The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

Writing is a very strange endeavor. In fact, society now tells me, although I had come to believe completely the other way, that writing or talking to yourself actually means that you are not three cracks shy of a fiddlestick as opposed to being the manager of the last McDonalds on the moon. So, in the interest of mental health, I will choose to write what I am thinking even though I am thinking what I’m thinking already. So, I do it for you, don’t I? Well, not necessarily for you. I’m sure if I were to do this it would be for me as well but it is meaningless to me if you aren’t involved in the process and I don’t even know you.  

It must have to do with my ego, my desire to write.  I need to believe that I am worthy in your eyes through my words. But that is nonsensical. Everybody thinks. Is one person’s thought any greater than another person’s thought? I suppose it is when it deals in morality. If your thought makes my life difficult and my thoughts do not make your life difficult then my thoughts could be said to be better than yours. More important. Well, what if what you need is to have a difficult life though? In other words, I could challenge you with my words as well so I could make you uncomfortable with my words. That can be a good thing because I am actually trying to help you. But if I harm you with my words then I am correct in stating that my words would, in that case, be worse than your words, unless you were trying to harm me too. A word can be a weapon or word can come in and save the day without lifting a finger.  

But we hate words, don’t we? We get sick of them. Everybody is blabbing. The Internet is blab central. There is so much noise in the world today that a little patch of silence can go a long way in the sanity of a human being. Words are being used all the time by so many different types of people. It’s just too much isn’t it? Apparently not.  

A word is an ambassador for the soul. We don’t know what the soul is but we have an idea. It is somewhere way down deep like inner space, a place that if we got to, we would be inside of in the same way we would be inside of a cathedral. Words we use like underwater rescue balloons. We hatch one and then we hold on as it takes us to the top, into hospitable air we live. Pop. After the words have provided sustenance, the ability to live more peacefully in this world, we begin the float back down again, only to rise back up. But it’s never-ending, isn’t it, the need to rise again and again through words. 

Words words words words words. You can live inside of a word. Entire novels have been written by a writer having glanced inside of a stranger’s window. There are worlds inside of words, even individual words. Try this one out for size: rappel. Once again, the notion of going deep, rappelling into the soul, discovering new things there, seeing different color shades, sunsets, orange blue skies on fire. A world that does not exist except in your imagination. Dog. A breathing, furry friend whose notion of you is like your notion of God in a lot of ways or a father or a mother. A dog is God to God’s dog. Wait. That doesn’t make sense! But we try, don’t we? Even if it means we’ve become bad poets and bad philosophers, we keep trying.  

We keep putting the words together because without the words we almost feel as though there is no journey. We all want to go on a journey. Why? Because of the stories, because of the images that will produce words in the future. Not that we’re after the words but we’re after the experience that the words can help us to remember, moments of utmost life, thrilling living, love if you’re lucky.  

Our memories are good and bad. Sometimes all we want to do is just escape the words that arise from memories and other times we want nothing more than to keep the flow going; love, beauty, music, poetry. Regret, loss, last chances, gone people forever. It is a mixture of good and bad always for each of us.  

As children we grow up believing that to know the dark edges of existence is important for survival. Writers, the creators of words, are especially haunted by this idea that they’re husked mollusks in a world too rough. They have to experience and know and not be afraid of the dark. To do this they direct their eyes towards the night where ugly things squirm and lose control and threaten you. To stare down evil is an admission that you have integrated good inside of you sufficiently, for everybody knows that good can destroy evil. Of course, sometimes it’s the other way around too. Hence the motive of the daredevil to stare down evil death. 

So, underneath the laying down of word after word after word is fear too. The great Swiss psychologist Carl Jung perhaps would have called it the shadow, the other side of our personality that we are enthralled with, to some degree, because we know that it is controlling us. Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But that evil that you see is not you. It is the fear of the opposite of you, and as a human being you are aware that if you were not capable of being the opposite of you, in other words, a beast, if need be, then you can die. The world can scoop you up and dump you right in the garbage dump. 

 You don’t want that. Nobody wants to be dumped in the garbage dump of life. No, we all want to run free and fly and climb and speak and dream and then we want to do it again and again and again. Then we grow up. Sadly. 

When we grow up that’s when we feel fear for the first time. It doesn’t come right away, hopefully, although for some people it does very early. Usually when you feel the fear, you’re well advanced into adulthood. Something horrible happens to you, something odd and off color and stilted and real, usually at the hands of a criminal or an act of God that can come in the form of death of those around you, can come in the form of becoming prey for the first time.  

A sign that you’ve seen and experienced this adult fear, using a clinical term, is when you have post-traumatic stress disorder; PTSD. The brain races where the mind needs just a few words. Now the mind has millions of words and they rush through you like a firehose so that when that flow hits you it comes through your body and it lifts you up off of your perch, you pace across the room, you can’t sleep, you get down on your knees and you pray, you try to meditate, to get it away from you. 

 And so, we arrive back at why we use words in the first place; partly to alleviate fear, to help ourselves get through the fear, a fear so great that it should not be allowed into the soul of man. Humans should not be allowed to see the darkest, most evil aspects of their fellow man, but some of us become monsters and we can’t avoid all the monsters all the time. Sometimes it’s our turn to see the monster. 

But those monstrous fears producing monstrous words in our heads, often the result of monstrous people doing monstrous things, once we are safe, have no more power over us. With time we can bring ourself back to a slow doable pace again inside of our minds and the words can rise again and we can relish them again. We can smile at the word dog we can dream again at the idea of rappelling into a new world.  

We shall overcome with time and with the proper words due to a conquering of our fears, only after our suffering of course. So, words aren’t there for me to impress you. They’re there for you to impress yourself with when I give them to you, when I place them into your soul from my perch way up here. 

 And maybe just maybe you will hear me and if my words are good then they can be fruitful for you and I can know that I am doing something good for somebody today. I, perhaps, helped to lift them up from the bottom of the ocean as your spirit was sinking. That seems to be even better than just writing for my ego. I’d much rather do it to help save your life. But you have to promise to do the same for me and you can do that by living a good life and if so, may chance bring our lives to meet.