My Reply To An Article Titled, “Fuck Fear”
Not wanting to be rude or cut down anyone for being less than me, this reply to the writer of the article does my ego good. It gives enough attention and fulfillment as a reader response. It would be ludicrous and unthinkable to want to destroy anything, just to satisfy animal lusts, desires of dominance and refusal to die. Here, rather, is constructive criticism of the simplest kind. Pure love dissolves even the rankest offense.
Not cute or funny, this piece needs to simply say, “I am afraid.” I,I,I, me, me, me, scared, scared, scared, trying to muster up the courage to say something.
How many people are dead because they listened to some idiot who said, “Feel the fear and do it anyway!” Then, they are over the cliff, gone. Common sense should rule the day.
Fear is a good thing.
It just may teach you to walk back to safety, away from the edge of the cliff.
Who said we have to be heroes? I’m not buying it.
I don’t like that “F” word either, it’s just an intimidater, a bully, a hacking, cracking, smacking, insulting, offensive word.
I like to replace “Fuck” with “Ahhh…”
“Ah, smoke and mirrors, we see you are warning us. Thank you, fear, now, move along. Ahhh…”
“The blessed little tiny microscopic green fern shoot that is innocently, steadily squeezing up through the black crack in the grey frozen sidewalk on the busy Winter thoroughfare that winds through the quaint boro of rusty red Burlington’s East side on Dunham and Ripley Streets, by the banks of the lazy Carver River along the old CE and Y Railroad tracks and train wreck yard, up to the noisy Yokeagle Furnace and Isley Steam Generator, is what really gets me. It’s what winds me up and gets me through the day. Life in it’s simplest form, growing, reaching for the sky.
Why? Just so it can live!
I do this just so I can live!
Amid the carelessly discarded Twinkie Wrappers, the empty pill bottles, the crinkled paper bag from a nearby liquor store, the leftover tossed cigarette butts burnt into the filter, the brown plastic bag with blue lettering, randomly stuck on a barb on a fence post, flapping in the cruel wind, loudly, back and forth, never tearing, just slapping up and down as a reminder that someone bought something somewhere from somewhere that sold things, the crisp orange peels, the dented Fanta can, the sticky ice cream wrapper, the dirty piece of chrome from a car wreck, the dented wooden board from a headboard piece of an old bed, a broken plastic water pistol, purple and pink, a starchy piece of clothing that was black and white checkered, a piece of yellow rope and a black and red tennis shoe with no strings. I have a plastic baggie and a small green hand trowel in my big coat pocket.
It’s like a cold day where people just go about doing the things that warm people do on cold days down by the river, where it’s grey and damp but the sun shines every now and then. A fern fron opens in the crack in the sidewalk that is full of coal ash and cinders from years gone by. It’s waiting for the perfect opportunity, time and place, to assist in the growth of one beautiful fern that is eventually dug up and transported to the back yard of one excited, loving gardener, nurturer of plants, with a steady hand, heart, soul and mind, yours truly.
That river fern is several feet across now, vining up and over the fence, onto a Sycamore tree, up to a small blue grey birdhouse where the brown squirrels frolic, smack and chatter. They have big black shiny eyes, quick flickering tails, small busy hands, strong alert hind legs, and are ready to jump up to run in a spit second. Common sense dictates and is the accepted mode of civilization.