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I
hate writing
I listened as he ranted all night. In the morning, he was dead.......
"Writing is a curse I hate writing I hate to spill out my guts for all to see. I hate to be the guy whose position is known. I hate the tug of the Muezzins voice at my heart. His voice, shrill, wicked, commanding and arrogant - yet plaintive and humble, seduces me and I long to look over the hedges of my secure world and peep into his heart - into the heart of the world which has fashioned him and his voice. A voice which toils for naught - for I've been told by many a Sunday-school teacher that his god is dead. Nay! his God never lived. Never existed but was created by men...
Now
this is why I hate writing! Why can I not just listen to the plaintive cry of
the Muezzin and go my way? Why do I have to try to get inside his head?
Why I hear you ask? You did not ask? Matters not I'll tell you just the same:
I
try to get inside his head and would arrange his mind according to my world,
because the faithful Muezzin is my neighbour. I am thus forced to hear him each
morning and he reminds me to no end, of my lack, my unbelief
and my failure as a man.
Yet
the undulating rhythm of the Muezzin interspersed with off key ululations and
octaves gladdens me exceedingly - it encourages me to be steadfast. His
dexterity and occasional playfulness says to me: "You would take liberties
with your sacred duties? Abide then long at your duty post!"
There
- over there on the exalted tower silhouetted against the evening sky is the
ultimate extreme sportsman the Muezzin - my esteemed neighbour. Not the
meaningless risk taking of the much-acclaimed extreme sports junkies.
Yet
the Muezzin scares me to no end. I do not understand his religion. I fear that
his religion hates me, despises me, and seeks the demise of my kind unless of
course I fall in love with him, his ways and his religion. I love him. I love
his wily ways especially with that great voice he has - but I do not want to
ditch my faithful raggedy Jesus for the great and splendid Mohammed
Writing
is a curse.
For
instance what the hell am I talking about? The Muezzins voice? The sports
Junkie, Jesus or Mohammed? I wist not.
I
had no clue when I sat down (actually I was standing) and wrote the first words
"Writing is a curse..." that I had anything new to say about them?
Which
is why I appeal to the little muezzins in my brains to be left alone!
I
hate writing but so must all great masters their art. Deep in my heart I'm
convinced that Michael sometimes cradles a basketball and cries his heart out -
because it mocks him. It'll be there long after he expires has gone. Pele
sometimes must hate the game he single-handedly romanticized ever more so now he
has to share his pantheon with that strange Argentine.
There
was this story told by James Michener about the old Japanese master artist who
cried at age ninety and declared that he still could not express his innermost
feelings on white paper. On his epitaph he asked to be "Old man still
learning how to draw"
I
hate white paper. I am not an artist. I fear the deep recesses of my mind -
repository of knowledge from primordial times. I fear what it might turn up:
Hey!
Yes You! the muezzin's neighbour! You! used to be a frog you know! - Roughly
2.7521 million years ago!
Me? A frog?
I hate Darwinism.
Certainly
if water dripped on to a rock for just 365 days, the rock would become smoother.
That would be its own adaptation to the relentless drip!! But that the entire
portfolio of things somehow just happened is the most regal of all idiocies.
Listen: How did water know and decide to expand anomalously at about 4 deg
Celsius on being cooled! This strange phenomenon (for all other objects in the
universe reduce in volume when cooled except of course water) is the reason ice
floats and because ice floats, fish and other aquatic animals survive the
winter.
Question
time: How
did inanimate water get to become programmed? - to behave in an entirely
sensible manner. If this programming was done externally, then there is a God.
No? ...and if water got to do this on its own, shall we still consider water as
being inanimate? Shall we not concede that it has intelligence which is referred
to by the West Africans as Olokun (perhaps a minor god still a Gee-Ooh-Dee
nonetheless…. And if minor gods do exist shall we not consider that major ones
do as well?
I
AM NOT AN ARTIST! YOU HEAR ME? I AM NOT!
I
am good at nothing. I've tried my hands at football, tennis, chess, athletics,
and guitar playing. I had a sax at age six. Look at all those who had saxophones
at six - why? They jam the airwaves of the world! Me? Well I just sit here on my
ass Rt.hon.Viscount Gudfur Norton. Earl of West Wastrel County.
What
was I on about? Jesus, Mohammed, Michael Jordan, Darwin or Pele where was I?
Ah
Yes! Leave me alone!
I
write because I need to talk yet I hate to talk 'cos I talk rubbish. I'm talking
to let you know that my subservience and silence are contrived. I'm
disenfranchised from day one for being me. I have to dance like Mr. Bojangles or
fly like Jordan before I attain par status. Disregarded, distrusted, distanced
away from, spat upon, mocked, I ask: Why do they make me a god? I'm just a
simple life-luvver. I do not want to be anything more than that which I am. Why
do you allow me so much space in your life? I don't give a hoot about you
(honestly I don't) still you revile me, despise me and seek to destroy me yet
you worship me –
Ha!
Ha!
I
know I know. You will not admit. I must be a god.
Fall
on your knees and worship me then!
On
your knees.
Worship
me!
I
hate writing.
Now
you know why!!!!!!"
As
I said he
ranted all night . In the morning he was dead!
STOP
PRESS
Tribute
must be paid to John Ernst Steinbeck & all those who answered the call of
the great Muezzins of prose and hurried to the secret garden within (inscriber
& parchment in tow).
From
the side of my minds eye, I can just visualise the venerable Muezzins of prose
huddled together at the entrance of God's ancient garden totally possessed of
their very own selves.
(Psst!
do not tell but they have been talking for hundreds of years!! Believe me!)
They
should be obeyed for they possess the unique ability to call relentlessly even
to the end of time. . ..and verily would render your life meaningless until you
(inscriber & parchment in hand) their call obey.
They
are not malicious (don't get me wrong) but soon enough you realise the greatest
meaning you will find in this life shall be found when you still your senses and
listen to their subdued words and pass them on to the rest of mankind
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