The World Is Ugly

but then again maybe i won't

Well, there was always something pulling me in the other direction.

To start with, there was George Orwell. He told me to question myself, question my writing whenever I could -- but then there was Sharon Melton Lippincott, who instructed that I should write like nobody would ever read it.

There were the pompous bastards that I was close to, who were convinced that adverbs were friends of theirs. Then there was Stephen King who shook his head and told me that the path to Hell was paved in them. Much like you should never drink punch that is also used to remove tar in construction sites, it would be ill advised to used the bricks of eternal damnation in something as delicate as a poem.

There was more, of course.

Thomas Jefferson told me that I should never use two words when one would do. Ray Bradbury stuck his head in at that point. His advice was that quantity produced quality and to write as much as was enough for me.

But as I sat among my idols, I realized who had not spoken. Poe sat in his silent corner, taking us in as a black cat does the passing night. Among other men, he was black and white as an old photo, complete with specks and smudges like a melting candle.

He had nothing to say to me. Rather, Edgar turned up his nose with a cantankerous air about him, as if his mere presence was tedious.

I wasn't upset. Mr. Poe, much like the raven, carried with him obscure secrets that were meant to be earned, not given.

Toni Morrison said that if there was a book I wanted to read, I would have to write it.

There was a thematic delicacy to their speech, a collective spoken muteness that shrouded me in reverence for them.

I pulled myself away. The constraint, the constant pulsing of inadequacy inside was too much for me. Warren was beside me, anyway, and he was a much simpler creature.

Of Warren, I haven't much to say. He stumbled through life as a man born blind appreciates Van Gogh; in sincerity, but without the slightest clue what he's missing. Sometimes, I wonder if he will wake up one day and see the world as I see it.

It is not the haystacks and empty meadows he comes from. The world is the sound of gunshots and the sight of blood, the scent of death accompanied by the taste of tears. Warren didn't know that, maybe never will.

The table was surrounded by blind men, which both unnerved me and built confidence within me. In the same way that you can watch a blind person in your own dark solidarity, I could search these people in peace, knowing they could not do the same to me.

It would be, I suppose, rude to label the entire table as blind. There was Teddy.

Teddy Gillespie had a face that matched his name: nearly rhyming, but off kilter in an identifiable way. After all, it couldn't possibly be the 'p'. Teddy Gillesdie doesn't rhyme either. His eyes danced with chaos, calming only when they rested upon me.

G.K. Charleston told me to stop thinking so much. George Orwell coughed and disagreed.

I watched Teddy for a brief moment, until Teddy was looking at me. His smile was as subtle as a zephyr from the North in Texas July. In my mind, I reached across the table and ran my fingers along his lips, imitating the blind people around me.