When you can answer your own question...

[a Hearts of Space free write, an unedited ramble through the backside of me brain... read if you wish, or don't read, I don't care one way or the other, I'm just posting it more or less to take the place of going to confession in a church I don't belong to.]

 

Sometimes I ask myself why it feels like I'm all but compelled to do visual art.  I can answer that question now, after all these years.  I took up doing visual art so I could trap images that escaped the nightmares, trap them in a permanent medium where they couldn't run and hide again.  These days the barriers are falling ever more rapidly, what were once nightmares are becoming memories more and more often.  What was once the stuff of terror are now the things of anger, and determination.  Fifty years they've waited to be seen again in the light of a rational day, fifty damn years.  Not that any of them belong to the daytime, no, most of them are black beyond the darkest night.  Things of misery, things of perversion, things of senseless pain.  All the things I saw looking over the fence in my own backyard into that damned by any decent God bdsm dungeon next door.  It is not an easy time for me right now, it isn't.  Once upon a time those things were the feedstock of nightmares, but now they're the fire tempering and honing the cutting edge of determination.  A post or two back I was speaking of Delta, a woman I knew in my youth.  I told of how I wanted in her pants, even though it was only very recently I figured out why.  Well, the reason is the red headed girl.  In those days Delta was a red head.  It was a very conflicted desire, but that's not hard to figure, not when you know about the first red head to catch my eye.  I only really saw her once, just once.  But she was one of the first of the memories to surface, well before I had a framework to put her in.  The time I saw her she was getting fucked in the bathroom.  Not a happy fuck either, a misery fuck.  Her arms were pinned to her sides by these huge rubber bands, and she was hanging over the bathtub getting banged so hard she was swinging forward to where I couldn't see her face at the end of the swing.  All I could see of the man was his gross fat belly beating against her bottom.  It was a misery fuck.  But then she looked up, looked out the window, and looked me in the eye.  That was the first time I ever heard a pair of eyes speak to me.  It was such a terrible moment, the plea in those eyes for help, and the plea in those eyes begging me to flee and not be caught by what lived in that house.  I don't know if was an accident or God, but I do know it marked me, marked me deeply.  I've written of her, painted and drawn her, time after time trying to get the fragments to come coherent.  Well, they are now.  A few of the details have mutated a bit, but just a bit, and those eyes haven't changed at all.  I wrote an antiPorn story with her as the heroine, just so she could have a tiny bit of justice even if it was only in fiction.  I'd wondered back in the day why that story was so easy to write... yet another question I can now answer to myself.  Of her I'm sure.  I'm equally sure I've seen other eyes like those, I saw those eyes not so very long ago on Omega.  Maybe that's a big part of why the walls are falling, I've seen a set of eyes like that again as an adult, and dealing with the later has allowed access to the former.  Likely enough.  The first time I think I did run, I ran away.  The common sense thing to do, but hard on honor, hard on self respect.  The second time though I didn't run away, I closed the range and did battle.  A mixed result, really.  I won what I needed for myself, I bought critical time for a little one, I might even have done some good for the owner of those eyes, I don't know.  Maybe.  But still and all a strategic victory, for the first time the terror attacked and was turned back cold.  The terror sponsored rage, such lethal anger I could taste blood in my mouth I wanted to kill so badly, and that was defeated as well.  So yea, a strategic victory.  And one more thing, one very large thing: I don't have to doubt my own sanity anymore, or my own internal ethical self, I don't have to doubt whether I have the right to live.  And I have a purpose to live for, and that purpose is to live to give battle to the perverted shitheads who perpetrate such misery on their fellow man, to gather up those who would contest such evil and give them form and shape as a functional combat unit to take the field and take back the field from the perverts who've corrupted so much of the modern world.  It can be done.  Hopefully it can be done in time.  The pervs are so fucking arrogant now they're almost out in the open, they can be found. And anyway, in theory it could happen... go to the government and petition under freedom of information act for the meta data the NSA collected, and use that as the foundation data from which to work.  They spied on all of us, might as well get some value from their spying.  It would be the ultimate foundation data for my intentions.  I don't need to know names, or faces, just traffic density by region drawn against the say the last eight years.  From there... well, from there the game is on.  It feels good to have a purpose again.  It feels good to feel good about that purpose.  It isn't easy, but it feels good.  First thing that's felt really good in a long long time.  The nightmares are turning into memories, and the memories are horrible nasty, but just memories devoid of any supernatural power.  Just a collection of shit from the most miserable six months of my life.  It burned my kid sister beyond recovering I think, she was in that back yard too.  It flipped my mom, put her right back wherever she'd been for the missing years, whatever sin and misery she'd been into that drove her to become a fanatical convert to Mormonism, in the end I'm sure it contributed heavily to my father's early death.   The truth and the nightmares, the truth explained by the nightmares become memory.  I can't put an end to perversion, perversion will happen regardless.  There will be those who corrode and corrupt out, some victims of their own biology, others victims of their society, their family.  But I can damn sure build a system to keep them from gathering into pockets of poison, keep them separated the way you store plutonium, keep them from gathering to the point of hitting critical mass and blowing up an entire society.  That I can do, and that I will do.  It's the least I can do for the red headed girl.  I was to little then, no one would listen.  I tried, but no one listened. Fuck them.  No, don't fuck 'em.  Just let 'em rot down in their own.  A better solution all and all.  The music is over, it's time to return to our regularly scheduled whatever.  G'night.