Almost a full damn year. Almost. And I haven't said a thing in that time. Nothing smart, nothing witty, nothing overly intriguing. Nope. Instead, I've been nonexistent, falling into the lurk mode but, hey. It's been a year and I have a question for the... three and a half of you who might happen upon this lackluster attempt at a 'blog'.
"Should issues of civil rights be up for public vote?"
My opinion? Not solely. Of course this is a question sparked by the recent Prop 8 in Cali and the whole idea of the public voting on whether or not homosexuals should have the right to marriage. Some cite that it's unnatural, others quote biblical texts and others, well, not to generalize, but you will have many who are simply bigoted. But, opinions aside, the fact of the matter is, the majority's rights are always set in stone while those who fit into the minority (Not just colour, but gender, sexual preference, religious choice, ethnicity, etc.) are almost dependent on the empathy of the majority to attain the same rights in a democratic nation.
If you don't have enough who empathize and, the question of right or wrong is moot because the majority has their view that might differ with it. That, alone, is scary. Whether or not you agree with the people or what they fight for shouldn't be the driving force as to whether or not they have the same rights that you have and, might, take for granted. But on the flipside, who's to say that government even has the interests of the people in their sights in these situations? I don't know. The whole idea of denying and doling out rights is a risky game, not because of some slippery slope mentality but because of the process that we have or should have to handle such situations.
I've taken a look at my works (most of which are unreleased and should be due to lack of interest in finishing and lack of, well, "liking them") poems, lyrics, etc. and have found myself making the statement: It's good but does it inspire? Does it inspire? There are days where I would actually sit for hours, staring at the screen or a piece of paper wondering this same thing. That is, until now. Now I want to hit myself for these times. This is what kills writing, or, at least that's what I think now. That mentality of trying to make something a literary marvel rather than enjoying it and letting it be is, in many ways, as pretentious as those who view that piece of work as less than art. Now, I know I'm in no way a Langston Hughes incarnate (Though it would be nice to actually write something like he's offered over the years of the Harlem Rennaisance) or touched by the talented pen of Gwendolyn Brooks, I'll admit. But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the critiques, the criticisms, no matter how harsh, and the accolades I got from people who actually enjoyed my work enough. But that statement has robbed what little love I had for writing poetry and stories. Could this be why I've gotten a block? Why my ideas, no matter how fleeting they may be, refuse to find their way to the pen when, previously, I could weave words without caring how they came out? When I came to this realization, I spoke with an English teacher of mine. Her in all of her Ph.D. knowledge just simply told me, "You think too damned much." She put it right. I guess, if anything, this is just a testament to how little I'm going to think before 'inspiration' strikes in the form of good ideas, stories or poems.
Peace easy, D.
