mercredi, février 22, 2006
The supposed martyrs of this world are not only those who are busy strapping dynamite to themselves and running off to a busy market and pressing the button. No. There are many others who under the guise of righteous violence see themselves in the role of the objective adjudicator who has the power to condemn the actions of others because in their eyes it is not right. They are "forced" into acts of violence because the misbeliever, the heathen, is not converted to their ways. He sees differently and acts, writes or lives a different song. In their minds it is not only the Kingdom of Heaven that should be denied this heathen but also the worldly right to exist and breathe. They are the Fists of God (il-ponn t'Alla). That fist that judges, decrees and then excuses itself with some mystical trumped up story - that the berserk feeling of being worked up did not let them see straight when all the violence was unleashed. Yet they are pure. Yet they did not cast stones. Because they are the poetic martyrs and their actions are the violent yet poetic summation of all things righteous. And they will throw in a swear word or two just to show you they are on your side. On the side of the common people.
They will be silent for long periods. Musing whether their last tantrum had the desired effect: whether these poor sad bastards who do not coin words but insults, whether these satyrs of today's world (do note the term satyr - he was never nice - goat's feet, horns and all) have learnt the lesson that is basically what? Oh the lesson, the lesson. We had to learn that it is not right to jest. It is not right to poke fun. It is not right to laugh. At least not at everyone. There is a line to be drawn. We were asked to let their light shine undisturbed. We were told to fade away because in our presence their poetic totality was not fulfilled. And they were silent while we retreated. They will say it is because they will know when to be silent. Because he who speaks too much is a bit like Pulcinella trying to opine about everything. So we may be. So why read? Why continue to read the useless and inconsequential? We never said that we wrote to be read. Maybe it could be the newfound camaraderie with fellow shining poets of the new enlightenment. Those who we dare not describe with adjectives ending in Y. In their anger we are swept out of the realm of sweetness, beauty, elegance, subtelty, discretion and anger. It seems we are only capable of slander. Beauty we guess is only in the eye of the beholder - slander on the other hand seems to be the prerogative of the martyr. The excuse to burn. We tried to keep away instead we find, once again, vituperous attacks of unjustified bile. Which part of them is elegant, sweet or beautiful is beyond our pulcinella mind. We try to find something funny. But the violence is as blinding as our shining beacon of all-knowing satyre.
And then there's the wankellectual. He will be. Like the geek. The term is there to be vilified liked and disliked. Do your own dicks (fatti i cazzi tuoi). Practice what you preach. Don't give us this martyr bullshit. This violence masked in an attempt to justify the unjustifiable. To dirty the water you drink from (dardartna). We stopped drinking water ages ago. We're into juices now. They're colourful like the humour and the carnival. We write what we think and will not be coerced to do otherwise. No Alliance of Self-Righteous Poetic Martyrs will force anyone to be quiet. And by the way... to be called wankellectual does not imply that you are being called intellectual. Remember the definition? Wannabe intellectual. But that is a long story and alas it does not involve male organs so it would not be too interesting for some.
And now it is our turn to speak. Not to reply... to speak. That the blogosphere has been poisoned could be felt. We have collectively proven that these islanders cannot help replicating the prejudices and fears into the net. That the to shine we insist that others are dimmed. That to move up we need to dislodge the ladders upon which the others rest. That the old battle lines and old fears will merely be redrawn and like the rest of the country we will go to the dumps. It is unfortunate as the new SKIP is born today that I write of this negative side of the blogosfera. Mark and I never recovered from our tiff some months ago (as I predicted). The battlelines were dug too deep to detrench so fast. The old guard (and here I arbitrarily put blogs into the Before J'Accuse and After J'Accuse categories) held on but spluttered its own disgust regularly. It is a pity. We tried to inject the project with vitality various times. Only to find that this would be seen as taking the lead and provoked boycott from supposed mature bloggers (or bloggeja) of this planet. Numbers will not count. 200 visitors and 120 unqiue visitors daily mean nothing at all in Technorati standards. We went on because we liked it. We could not help pulling legs, pointing out ironies and sarcastically provoking. We know that at the bottom of the negative reactions is not our sarcasm or our humour that is not liked. It is deeper wounds and divides. That hatred of anything lawyer (ghax ma jifhimx fil-litteratura - God help me), that constant picking on Maltatoday that seems to be such a big deal, that San Alwigi bullshit. Baggage, you see, that cannot be rid of.
J'Accuse will continue. J'accuse began as a pain in the butt. Some butts are more sensitive than others. We will not tolerate violence or attempts to silence us. We have said this once and will say it again. The moment we stop writing we stop being. We are not hypocrites. J'accuse began as one man band. And so it intends to continue. We toast to life and toast to good humour and good health....
...ours is a Kinnie
... don't know what you are drinking (tixrobha)
... and quite frankly
....we couldn't give a fuck.
P.S. Our birthday (at J'Accuse) is on the 10th March 2006 when J'accuse turns one. We will not lie awake for the postman. Sweet dreams.