The Woeful Writing{s} of Wednesday.
Sic Gorgiamus Allos Subjectatos Nunc.
Typewriter.
A new ink ribbon.
Paper.
Gramophone playing my favorite record.
click. clack. snick. snack.
Greetings and salutations everyone, it has been a while since my latest chapter, but I most certainly have not been idle…existing in this never-ending hellscape requires me to be at quippiest capacity. Apparently, I have achieved the highest numerical eyes on my life’s story and its many cataclysms against some intriguing manifestation entitled Stranger Things. I’m glad that Thing is exploring his own creative talents when he isn’t lending his own tactile prowess to mine.
Sadly, the adaptation of my character and the many persons that dwell therein leave much to be desired. I witnessed scenes most disturbing and not of my own making. Foisting me into boy love triangles with meandering subplots, disavowing me of my queerness when my chemistry with dearest Enid was most intriguing, and most infuriating of all the coyness and cruelty against the Black individuals of this alternate universe.
I was most aghast. Why were they cast as cops and colonizers when history bares fruit to the opposite? Our races and ethnicities most certainly differ but our experiences with marginalization and oppression most certainly align and in that we find macabre solidarity. A vile trend in the insidiousness of copaganda and distorted revisionism to be sure~~casting the othered as brute and bully~~the oppressed as the oppressor. Ghastly.
I found myself most discomforted by this state of affairs wherein my pointed dissertation against the pilgrims was left to languish, only remembered by generations long past. And to revive the monstrosity that I made kindling into a wretched tourist attraction of tchotchkes à la Pilgrim World, with Black proprietors, and no awareness as to the optics of such a garish miscasting~horrid.
When writing about the lives and identities of others one must at least be learned about the subject matter to avoid careening into chasms of inauthenticity such as these. In this regard, your work is puerile and under-dramatized and you lack any sense of structure, character, and the Aristotelian unities.
Furor of any sort must of course must be focused and channeled towards the deserving targets, thus I ventured to the bird app-othecary where like-minded persons shared my distaste. Their tweets came from a place of pain and media literacy:
The gothic is a gateway and punk is not merely aesthetic window dressing Mr. Burton. Frequently, you have eschewed Black characters from your narratives and bemoaned the pulchritude of diversity for your own personal taste and limited worldview.
I would be remiss if blame was not equally doled out to the respective writing parties: Alfred Gough, Miles Millar, April Blair, Kayla Alpert, and Matt Lambert.
My fashion palette may be monochromatic but my existence is overflowing with colorful characters~~grating as they may be~~ they are delicious foils for my acerbic wit.
Nightmarish as the entire experience was, I was not entirely perturbed. Jenna Ortega’s resemblance to my personage~uncanny~and the dance choreography~impeccable.
This Wednesday show is full of woe.
Perchance a second season will allow me to correct it.
click. clack. snick. snack.
…a new blank piece of paper…
Further reading:
