extremely delightful the rest of the time, or perhaps it’s just the mighty pendulum of emotional nature swinging back the other way.

I suppose blowing one’s top is better than apathy. In certain cases it can even be justified. Mostly however it only adds to the sum total of utter bollocks in a world full of sweaty swingers of no particular use.

My timing was impeccable – bedtime – at the point when we were anticipating comfort and respose. The S.O.S. signals started and I leapt the defense of my defenses, prepared to die for the country I call my ego, ready to take on the cohorts of evil and defy those who would take and use my precious children for breakfast garnish.

When it was all over, the utter certainty I had held was a shrunken thing, a popped balloon on the floor of my stupid party. I had one good reason to be angry, but ninety nine not to be. Darkness was in my heart, Satan was my best friend, and woe betide anyone who criticised my banjo playing. No it wasn’t about banjo playing, that was a metaphor. Pay attention, will you, and stop interrupting!

Later, in the patch-up moments where mournful regrets fly home like mint-and-cocoa-scented doves to coo and roost and ruffle feathers, I did the simple exercise, impossible in the heat and drama of the eruption, of reversing the accusations of bad behaviour, so that I tested myself for integrity, and watched my pride slide inexorably down the slopes, wiping out my villages and vineyards, until it was cool, solid black shame. No excuses.

Why is that we see in others the worst of ourselves? How does that mad mirror work? Like patriotic americans accusing Iraqis of insurgency in their own country, in our misguided anger, the best among us become stupid stupid stupid people. Would these glorious patriots capitulate if Iraqi soldiers patrolled the streets of Illinois? Would they not hate them for the deaths, interrogations, mock executions, sexual degradations, and being forced to wipe their ass on the Gospel? Would they not secretly cheer the carbombs of San Diego and mortars of Manhattan, and wish these ‘liberators’ gone? Of course they fucking would, or else, they would be unpatriotic collaborators betraying everything they held dear.

How ever bad your own shit smells, it has the glorious privilege of being exactly that – YOURS, and nobody else should tell you how many turds to crap in which pot when. Except, however good and right and intelligent we are, we all do that, don’t we, in the name of improvement, in the name of holy righteousness, knowing that our cause is mighty and just, that our particular violence is condoned, and that our own shit smells like a cocktail of holy water and Chanel #4.

I am sorry. Three words that do little to repair the damage, but there they are, anyway.

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One Comment

  1. transience
    Posted 24 May, 2005 at 8:36 am | Permalink

    sometimes, even when we think the words aren’t enough, to the other party, they are.

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