An Attack on Satire

Writing is big.

Writing is important.

People died today because they were writers.



I remember learning what satire was during my sophomore year in college.  We were assigned "The Rape of the Lock" by Alexander Pope, a poem that I still love and think about to this day.  In it, he talks about the artificial "beautifications" the aristocratic women applied every day.  He talked about how their wigs hid mice and other vermin.  He talked about the yellow stains of their undergarments.  He talked about the powders and the oils and the corsets and the odors - oh did he talk about the odors.  It is a lengthy poem and one that is full of many gems and garish detail and many mocking allusions to the upper classes of the society in which he was living and working.  I sometimes think to myself that I am perpetuating that same understanding of "putting on one's face" before I leave the house.  I've been told that I don't wear any makeup - or they notice when I have put on a little bit more eye shadow than normal.  In truth, it takes about twenty minutes to apply the undereye concealer masking the circles I have been cursed with since the tender age of twelve, the evening powder that hides any imperfections and smooths out sun damages, scars, etc.  We put on deodorant, hairspray, mascara, hair extensions, lipstick, lip gloss, whiten teeth, bronze forehead and cheekbones and collar bones and dab perfume.  All a mask - all a costume - all an elaborate rouse for the day.  I think about Mr. Pope even now and again as I go through my own "soft Transition," so that "we repair" all of the damages done the night before.

For those of you that might not know, the ol' Oxford English Dictionary defines "satire" as:

"The use of humor, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticize people’s stupidity or vices, particularly in the context of contemporary politics and other topical issues."

Today, in France, twelve people died at the hands of Islamic extremists who had taken offense at the satirical drawings and articles about Muhammad and their religion.  Ten of them were staff at Charlie Hebo, a French newspaper that had suffered many other threats and attacks for their work previously.
Seeing this breaking story on the televisions hung above the cardio equipment at my gym as Spotify blared a random playlist titled "HIIT Workout" I was shocked and dumbfounded.  Even now, I cannot bring to mind any other violent attacks such as these in the past other than perhaps John Lennon.  I cannot understand or comprehend the desire to kill another human being based upon a cartoon drawing in a magazine with less than 200,000 subscribers.  I had not even heard of Charlie Hebo before this morning and I doubt many others around the world had not either.  But I guarantee that they will know the name now.  They may not remember it, another flashy story or tragedy or injustice will take its place in a month or a week or perhaps even tomorrow.  But this story struck me personally.

They were writers.

They were working on something that they believed in and doing it for very little money and a great deal of danger and risk.  Here in America and there in France, we no longer have the very real threat of censored reading, writing, living, believing.  We can pretty much do and say and think whatever we want as long as it isn't hurting anyone.  There is no Gestapo around the corner waiting for us after we have said what we think about Obama or Miley Cyrus (did I even spell her name right?  I don't care.)  However, today's massacre stands as a reminder that words have meaning.  Work and words and writing has value.  We are not here for long, there is no guarantee, but believe in what you do.  Stand up for it.  Leave your mark and waste no time.  There will always be those that are offended or enraged or become violent because of what you say and think and do.  But that shouldn't stop you - because it might offer some liberation and bravery to others that had not thought to speak up before they heard your voice.

Here's to speaking up.

Here's to those who fell this morning in a board room, probably joking around, drinking stale coffee and brainstorming on new ways to be clever and meaningful and informative.

Here's to the one's who were not afraid.

"Je n'ai pas de gosses, pas de femme, pas de voiture, pas de credit. C'est peut-etre un peu pompeux ce que je vais dire, mais je prefere mourir debout que vivre a genoux."

"I don't have children, nor a wife, nor a car, nor credit. This may be a bit pompous, what I'm about to say, but I'd rather die standing that to live on my knees."

-Stephane Charbonnier

This is a Poem about Distraction

It is 11:20 and I just woke up.

I wasn't even up that late.

I take the dog for a walk.

Boil some water
slice a lemon.

I go to the gym have breakfast read three chapters of Hemingway walk in walk out of Lush without buying anything head home sit at my computer and scroll through Facebook for an hour.

It is 3:58pm.

I take the dog for another walk.

I decide to shower, it'll make me feel better and maybe I'll go out and get a cup of coffee maybe that will help me write maybe that will inspire me.

Start a load of laundry.

Balance checkbook.

Feed the dog.

I get comfortable in front of laptop.

I get up again and get bottle of water.  I'm way behind.  Need to drink another 64 ounces.

Why did I sleep so late?

Look up favorite website on short fiction.  Hope it inspires.  Wonder if I should go to that coffee shop.

No.

Too much traffic.

Too much time wasted getting there getting comfortable figuring out the wifi password ordering a latte finding the right music settling on something to write about.

No.  I'll stay

home.


Check text sent from friend.  Wonder if I'll go see friend at work and get a glass of wine later tonight?
That would be nice.

I'd have to do hair and makeup.

Thirty

more

minutes.

Open three different working documents.

Nothing feels interesting enough to work on.

It is 5:25pm.

This is a Poem about Frustration

This is a poem about Frustration

it begins and ends

without

a resolution.

I just want

something

tomeansomethingtomattertoworkouttoendupalright

I wish there were

less

people everywhere I go.

THEY took away my bag at the bookstore.

THEY said it fights theft.

I take out my notebook and wallet and laptop and resignation and hand them my empty bag.

"Does this really cut down on theft?"

She tells me statistics that I don't care about.  I can't figure out
who
I
am
more
upset
with.

Her                               or                                         myself.

I was the one that

asked

if the bag was

too

                                                                                                                     big.

It's all my own fault.

I chose this

p       l                a                 c               e.

I thought it would give me enough

room

to

breath.

But it did the

e t i s o p p o

My jaw hurts.

I bet its from the clenching.

Or from my wisdom teeth that are not wise and are needing

to

come

out.


This poem is about Frustration.