The Celtic Warrior is Strong in Me

By the time I arrived in Iowa City and settled into the Iowa House early in the morning of July 20th, a crazy, loaded-to-the teeth gunman was already in the news. I had changed planes in Denver. Chaos was still a few hours away as I waited for my connecting flight.

I wondered what it felt like at the Denver airport now.

I tried to write a reasoned, contained blog about this. But reasoned words failed me.

On Monday, I started my Monologue class. An assignment: take an article from the New York Times and respond to it.

And thus was unleashed my Celtic Warrior. He appeared earlier in my blog career. I have decided I should pull him out whenever reasoned worlds fail me – fail me because there is no reason to what happened.

 The Rant of the Celtic Warrior

The residents of Krymsk, Russia are angry and three of its officials are in trouble. They did not warn the citizens of Krymsk that a 20-foot wall of water would sweep through their town in three hours.

No on was evacuated. One hundred seventy-one of them died.

The officials are charged with negligence. They could face jail time. The swiftness and seriousness of the charges against the officials reflect, according to the NY Times, the Kremlin’s anxiety about the popular anger.

Two things.

One: My anger has created anxiety.

Two: It has never made me popular.

So popular anger intrigues me.

If I were a Krymskian would I be angry?

Fuck yes.

Especially after the governor called me dear and asked — what would you have done, left your house?

Fuck yes. Or at least fuck maybe.

If I knew and didn’t leave, then fuck me. But, since you knew and didn’t warn me, fuck you.

I am on occasion very zen-like. But my Celtic warrior, painted blue with the head of an enemy dangling from my horse overrides that quite easily.

Nice girls aren’t like that.

I had to work on that. Feeling okay about not being a nice girl. Whenever that niggling voice arises, “Now, that’s not nice—it upsets people,” I think of the end of Psycho, where Norman Bates, as a fly crawls across his face, says, in the voice of his mother, “I’ll, show them. I’ll show them I’m so nice, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

That would be nice old serial-killer-stab-them-‘til-they’re-screaming-while-their-life-blood-flows-down-the-drain Mrs. Bates talking.

Look, it’s not as if I’m looking for a fight. They’re just there—disguised as polite rudeness. Or polite condescension.

“What would you do Dear, leave your house if a 20-foot wall of water was coming your way?”

Fuck, yes! And don’t call me dear unless you want your head dangling from my horse.

You know, when 70 people get shot at a midnight movie, twelve of them die, and one of them is a six year old, and it happens in three minutes, and the NfuckingRA claims the Constitution as its own because our forefathers guaranteed the right to bear nine-pound, five-foot long, one-shot, Flintlock, muskets that you have to load with gun powder after each shot, and numbnut commentators claim we shouldn’t talk about gun control out of respect for the 70 people—including the twelve who died, one of whom was a six year old, whose lives—not to mention the lives of anyone who loved them—changed forever within the space of three minutes while they were watching a movie — a fucking movie for god’s sake —

I get pissed.

I get Celtic warrior, painted blue with the head of my enemy dangling from my horse pissed.

Look, I don’t even have a horse, I don’t know how to ride a horse. And even if I did, I don’t have the heads of enemies lying around my house, waiting for me to dangle them from my horse.

But if that image scares the polite rudeness out of someone, so be it. That’s their problem, not mine.

It is the absolutely right thing to do when you come fact to face with that sweet old Mrs. Bates-in-her-lace-collar-and-grandmother-dress politeness. She has an enormous butcher’s knife behind her back. And she’s ready to use it. On the six-year old girl over there. She just doesn’t want you to notice it because then she can’t stab her.

Pointing out that something or someone is psychotic — is not psychotic.

You know, they talk about manning up.

Well, I think it’s time to woman up. When you see that knife behind her back, point it out. Say, “Hey! That sweet little old lady has a knife behind her back and she wants to stab that little girl.”

Or, “Hey! You know a sign that someone is about to have a psychotic break? When they buy four automatic weapons and 6000 rounds of ammunition. They’re not going out to hunt deer. And even if they are, don’t let them. It’s not fair to the deer. And, it’s psychotic. And, it means that shooting humans isn’t too far down the road. It’s a 20-foot wall of water barreling down on our humanity.”

And, don’t call me dear. Unless you want your head dangling from my horse.

There.

I ranted.

I tried not to.

But the Celtic Warrior is too strong in me.

I feel better now.

I think I’ll go shower and wash away the blue.

2 thoughts on “The Celtic Warrior is Strong in Me

    • Thanks, Jen. It was fun to write and it’s a lot of fun to perform. I’ll contribute to “I write because . . . ” later today or tomorrow.

      Like

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