For Me, Writing Is Like...

The wagons are circled, an arrow zips by my head.

"Jesus fucking Christ that was close!"

I'm seriously pissed, fond of my head that I am. I'm seething in anger with the attempt on my life. Who do these fuckers think they are? And yet, what can I do? The Indians are endless, I'm outnumbered a million to one. And if I lose my cool...I'll die for sure.

I spend the day mining the earth for metal I can fashion into bullets, my need for them as endless as my attackers. It's tedious, menial labor and it rots my brain, causing me to chastise my life in idiomatic Indian phrases. When I know I've made enough to survive another day, the curse of freedom's kiss scorches my lips, testing my desire, knowing I can never have it, forever encircled by mindless but dedicated tormenters.

I look at my six-shooter and wonder if it's friend or enemy, an overwhelming desire to fling it to the gods wells up inside every time I see it. I do not wish to live by the gun. I see no future in it. Often, as frustration's dagger twists in my gut, I think of the gun as my only escape. I know Jesus threw his gun away...and I know there's no true freedom with it in my possession.



Another arrow punches my water bag and I immediately fire back. And sigh. Then I get an idea. If I'm doomed by all paths then by God in Heaven I shall die on my own terms you cocksuckers! Taking the arrow from the water bag, I wrap a sincere note around it: "My water bag says, 'Fuck you, asshole!'", and fling it back at the hooping and hollering know-it-alls who so unjustly determine my fate.

Then I hear something I haven't heard in a very long time: silence. The Indians are gathered around my note, intently reading it. Good! Let 'em be pissed! I spit on your goddam war paint! I brace for the final killing attack to end it once and for all. A bullet between my teeth, I look forward to it. How many can I kill before I die? We shall see!

But instead, I get my same arrow returned - note intact! Unscrolling it in curious confusion I find this comment scrawled at the bottom: "Keep us entertained and we'll let you live."

"Hey Hobbes, write a sensitive and rhythmic poem
and I'll let you live!"

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