Just had a good, life-giving meeting with my sister. I describe it that way because that's what it was. We named the things that scared us, that keep us from bold acts of creation. We named the fear that cripples our intuitions and imaginings. We assured each other that this fear is truly beneath us; it is a cancer and a demon and must be dispatched. I told her about things I've written that I'm not apt to share with people. I'm not apt to share them because I don't always use the right words, don't always correspond with polite mores and material that my beloved mother has deemed acceptable. My Religion tells me to be nice and respectful and inoffensive, because that's what the Good People do.
But the sad fact is that Truth can be an easy victim of the perceived bounds of polite respectability. Raw language and emotion cannot be denuded for the sake of whatever "decency" is, and therefore turned into kitsch.
Now, editing must happen, and art is not equal to the act of vomiting, but I imagine that it exists somewhere in between polished presentation and vomiting. I feel I have erred on the side of sterilization and presentability, and now I recognize that I need a little more puking in my life. Not too much, mind you, I'm no Godless Barbarian, but I've got to stop gunning for the tasty treat and attendant pat on the head.
The truth is that I'm openly courting insurrection. I held similar palaver with my brother the other day. Palaver in which vision was declared in bold fashion without respect to the limits of what's reasonable or possible. I'm raising hubbub with the captives, and the revolt against security, and therefore mediocrity, is at hand. I'm tired of trading my life for security. I'm not even good at it—I haven't really acquired much in the way of security.
So world, so life, so friends and family, so Religion, here is my security (it fits right here because, like I said, I ain't got much). Now that I've traded that in, me and Jesus have some business to do. He might not always approve of what I say, but he told me that's OK, he'll love me anyway. "We'll sort it all out when the dealings done," I think is the way he put it.
p.s. My final thought before posting this: "I probably shouldn't post this."