Zombies have one big advantage over us: They don't think.
--George A. Romero
by Jerome du Bois
When we got a comment from "anativephoenician" on the Writers' Bloc post, I felt like the Anasazi had sent me a spiritual gift. For reals! A Native Phoenician! It's a privilege to hear from one.
The originanity --that's spelled correctly-- of these creative class types never ends. The text of the missive follows, with a fisking.
Whether you stand for anything is irrelevant.
You don't risk anything. There is absolutely no risk in blogging. Even writing for free is a risk; you might not get published. Writing for money, especially for income, implies risk.
But what you do; your writing, your art, even the way you approached but wouldn't enter downtown galleries, choosing instead to write about the outside of the buildings...it's risk-free.
And as a result, it's great side-show but valueless.
Pass me my knife and fork.
Whether you stand for anything is irrelevant.
Since you are anonymous, anything you say may be used in irrelevance against you, or something like that. How can you speak of relevance when there's no you for reference?
But that's a chilling statement: for me, Jerome du Bois, or Catherine King, to hear from you, some anonymous, cowardly twit, hiding under an electronic rock somewhere, that whether we stand for anything is irrelevant? My first response: Fuck you, with your khaki shorts on!
We each are fifty-five years old, we've been through the seven hells. NOBODY accuses us of being irrelevant. We have thousands of words right here on the blog, for all the world to see. Our beating hearts, right here. What have you got that is so goddamn RELEVANT, anativephoenician? Well? Where? Don't see anything. And yet you, without an ounce of bone in your spine, have the goddamn gall to write to us about ANYTHING! You are nobody. At least we're King & du Bois.
You don't risk anything. There is absolutely no risk in blogging.
Only our reputations, our good works, our good names, our reasoned arguments, our standards, our writing skills, our broken hearts, our love for our country, our consistency --remember, this is a river, everthing's there-- our patience, our precious time, our money, our stamina, our physical safety, our mental stability. All this is on the line, on the table, all the time. And your stake is . . . where? You got nothing in the pot so far; you haven't even anted up, tiddlywink.
Even writing for free is a risk; you might not get published. Writing for money, especially for income, implies risk.
I risk writing, I write for free, I get published. I do it myself. Oh, you mean dead tree! Let's see. You need someone else, some editor, to vet your writing, put their stamp of approval on it, before it's real. Only then, only when Coagula or Vomit Launch prints your poem on page 64, has anything been risked. That's a rather cramped view of the new publishing world, but a person's no better than their dream, so hang onto it if you want to.
For us, quality will out.
But what you do; your writing, your art, even the way you approached but wouldn't enter downtown galleries, choosing instead to write about the outside of the buildings . . . it's risk-free.
Again with the "risk" thing. This is plain ignorance and lazy research. It's a matter of record on our blog. We went in and out of those galleries every month for years and most of the work was worse than forgettable, it was insulting. And our Pride of Phoenix series was about the facades as signs of commitment. I mean, read the damn thing; the thesis is stated right up front. Look at the photographs. And don't tell me risk-free. Taking those photographs was not risk-free, not for us, not with some of the comedians cranking off down around there.
And as a result, it's great side-show but valueless.
The Arbiter of Value has spoken! And the measuring stick is right . . . here . . . somewhere . . . No, no.
In the meantime, all the Zombies read every word. I don't know why they love to hate us, but our strategy is always to come right back at them under a black flag. So, anativephoenician, go back to the mooning cows and spoiled weenies at Writers' Bloc, and see what you can squeeze out from under that constipated moniker.
Posted by Jerome at June 20, 2005 07:35 AM | TrackBack