Letters…

That’s what I was going to write about: Letters.

This past Sunday I wrote two letters on an old Smith-Corona typewriter. Neither of them were long. One single-spaced page a piece. But they were good.

I really needed some time to scream on the page. It was a hot and frustrating weekend. The type of weekend when nothing is really wrong, but frustrating.

One of the frustrating things that has been plaguing me is music. And not just the blaring of music from the multiple iPhones guys in the house have (that has become a pet-peeve of mine,) but of the songs stuck in my head; those treacherous ear worms. It is not the repetition of one particular song that has my mind trying to push away a specific sound or lyric. It is all the songs written and song by the same artist!

For years and years and years, going back to when I was in eighth grade, I have been a fan and follower and admirer of a particular musician/writer/painter – you name it. This man has had his fingers in many different formats of the Creative Self.

– wow… I kind of like that: Creative Self.

Anyway, after all the years of defending his creative, yet very controversial work and lifestyle, I can no longer appreciate or enjoy anything about him anymore.

It is true Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) married his 13 year old cousin, Virginia Clemm, in 1836, and that was considered controversial even then. Facts are brutal & sometimes ugly facts: Poe was a pedophile, to today’s standards, and even to the norm of his time.

Do I still enjoy his work?

Do I still consider him a Master at what he wrote?

I acknowledge his importance to the Literary World, yes. But I have not thought of him in the same way.

Norman Mailer (1923-2007) stabbed his wife.

William S. Burroughs (1914-1997) killed his wife, Joan Vollmer in 1951 in Mexico City performing a William Tell stunt (that is what he told authorities, anyway,) shooting her in the head.

I won’t even get into the various things thought up by the Marquis de Sade (1740-1814); or what John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester (1647-1680) did.

Yes: a great deal of the people I admire/admired and emulate have/had some really harsh and ugly and difficult and controversial constituents about them.

However, the artist that is causing me the mental strain at pushing his music out of my head has, according to Rolling Stone magazine and other sources, been accused of rape & “nonconsensual incidents of sexual battering, including “spanking, biting, cutting, and whipping Ms. _____’s buttocks, breasts, and genitals for Mr. _____ sexual gratification…”

And this is not one individual that accusing the singer of unlawful, deplorable acts. There are four different women, describing multiple “incidences” and Acts of Violence towards them that may differ in details; however, a general portrait is being painted of an individual hell-bent on domination and control.

That is something I cannot support.

Yes, yes, yes… one can separate the individual from their creations – all their poems and paintings, songs and skyscrapers – but maybe I have come to an age where I can no longer espouse someone or something that is diametrically opposed to my moral fiber.

Call it growth.

Maturing.

Whatever…

What I do know: When you are someone that has the wondrous gift of being able to influence many people… have the capacity to influence events, for God’s sake, be responsible!

One thought on “Letters…

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