Archive for the ‘Trent Walters’ Category
Proof Positive
Monday, August 17th, 2009
Sitting serenely under the shade of a banyan tree, the essayist wrote: “Sitting serenely under the shade of a banyan tree, the essayist wrote that a crazy, angry monkey squatted in the banyan tree, plucking and eating figs from the vines and getting fat. He read his beautiful, rice-paper composition aloud.
” ‘I am not a crazy, angry monkey and I’m not fat,’ said the crazy, angry monkey who was getting fat, which must be so because it was written on rice paper. The monkey paused to listen, then let out an angry monkey shriek, ripping out a banyan branch. The monkey hurled the branch at the cherubic essayist. The branch smacked him in the head and splattered blood all over the beautiful, rice-paper composition.
“Hopping gleefully up and down in the banyan tree, the monkey proved the essayist’s point. He lived long enough to scribble a few more lines.
” ‘That’s it. I want a divorce,’ the monkey said, climbing down. But it could not resist grooming the beatific essayist’s bloody scalp.”
Hypocrite Écrivain, Hypocrite Lecteur: a Letter to the Editors of DailyCabal.com
Thursday, July 23rd, 2009
Dear editors,
Since its christening, I have faithfully read your zine. Its vessel has at times thrust itself into amazing worlds and has at times scraped its barnacled hull through narrow wormholes. SF Poet Anan Muss, however, has shipwrecked and should no longer captain your masthead (or even swab the decks).
His themes tend to be Darwinist variations on the idealistically fit who are actually unfit because of their idealistic naïveté, which causes them to be buffeted by the supposedly unfit (according to standards humanity claims to uphold) but who are truly fit because they obey an unspoken social Darwinism. While the themes should disturb the blithe and, indeed, deserve to be heard, it appears the poet himself does not abide by his implicit ideals: All have worth and ought to be treated as such.
Last year, I paid to attend a benefit for the SF Poet Society because Anan, a man of self-purportedly high principle, was the guest of horror–pardon, honor–teleported in from Jac-Sun V. He spent the late afternoon swilling a dozen Chardonnay and swallowing more than his share of salmon. Many tried to discuss literature, to stroke his ego discussing his work. He actually glared when I brought up his thematic disposition. He had eyes and words only for a third-rate poetess a third his age. One might surmise where he spent that night.
I do hope you’ll take a billy club and knock that man between his lustful, blue-speckled eyes.
Humbly yours,
Nobody the Poet
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Dear Nobody,
Thank you for writing. My first reaction is “That’s not me.” But how many times have we gazed in the mirror–especially as we age–and been deluged in a self agnosia?
I could make excuses: Dionysia dissed me again, and I desired revenge (but that’s petty and not me). You or whoever else appeared sycophantic (but that’s egotistical since we all start somewhere). My only hope lies–hope springs–in misperception:
1) It wasn’t me you saw, or
2) you saw me but my mind was elsewhere (if we trust your version, we cannot but be disappointed in any writer who claims objectivity, to see all angles, to peer into the hearts of all characters with equanimity), or
3) my identity was mistranslated through quantum entanglement–maybe the distance between a good person and a bad takes very little leap (a quantum leap, if you will–another perennial concern).
You do realize your perspective is hopelessly idealistic: Most would merely blink after getting kicked in the teeth by someone bigger than they. That is why I thanked you. People should hold more mirrors and, using their senses, stand up to their own standards.
Bless you, dear poet of incorporeality. Let’s pray the slitters made his death excruciating.
Anan