to the point – there is a difference between a mountain and a molehill. yet there are those who spend quite a bit of time and even make careers in the pursuit of proclaiming one to be the other.
it remains that such proclaimation has yet to actually effect the transformation.
traditionally, it is something of a class impediment to insist upon method over message. indeed, the purpose of etiquette has ever been to allow ‘those who belong’ to quickly discover ‘those who do not’.
there are a number of interesting reads that speak very pointedly to this reality, and they span themes of spoken word, writing, attire, table manners, in truth, most any topic the human mind may imagine. for there are no spaces bereft of the ‘need’ for codification and the reification of ‘acceptability’.
in the end, it remains that, most times, the goal is far from a benevolent wish to have all humanity ascend to greater being.
this said, there is certainly an argument to be made that reificaiton and etiquette are required to enable humanity in its pursuit of the lofty goal in the aforementioned sentence.
this said, it changes not the reality that, for large segments of that humanity, it is rarely more than an opening in which to feed the ego.
i have great love of language. but the petty instincts of humanity that so consistently demand obedience to method and eschew perfectly valid message in the name of perfection of form draws nothing but my ire.
i have too often observed a budding creative mind pruned by the waspish pedanticism of the English Teacher Who Wanted To Be A Writer But Was Too Absorbed By Method To Permit Message Breath.
i have too often witnessed the manner in which, for the sad and voracious appetite of ego, humans have readily, eagerly, gleefully set criticism and sharpness upon the unlearned, who, in the innocence of ignorance, violated some archiac law of linguistics.
it is one thing to seek perfection of form for the enjoyment of it as such. it is quite another to slaughter what would become in the name of an impatient snobbery that cares more for its own glorification than the nourishment of the form through its stumbling, inept, often painful stages of becoming.
humans are naturally drawn to either create or destroy. what we, those who would see creation thrive, nourish or starve matters and has consequence.
shall we deride the poor punctuation, the sloppy syntax, the poorly formed attempt, the lack of method on the instant?
shall we be, in our bloated, gloating pride, the very death we so often mourns in the trade rags?
sniffle and weep great alligator tears for ‘the loss of literacy’? shriek dismay loudly as we bury yet another page in red ink?
these humble letters, lower case all, were initially taken up as little more than efficiency. they have, over time, become something of a personal rebellion.
fie! you who would write me off as lazy! have you no eyes that what is said should be invisible to you if not in acceptable form presented?
how great such ego, such arrogance, that, stiletto to the ribs, you would think such murder in the name of ‘the appropriate’ is less than murder?
oh, convict me with your clever critique! you who cannot but stumble without form to guide you. what love of word lives that dies the moment that letter must etiquette attend?
fickle, foul cuckold, you who smirk and set your nose and brow upward at the page that cannot best kiss your cold ass and fondle your ego so you can rest safely in your certainty that yes, YOU are a writer.
millions of words lie dead in gutters for such perfidy as serves this snobbery. millions more still shall drift, feathers of spirit plucked and tossed by callous hand in the name of a perfection that only rises through practice.
the fools of form and felicitous pride, gathered in gaggles of ghastly gruesomeness to chitter and cluck sorrow as if never they struggled to ascend.
yes, it is to such as these that all these lowercase thumbs parade… happily, cheerfully, giddily flicking my nose, hoping against hope the accident of a booger may lend greater aplomb than the gesture.
such synchronicity, i think, is best testament and retort.
sweet Mnemosyne did well to birth earthy and humble daughters, the muses. humanity fought some centuries to decide upon their names, and that debate rages still in some far flung sophist circle.
uncaring and free, regardless the labels so many centuries of culture and etiquette have attached, they remain… dancing, singing, composing, and remembering themselves as themselves no matter time, place, or the agreement of humanity.
so it should be, and so it is. for this truth and none other, i too smile, i too, continue and pay what humble homeage may be managed.
for this truth, i salute you, thumb to nose, and for good measure, add spittle to the gesture… giddy with a freedom you cannot recognize, gift of spirit and self you can only see as insult, it remains that your interpretation is not binding upon me.
nor shall it ever be.