I wasn't going to post anything today. I've spent the past week heavily mired in the subjectively complex work of adapting to this new writing venue at Open Salon; and for someone whose general preference is to remain as sheltered from potential ridicule as possible, standing on the platform of this deluxe literary station was no small step.
For one thing, there are some impressive, erudite trains rolling down these tracks, which is intimidating enough; and although no one has yet ridiculed my initial efforts, I have read some pretty vitriolic comments about blog content on the pages of others. Comments with the potential to turn a fragile, tentative train passenger into a jumper.
I know that freedom of expression is a necessary component for the success of any open dialogue and I realize that dissenting opinions are indispensable tools to hone one's discernment; but I am also aware that we don't really know each other here and it's what we don't know that could cause harm if the brakes of bitter judgement are not applied in time.
I'm not advocating coddling. I don't believe that we should all receive ratings and be decorated with smiley-faced icons just for showing up. I'm not even suggesting that criticisms should be entirely withheld.
But there are ways to critique and disagree that come significantly closer to respectful than some of the eviscerating, mean-spirited and wholly unnecessary diatribes of contentious slander that I've come across in these unfortunate comments.
I find it confounding and, obviously, disturbing enough to mention right now after only a week of train watching; even though it places me so close to the edge of the platform I can curl my toes around the tile.
There may be some among you now who are thinking that if I don't like it, why don't I hop on a bus instead or take a pleasant little compositional ferryboat to Storytelling Land where everything is light, everyone is supportive and every story has a happy ending? Odds are you might be the very people I'm addressing.
Look, I'm just saying that this is a relatively new medium for all of us. Never before have we had such vast exposure to the out there; to the other, particularly with such incredible immediacy or intimacy. We live all over the world and come from every variety of circumstance imaginable, and what has become evident to me in startling dimensions after reading through a significant number of posts this past week is that many of us carry burdens of incomprehensible weight. Burdens of pain, loneliness, addiction, recovery, abuse, loss, tragedy, failure or with a brokenness so weighted by darkness that its nature can only be implied.
But we all come here to write.
Some write about how their lives fell apart, some, about how they are patching them together or how they are surviving the daily slaughter. Some write about anything but their troubles. And for still others, this may be the only refuge, respite or moment of joy in their whole, oppressive existence. How many sets of toes are curled around the unsteady edge of the platform tiles as they write their insides out or as they retrieve the comments left on their blogs?
The answer to this is: We don't really know.
Like many I am not unfamiliar with the rabid toxin of despair and self-loathing. It has taken me most of my life to reach this point of clean comprehension when the sodden cloud of insecurity has finally lifted and my life is no longer compromised by inadequate perception. I can see clearly and I now recognize the craven silhouette of the enemy. I know when to run and when to fight.
At this moment I am fighting. Not for myself, but for those who come here to find themselves, to reach out to others and to find a place on the platform where they can wait in safety but who, for whatever reasons, are temporarily drawn toward the edge.
They shouldn't have to fear us. Offer them a place to stand.
There is room for everyone here. Be kind. You never know......
Seething between sin and scorn I swallow all I cannot mourn and smother what is scarred or torn THEN TRACE THE FACE I'M LEFT WITH I excavate and then remove This womb of rage no one can soothe A tacit gesture to improve AND TRACE THE face I'm left with These fingers are my anodyne Five tools that craft and realign the shadows all my fears define THEY TRACE the face I'm left with And hone this practice to deceive to suffocate what I perceive I guarantee you will believe the trace of face i'm left with I've been there. Just sayin....... |
