Verboten

The older White man did not understand something about the younger Black woman who had contacted him over the web. He’d have to write about it a little bit, see if he can firm up an idea that’s bothering him. Something about the young lady bothers him. She likes him somehow, but that isn’t the mystery. He’s thinking about someone he’s never met, someone who says she knows his work, someone who is a writer, whom he wants to read, to meet, to know. Why is it that she can come up with all sorts of “phantasmagorical” stories, and that all he ever does when his imagination gets going on him is to get sick enough to end up on a psych ward, getting yet another medication change? There he goes again, talking about his illness. It’s not acceptable to people. His own nephew will never talk to him, because he has an illness. People want to take him to task for it on the web too, that he writes about his illness, that he has a forbidden illness. It’s not AIDS, either.

His whole family will hate him if he gets to know her. He knows that.

So why does he care? He would never father another child, even if there actually is, in fact, a child who belongs to him already. He is supposed to be a real Hussein, an authentic Aryan. He’s supposed to enjoy this and dislike that. What he cannot understand was why none of it really matters to him the way it’s supposed to? He’s German through and through, and been brought up to believe only what his “master race” believes. But none of that matters here. She likes his writing, and that’s what he’s looking for. He craves another reader who will be a reader/writer to him, like the ones he’s already gotten friendships with so far.

Besides, all that “master race” crap never meant anything reasonable to him anyway. He had not been in Germany during the war. He isn’t old enough. He’s never been to Germany. He’s never been out of the States, and he really isn’t all that old yet, but he thinks he may be older than the girl is, as if age is a consideration here. He’s heard all the racist jokes and all the racist jargon, but he still cannot understand what it’s all about. All he can understand about other people was that they are other people. Sure, some of them are darker than he is, some of them have a different sort of eye than he does, still others have more body hair than he does. But the bottom line is that they’re all still people. Why can’t people see that in each other?

What gives some people the idea that they’ve got the only right to be who they are? Someone different has no rights at all, not even the right to exist in the first place. Is that what prejudice is? The idea that someone is different. The writer doesn’t enjoy reading or writing about murder and mayhem.

Why is he supposed to hate her, according to his world? That’s what he can’t understand.

Oh, it’s alright that his closest friend is an older Black man. That doesn’t bother his family. The long term friend’s an older man with a wife and family, and he’s done a lot to help out the writer over all the years. But that’s man to man, not man to woman. That’s why they don’t hate him. But in this other situation, it would be man to woman. Well hell, the writer has other reader/writers who are not attractive. Is that what this is about? He’s afraid he finds her attractive? Well, why wouldn’t he? She takes an interest in his work. That’s attractive to anyone.

There was a little bit of a nuance of backbiting on the web again tonight. All the kings men are trying to put peer pressure on him to give up advertising the locations of his work online, just because he has had a problem getting it placed where he was given to expect it would be placed, to begin with. Someone betrayed him to the wrong person, and it caused a little trouble. It wasn’t racial that time, but it was prejudiced. He knew he hadn’t gotten published because it was an issue about his subject matter. He knew they were telling each other, snickering with each other behind their hands, that he’s crazy. After all, that’s what all those rejected stories are about. Being crazy. Being in a state hospital. It’s all a subject of derision, like the racist stuff is. Why he is supposed to stop writing about his illness? It’s another thing he can’t understand.

All the while the writer cannot understand why it is that the world doesn’t just get over it. It’s stories like his that they’d all like very well, if they didn’t realize they were true stories, instead of being a figment of someone’s imagination. That’s why the stories never made it to production. The king’s men know they’re true stories.

The writer knows this, and understands very well, though he’s been denying it all along, even to himself. There are a lot of people in this world who don’t like crazy people, unless they’re unreal, and very dangerous. They have to be an exaggerated fiction to be acceptable to the public. They also have to be as volatile as possible to be acceptable to the public, or the media, or the government. The real article is supposed to be stupid and untalented, dangerous and terrifying.

He’s receiving derision about his talent as a writer, because it’s more outstanding, with more of a story to tell than all the rest of them. It’s the incongruity of his personal history that makes him objectionable. That’s what the problem is with those guys. It’s why the writer can’t get a publisher to make any agreements with him. He’s too free to be bargained with. He’s too crazy to be of sound mind, but the fact of the matter is that he is of sound enough mind to make a real contract, as well as to tell a good story.

That’s right, he’s crazy. He has a chemical imbalance in his brain. The doctors call it schizophrenia. The populous calls it crazy, especially the media, and the media will keep him behind the eight ball for a lifetime, as long as they can get away with it. Schizophrenia is a life sentence, like the “N” word is a life sentence. Not only is it incurable, it also happens to the most intelligent, most talented people who ever walked. That’s the news flash that the sophisticated world of the popular media can’t deal with.

He’s a darned good writer.

All the king’s men can think to write about is anger, hatred, malice, and murder. They don’t have anything to say that isn’t said a thousand times throughout the media everyday. The new kid on the block has something new to say, and that’s why they hate him. That’s why they won’t publish him. He tells stories with the authority of a person who’s been there, because he has been.

They figure he just gives his stories away because the stories are nuts. They’ll get them off the web as soon as they can get powerful enough to do it. That’s what the issue has always been in this regard – power. The White Supremest has got to have the upper hand, over the Black – and the madman who can write.

 

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About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
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