I listen to the Critic from 1855.
He says "Walt Whitman" is both British and American.
Funnily enough, when he describes poetry
I sing with passion, and I understand.
Then he begins to sound like a critic;
And all credibility is lost on me.

How could the man who so brilliantly 
Describe poetry two paragraphs earlier
Begin to snark at Walt Whitman?
Should a poet sing like Walt Whitman sings
In our modern age, I would rejoice.
I would purchase his work greedily,
And add it to my bookshelf.

I understand the controversy, though.
Walt Whitman---but I would say Byron had done the same---
Brought a crude and selfish vein to poetry.
Poetry is not singing about the self.
Though, some poets sing about themselves
The great poets---the more subtle poets---
Sing about the Earth. They sing about the trees
Or the birds, or battles,---or, they invent mythologies.

I like Walt Whitman because he has a complete education.
He teaches me nouns, and many of them.
He informs me on the way life was in 1855.
He teaches me a lot.
However, the critic said he's either a failure or glorious.
Neither of these were true.
Walt Whitman was a poet
Who must have written else he despair.
A wise man, who had many thoughts---
And there in lies the problem with modern poetry.
There is little thought behind it.
It's not the narcissism I dislike about modern poetry
But I dislike the disregard it has toward things outside the self.
Good poetry ought to have a healthy interest in other things
Beside the self.
I suppose that is why the critic didn't like Whitman
Was that he sung odes about himself.
He, being among the first to have the audacity to do it
Invented the ego. Not that Hubris was never a part of poetry,
For I certainly have hubris---
Which is healthy for an artist who recognizes their talents
When very few other people do---
Though, I am creating a revival of poetry all by myself.
I'm inspiring one or two of you
And by my inspiration, you write a poem like mine.
And then it trickles down, so that poetry revitalizes.
I am the catalyst back to a day when men were wise;
For though few do read me,
I give a glimpse into the hidden art and purpose.
The mystery of solving other men's riddles.
And one day all will have read me
At least some little thought I had.
And that day I suppose poetry will be enjoyed
Again; not merely an indulgence in self love.

Dear,
Ms. Kramarik

There's a girl, much the same as you. I see all of the same talent. Her paintings don't sell for millions of dollars. My writing doesn't get purchased. At least not yet.

You're my favorite Artist, Ms. Kramarik. Not because you were a prodigy, but because you drew the best portrait of Jesus. What kind of world do we live in, where talent like yours doesn't get patronized? It's a secondary hobby. It isn't taken seriously. I've seen a man paint Michelangelo's bodies in the most photorealistic eye I'd ever seen. I do not know if it gets patronized. I do not know if it gets sold.

The things done with art---the disinterest in it, the utter disregard for it---is wonderfully wrong. Everyone who paints like you---and there may be at most a couple thousand---ought to earn their living off of the craft. What is the world without art? What is the world without music or poetry? Without stories? When money dictates our stories, when money dictates our art, and when money dictates our music, it tears people like us apart.

Art needs to be sold--- There may be nine billion souls on the earth, but only a couple hundred thousand of them painters. A couple hundred thousand of them writers. A couple hundred thousand of them musicians. Everyone wants to believe that talent is equally distributed among all people---but, due to a writing disability, I could never reach the level of proficiency you reached at four. Not everyone can be an artist. Not everyone ought to be. And painting ought not simply be championed by the newest fads. It ought to be based on the merit of a painter.

I say this because it's true. I don't doubt the world has no lack of artists, but we are still a rare breed. Those of us who can produce works of art. If you have to go to school for it, it is not in you. If you go to school for it because it is in you, there's little the school can do beside teach you the techniques. You were painting at four and I was writing at ten... It is not a bad thing. It is not something that ought to be moderated. Rather, if we decide that all men are endowed equally with the same gifts, we tend to shun the ones who are naturally gifted. And we elevate the ones who simply pay the money and put in the hours. And they come out painting when they should have been an accountant or a Lawyer. Do you understand, Akiane?

The world grows larger, so there are more of us now competing. So, the world has decided to shadow ban us, and make it so we cannot earn our meat. They want to turn someone like me---useless for everything else---and make me another brick in the wall. I'm the spray paint on the side of the brick building. One of my little pet dreams was a city that allowed Graffiti on the walls, so it would beautify the city. Obviously, graffiti is just a way gangs mark their territory, which amounts to the reason why that dream will never happen. Yet in some places, it is right to have an artist come and spray paint their art upon the wall. And it is beautiful. Why cannot you or I create on the traditional canvases, and make money, too? You made money. But I see so many artists turn to their art and say, "It is nothing." As if the enormous gift weren't meant to be fully explored. No... what happens is so many artists see their art and figure there is no money in it. For some of us, it is all we can do.

So there are extraordinarily gifted individuals who can paint like you, or write like me, and they choose to ignore that gift, and pursue monetary gain. And there are extraordinarily unlucky people like myself who need to write, yet the markets will not allow it because they are saturated by a third type of people, who by industrious studying of markets, trends and alchemic moldings of words or paint, they find themselves in the position of making money off the crafts that we ought to. And sure enough, you have made your money. But, I cannot yet.

Dear,
Ms. Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird is a masterpiece. Go Set a Watchman is probably the reason everything went to hell.

Writers have a responsibility to speak into the social discord. We have the necessary responsibility to speak into social problems, and to work out solutions. To Kill a Mockingbird was a solution to an age old question. It was a solution to Racism, Sexism and many other riddles. The core theme of the novel being "Justice." The acknowledgement of Tom's innocence, the acknowledgement of Mayella's guilt, the acknowledgement of Tom's inevitable sentence. It speaks to truth.

Now, there are radicals trying to remove it from the curriculum. Why? Because it is a novel portraying truth. Anything true, the modern radical is trying to destroy, or defame. The unfortunate truth is that Racism and Sexism have taken their reverse forms, so that the harder truths are impalpable.  However, turning Atticus into a racist was a poor publishing decision. The only thing I can see, is that this is an alternate universe. As it is an alternate universe where Atticus won the Tom Robinson trial.

The destructive catalyst to our modern Racism, is that To Kill a Mockingbird has become controversial and pushed into the realm of "Radical." The story is true, and it aggressively prosecutes False Rape Allegations, and it condemns the women who are abusing their unique position.

The danger of this modern day, and the danger of our modern world is the ignorance exuded by the populace's tastes, to promote Hate. Do blacks hate whites? Is the stereotypical image of them, travelling in gangs, obsessed about their skin color and hating the Cracker a true portrait? No. It is not. But, equally dangerous is the assumption that such individuals do not exist. And art ought to critique those individuals. A sickness of ingratitude filters through the populace. And as many faux remedies they create, it all stems from self love and selfishness.---Forgetting the childhood lessons necessary for understanding this complex world.

The danger, of course, Ms. Lee, is that your bastard child has been leaked to the public by a Money Grabbing Ms. Carter, and it was published irresponsibly. It may have been a first draft. A first draft is not the work. It is not where the work was meant to go. For, when a writer is creating, the subconscious juices flow and meld together to create masterpieces. A work such as To Kill a Mockingbird needed to be of its own accord, without the first draft published. It is not the authentic writer's work. The authentic work is where the novel had originally gone. What the novel, in all its creative glory, had become. Not what the novel was in its first incarnation. Atticus in the first draft might be racist, but Atticus in the true, Canon story is a hero. 

We need not defame our heroes, as the surrounding controversy has destroyed a beloved classic. It does not matter what an author's first draft was. Only what the author had polished it into.

Dear,
B____

It was in my dream, that you'd be published in science on 12/3/21. It will be clear to everyone who you are. You will be published in "Science".

I would like to put forth my scientific mind, to describe something I've learned today. That is the last principle of Euclid, that there cannot be infinity, in finite spaces. I was looking up the Square Roots and how to calculate them. I was thinking about how much Square Roots are needed in Quadratic Formulas. I thought about Planck Lengths. What I discerned is that the square root we understand on a calculator is defined by infinite values. That the square root method I was taught could be used to find the practical square root of anything.

For, Geometry is interesting. Being that it is like Euclid's problem, that finite spaces cannot contain infinity, the measurement of a square root is only needed to the practical decimal point by which we can actively measure. That our measurements are fine, when doing things like carpentry, where the approximate measurement to the decimal we are working on is perfectly adequate. Therefore, Square Roots can practically be figured for by using simple arithmetic, in practical places. As the likelihood of needing a figure squared to its infinite variable is only as necessary as the decimal place needed. Which, can be measured down to a Planck length, and no further. I think you will use this to get yourself published. This secret knowledge that I have worked out.

The interesting thing, is that Pi can only be calculated down to the thirty fourth or thirty fifth decimal place. To be honest, it seems like the negative square to the decimal place is the only relevant number, and sure enough, the Planck length I saw has 616 in the digit. Meaning it is likely you will steal this. For no purpose. For I am the true genius who came up with the notion. But, fortuitously, you have stifled my success for right now. Being that you are 22 at your age. We are ten years apart, but I have seen you once occupying the same house I used to lived at.

No, I am on to you. You are a polymath, only because I am a polymath. You have mastered both science and art because I have. You stole from me. And certainly, my theory is not yours. For, I merely say that limitations within math consequentially require that finite numbers be used, and rounding, and estimates, and at the very best--- A perfect Circle might not actually yield the calculus digits of Pi. Certainly, if expanded into Gethem or Jotunheim as I like to call it, there'd certainly be even more digits. You will actually measure it, though. Consequentially, that is how the world shall know who you are. For, I will be rich and famous. I already am rich in knowledge. But I will not be published in science. For I am not a scientist. And you---yes, I dare say you are.

Let it be known that I have knowledge, and you do not. For you are Death. You have no wisdom. You have no knowledge. You have no activity. You have no planning. You have no kindness. You have nothing in you except what is vile, and twisting with writhing passions and sinew. I do think you will take from me this pitiful idea. To me, it is merely a toy. One novel idea I had created, and one by which I am pleased to understand like the uses of Geometry. To you, however---because you are stupid---it is an idea unworthy for me to have. For I shan't use it like you. I shan't understand it like you. And certainly, there's nothing to really understand except that Planck Lengths are not the limit of the universe. It shall go deeper, for space is infinite. But, I liken it to a novel idea that of matter, it is the smallest possible unit we know of. And the reason I am wiser than you, is that I can see in-between the gaps of Planck Lengths. And that is why I shall never be published in science. But, you... I do believe I shall never see it, but will rather be a rival to you in every way. I am smarter than you. I am wiser than you. I am better than you. And I shall have a more beautiful bride than you. I shall have happier children than you. I shall understand the very secrets of the world while you eat the crumbs I left, for I certainly find it unimportant. This is unimportant. To me, it is just a proof of God's existence. Yet, you will twist it into something otherwise.