This is just something that came to me in the spur of the moment kind of thing. I have no name for it and I just wrote so be prepared for it be a very fresh fresh rough draft:
I once criticized a man, whom was to believed to be the greatest man of all time. I told him that he was constantly searching farther then any man could ever reach and in turn was trying to become a God. The controversy on that one went far out of hand. I believe I was punched in the face. I once told humanity that they were the ugliest of species. And that we were so consumed by greed that we had become what we detest. I believe someone tried to run me over that time. The world of a writer and the world of a man with ideas is a bit difficult. Humanity is afraid in any way, shape, or form to accept and acknowledge the horrible deeds they have done. And I suppose in turn that one of the greatest downfalls of humanity is their great pride in doing everything write, but never acknowledging their great horrors as well. I suppose that is all I'm asking. That people acknowledge that they aren't all so wholesome. But then again many want to believe we are superior. But I guess that is what makes us uniquely human. We have the ability to regret our deepest sins and find guilt and shame in them. I think about this the unique being called human everyday, I suppose because I feel guilt about the deepest sins we have done.
Today I'm suppose to reach the masses about the environment. And I know how this will end up. Somehow, I know I'll get shot or something. Fright has seemingly left my soul these days. As you begin to expect the unexpected. You just watch was the masses line up. And you go for it I suppose.
“Uh hello, I was offered a chance to speak about the environment,” I said in the uncanny nervous way, “You all know me as F. G. Sandfall.”
A sort of harsh booing can be heard over yonder.
“I promise I won't be to hard on you,” I said.
Reading from cards, hate it hate it hate. Why you ask? Because it's someone else's rehearsed politics of making people feel to good. Why do you think I just wing it with my own heart put into to it?
“Personally, I think you're all be dumbing,” I said truthfully.
Everyone had that face that they were expecting me to say this. They had that harsh glance my mother would give me when I would take some icing from the cake. I smiled inside my mind, but for the most part I'm sweating a storm up here.
“What gives you the right to feel you have superiority over this world,” I said, “Climate change has happened for many years, like a few primates can make the world heat up...this isn't solely a human problem and it isn't solely the humans who have done it...I don't know what bothered you to get this in your mind, but you should never believe the facts. The facts are always being rearranged to make you believe what you want. You should never take facts as facts, but merely as suggestions. Collect all the information then make a belief.”
I hear some clapping from a corner, a small group of scientist just stare at me with wide smiles. I wasn't doing it for their sake. But merely for my own heart. Up with these cards. I let go of them on the stage and let them fall on the ground. What's the purpose of things being rehearsed and remembered anyway? You lose your voice that way. Up with this speech. I'll leave now before something happens. Yes, that is right I'm a coward at times. But who wouldn't be? A writer has to be brave and a coward. He has to know when he delivered the final punches, but he has to be careful he doesn't go overboard. So that is why I am leaving now. Before it gets any worse. I make things worse for some reason. I guess that is what many artist have to face with crowds.
Artist like to convey meanings and these meanings may not be what the crowds are ready for. And I guess that is what makes an artist so controversial. People are a funny thing when all the bad stuff about them is pulled right in front of their faces and shown what they look like when they act like pigs. Oh yes, I wrote a book about humans turning into pigs one day. No one liked that. Well my fans did, whomever my fans are. I remember watching on television thousands of people stealing that book to throw in a bonfire. Not a bad idea I suppose, a tad crude, but effective to get to their point I suppose.
I'm attracted to the idea that if you don't like something throw a giant parade about it and act like rioting loons. Rather then going off to the rather more intellectual thing and talk about it with other fellows and even the artist. No ones every told me what was wrong with my stories. Only that it's a disgrace to the human population. I don't see how turning humans into what they really are is any more disgraceful then burning a perfectly good book. All well. I stare at this woman. She looks good for being her forties. She looks to be ten years younger then what she is. But that really isn't saying much. She dresses old. Her clothes tacky the way your grandmother would dress. Her blond hair somehow is saturated from to much die or the lack of good keep.
“You have a book signing in an hour, we need to get you there,” she said.
Who was this woman anyway? I forgot really. I find her mundane and so not part of my life. She's just the talking parrot who won't shut up. And yet I'm forced to do everything she ask of me. Is it because I am so famous? Not many writers have this luxury. Not many writers have a fancy house, so big I see no use for it. Or a limo for that matter of fact. And I'm certain most writers don't have a talking parrot in the shape of a woman.
“Okay,” I say not really sure how I should feel about the situation.
“Do you have a pen?” she ask.
“I believe so,” I said.
“Mr. Sandfall, are you alive?” she ask.
“I believe so I haven't felt any unnecessary motions of the body or spirit yet,” I said.
She laughed, she looked worse when she laughed.