I wrote this in October and was not going to post it until January, but yesterday a young man who had previously claimed to enjoy my work, told me that he had to look away to save his soul, inferring that I am degenerating into a racist. So, I post this, I suppose, in a post-trial editorial on my perceived evil. I won’t send him a link. He’s better served looking into the May sunrise than into the December sunfall.
“Sir, I mean no offense when I say that I have observed that you lack hatred for the negro. How can you not hate blacks? When we met, four of the savage monkeys came into that bar as a sham specifically to rob it, and if not for our presence, that woman may have met a bad end. Following your writing, it is obvious that these people have attacked you for decades in the Baltimore area. How can you justify tolerance for their subhuman antics?”
-Luther, from a Monday morning phone call
*
Hatred, to me is a human weakness. I would like to claim some high level of discipline in this regard, but it is not so. I actually have a very difficult time summoning hatred for anyone, particularly those who attack me. The only people I seem to develop hatred for is those who betray me. The only example of hate I can recall over the last decade, was against a woman who I worked for, whose business I literally saved, whose sister’s life I physically saved, who then began sabotaging my work on her behalf because I had declined to fuck her on her office desk.
Three examples of hate-like rage were brought about by paleface youths in 2017, five individuals in three incidents, who threatened or attacked me in an area where 17-ebon assaulters assailed me that same year. I got white hot over these aggressions, where the 17 cases of negroes attacking me did not anger me. In fact, in the one salt-and pepper attack, I was not angry at the peppercorn, only the salt grain, although I had decided to crack the peppercorn first. My rage against salt was psychotic, building, flaming—I even yelled at him. Whereas, I glanced at peppercorn, decided to cave in his head, inventoried his soul in the meat locker of my mind and felt no malice. Interestingly, Peppercorn saved me from having to commit suicide by cop, by rescuing himself and Saltgrain from what was unfolding, physically dragging my pale attacker away once he realized that I had decided to kill him and stab his pale partner until dawn…
But why, why can only a sense of betrayal, professionally or ethnically, bring me to hate?
One possibility, is that I am, as I have often claimed, “undead” that my soul is gone and I am just a bio-remnant downloading impressions of a wrong-lived life for some morbid impulse.
Another possibility is that I am a psychopath. Numerous girlfriends have told me that I am a psychopath. I don’t know, as I don’t examine myself internally, but rather externally as a subject of my writing. I suppose some professional would have to determine this.
One possibility is that, since I have written more fiction than almost any living writer, and more none-fiction than all but a handful of dead writers, that I might have erased myself somehow, that I have perhaps killed my soul or chained it in some padded room.
One thing that I would like to think has resulted in my lack of hatred, is fighting, only because I’ve never been much of a fighter and have always wanted to be one, to the point of waddling around like Carol O’Connor, as the Buddha, as Bruce Strauss. With over 670 stick fights, over 220 machete duels and 21 shitty boxing outings, I’m closer to a thousand combats than to a hundred. I suspect this could have caused too much empathy for antagonists to develop, especially as I seem to have survived over 150 acts of aggression by ebony savages. The latter actions became so rote, with the most recent one actually resulting in the hitter bowing to me and wishing me good afternoon when he noticed that his partner had gotten weak knees and I was about to hit him with a heavy hickory cane, that there is a certain friendliness that has grown like a weed in my dank soul. For decades, my only real distinction in life was being asphalt “Tarzan” the weird paleface who walks where no Whiteman has gone before amongst the jabbering savages. Who would I even be without ebony aggressors?
All I’d be is a guy whose sons can’t stand to speak with him because they believe he is insane, the pale shadow that darkens the Christmas door and sends his grandchildren scampering for succor amongst human adults, afraid even to take the presents from his heathen hand. Without, feral, hate-filled, bloodthirsty African Americans to attack me for the crime of being born under the White Flag of someone else’s privilege, to forge me into my twisted state, I’d just be a guy who wrote a science-fiction series that not a soul read.
To be a Neanderthal alienated from family is painful. The line no longer breeds true; we are living ghosts, atavistic echoes.
Ezekiel 14:
The word of the LORD came again to me, saying, Son of man, when the land sinneth against me by trespassing grievously, then will I stretch out mine hand upon it, and will break the staff of the bread thereof, and will send famine upon it, and will cut off man and beast from it: Though these three men, Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by their righteousness, saith the Lord GOD. If I cause noisome beasts to pass through the land, and they spoil it, so that it be desolate, that no man may pass through because of the beasts: Though these three men were in it, as I live, saith the Lord GOD, they shall deliver neither sons nor daughters; they only shall be delivered, but the land shall be desolate. Or if I bring a sword upon that land, and say, Sword, go through the land; so that I cut off man and beast from it: Though these three men were in it, as I live, saith the Lord GOD, they shall deliver neither sons nor daughters, but they only shall be delivered themselves. Or if I send a pestilence into that land, and pour out my fury upon it in blood, to cut off from it man and beast: Though Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, as I live, saith the Lord GOD, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness.
The benefit of self-knowledge is that one can stop trying to prove what one is, and instead strive to better the lot of those like oneself.
The proof can never be finished, because a Neanderthal without a tribe is already dead, as Robert E. Howard knew. Perhaps knowing that whites are not the same species will let you move past your last hate.
Thank you!