Unfit and Unsuitable are not synonyms.
Unfit is incapable. Unfit is not a judgment; unfit is a fact. You cannot force the fit.
Unsuitable is situational. Unsuitable is clothed in elitism. Unsuitable is condemnation. Any man can follow suit. All men can fit a suit.
Everyone wants to fit in.
I stood outside a shed and watched the subsets: a group gathered around the bonfire; a group gathered around the band. And I saw they saw their unfit.
Some men are unfit for friendship; no man is unsuitable for friendship.
Once we knew The Constitution assured the separation of church and state.
"We believe her." Justice is now faith-based?
Now we know the spectrum is indeed a vicious circle.
I signed with AOL and my online adventures began. Chat rooms and CompuServe, Prodigy, Netscape, IRC, mIRC, Virtual Places, MSN, Myspace - the years passed. AOL allowed members to create free websites. I evolved to a blog. Soon I joined TBD which bled into Facebook which begat Open Salon, Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram. I acquired work - I amassed friends - I attracted enemies. My online presence became more than habitual; it was inevitable. I checked statuses and posts at dawn and dusk and nearly hourly. My moods vacillated with each velocity wave I posted or read.
I remember the first time I encountered "online bullies." It was on a defunct writing website: Open Salon. Bullies and trolls sabotaged the experience until all the true talent took flight from the site. It was the first time I experienced spewed anonymous vitriol mixed with hatred.
I confined my online experience to Facebook. With the election of Obama, I noticed the tone of Facebook change. Clever intellects discarded insightful posts for copy and pasted posts of hate and propaganda. It didn't matter which side of the political aisle one aligned himself - the hatred was universal and plentiful. I began to unfriend people. If they believed each of their hatefilled spats on the communal wall, I didn't want them in my head or heart. And if they weren't spitting sarcasm or snide viciousness, they posted pious and copious posts filled with pretentious verbiage. Some concepts are too sacred to post so casually - so, I unfriended the duplicitous disciples. I trudged along touching base with a perpetually shrinking crew. Until last month.
Last month - amid all the news about Mark Zuckerberg's prostitution of our intellectual and personal privacy - I perused through the Facebook newsfeed. I read a completely masturbatory and self-congratulatory post from a man about his own good works, and I felt incensed. I had difficulty seeing with my eyes. I had to stand up and walk off my anger.
And I knew I allowed myself too far. I had allowed something sanctimonious to alter my thoughts to the point of sin. And so I expunged my archives on Facebook and I deleted (not deactivated) my Facebook account. I deleted Twitter and Instagram and every online site I had joined. All that remains is this blog.
Will I continue to post? Maybe. Probably not. Hell - three books and a play later - I've written my sins and sorrows and joys and insights. Choose any work - each are autobiographical autopsies of my immortal soul and my enlarged heart. I don't think I need to add anything.
Last night a lovely friend of mine texted me and asked why I had unfriended her. I explained I hadn't. So, this is the explanation for my absence. I've gathered a large community who've supported me since 1995. I just wanted you to know where I went ...
I have very exciting news perculating about my play ... that I'll post when I can.
You take a child. You put him in a commune - call it daycare - and he begins a habit of transitional relationships. No one is permanent. One of many. Not a priority. Not a preference. The only noticed is the untempered. Throw a tantrum and get seen. The adults are the rats responding to his bell.
Then we school him in the unremarkable. No spectacular achievement is lauded; all achievement is praised. We teach him the useless of adverbs. Degrees of conjugation is inconsequential. Everyone gets the ribbon. The baseline is a period; to hell with the exclamation point. He’s packed. He’s in a pack. One of many. Only noticed if he bites the lead dog’s ass or barks loudest.
But at night, after the togetherness of the any of the many, he’s in bed. Alone. In the dark he knows he’s alone. And he knows communal is a lie. He’s alone. And he knows you lied to him. He isn’t noticeable or distinguishable. You showed him through your choices that unconditional love is conditional. The shelf lives of marriages and friendships depend on the conditions. He learns love lasts as long as it’s favorable living conditions. He learns love is dependent on the degrees of self-satiation. And he hates you for lying to him that he was surrounded, preferred over telephones, and appetites, and self-soothings. He sees he’s not a priority. Not a preference. He lives afraid and untrusting. He hates liars. He hates how he feels. He hates. He’s hateful. Full of hate.
You can condemn the priest, the politician, and the professor, but we created the chasm; we can’t cure with a bigger commune. You owed him a cocoon.