c. 2002 · A dialogue with myself, arguing for the writer.
This one quotes my own work. The poems are on the poems page and the prose on the stories page — the wording differs in places.
So you think you are the shit, huh? Well, what makes you so good? Why not show me, then?
Good at what? Tell me and I will show you.
You call yourself a writer. You claim to be superior to those who aren’t writers. What’s the deal?
What an appropriate way to ask that question, you see, because it’s all about the deal. We live our lives, and our experiences come in two ways: natural circumstance and influence. Our lives are full of these experiences-card games really-and influence is governed by writers. So the dealers in our lives are fate and writers. The cards you play are provided by circumstance or by people like me. Without me your life has that much less potential.
And what exactly do people like you offer?
We offer scope. We supply the opportunity to experience the things that you would ordinarily be unable to experience. Writers, no matter how skilled they are at writing, are limited by their own experiences, however, as well as the experiences they are able to garnish from other writers. Writers tend to live radical lives; they pursue experience for the sake of experience. It’s known as experiencing to extremes and I can confidently claim that as the code of my life.
I’m still not convinced. I want to see an example of what you are talking about. Show me a positive before I accept a negative.
Very well. I’ll quote one of my poems for you, and then I’ll prove what my poem alleges.
ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE By Anthony J. Seliquini
With this pencil, anything is possible. There are tales I could weave you Would never believe. Stories I could write where the blind Would find sight, And legends of men who could move Oceans.
And I can move your emotions! I can lighten your day, gloomy and gray, Or put you under duress- Or summon sympathy from someone Merciless! I can make you laugh, force a sigh. Or make you cry, and you wonder why?
Because all this can be done Thanks to one thing, just one. With this pencil, anything is possible
…The old man’s voice was solemn and grave. She walked closer to him. The candlelight did little to illuminate the room, and the shadows of the two people flickered ominously across the barren stone. She was more afraid than she had ever been before. He took another drink from the bottle of scotch. “Don’t be afraid unless it’s own my death you fear. If that’s so, then your fears have merit, for I shall die very soon.” He set the bottle down on the floor carefully, almost lovingly, as if he had found nothing else with which to place his affectations. Her mouth opened in a wide rictus of horror as he lifted the pistol from the floor and pressed the barrel firmly against his left temple. “Such is life. As the samurai once said, ‘A man is born crying. When he’s cried enough, he dies.’” He blinked the last of his tears from his eyes and wiped them tenderly with his free hand while he pulled the trigger so slowly it seemed an eternity to the young lady. The blast from the pistol echoed for an even longer amount of time in her ears, and the blood that sprayed from his shattered skull onto the wall spilled wetly to the floor and angrily flowed toward her…
How does that make you feel? Nothing? Then read on:
…Love and life… Will and wit… The pen is mightier than the sword, and to follow your heart is to find true happiness. Well, someone took that pen and shoved it through my heart, damn it… It’d been this way since the beginning! Why had he had to endure a life that beset him with such terrible obstacles and events, to overcome one only to be plagued by another, and to maintain a life with such a pattern until his death? He recalled the poem Eldorado, written by Edgar Allen Poe, whom the dying man had always admired. Ride, boldly ride indeed!
Or how about something different:
…Charlie Gallagher was a notorious pimp, drug dealer, and all-around piece of shit. Fred and his partner Ned (who had been in the force for fifteen years) were supposed to get a little concrete evidence of some of the more heinous activities Charlie was involved in so as to ensure a long sentence when the punk was finally brought in. It was a big assignment, and Fred’s glands were pumping out adrenaline at a feverish rate. Nervous energy carrying him on, he half-listened to Ned’s instructions: I want you to go up to the bitch that runs the desk, ok? Stay cool and tell her you’re interested in a little action. You know, you’re lookin’ for a dirty woman-someone who can satisfy your primal needs. Tell her that you’ve got some cash, but that you ain’t spending any money on some trashy crack-whore. Tell her you’ve got standards, and that a friend said this is the place to have ’em fulfilled. Hey, Freddie, you listenin’ to me? He was listening, oh yeah… But he knew what to do already, and besides, who the fuck was going to get hurt if he screwed it all up anyway? The way he looked at it, this was his show, and he was going to be sure it ended with a big bang. Hopefully he’d end up with a nice piece of ass to boot…
And poetry is a very powerful device. Take this for example:
THE WORLD AROUND ME By Anthony J. Seliquini
For some people there is nothing so magnificent Than blood, sweat, and the cries of the innocent. But I, I strive to suppress the violence, The cacophony of slaughter and monotony of silence, To shelter the unhomed and guide the lost, And rescue the cold from the killing frost. But my efforts, they never seemed so hopeless As I now look at the world around me.
Call me a shepherd caring for his sheep, Or a singer of lullabies putting the young to sleep. Or see me as the sage who speaks words of wisdom To ensure the prosperity of his clan and kingdom. Praise me as your savior who brings salvation Or denote me a demon, for I’m deep in despair As I listen to the world around me.
Where are those feel as I do, who know their hearts will lead them true? Am I alone in the quest for good, To ensure things are as they ought and should? Because when I’m chastised for failing to succeed I can’t help but turn my back On the world dying all around me.
Okay, I’m convinced. Thank you, and good night.
Composed 2002 · part of the Essays collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.