None is so blind, as he who will not see......

I've been mulling this over all day.... since before coffee even.

Somebody made a comment on a friends blog. I read it.... and it lodged with more will
than it deserved. Not so much for it's short sighted officious twititude, but more for the
loss it displayed.

My friend can write. Write well.... well enough to fill a readers mind with the thoughts and emotions she so freely shares. Her work has that hallmark present in every writer I have ever enjoyed; The ability to snare the readers mind and emotions, shaping and molding them to her will and burrowing so deep that reading to the end is far easier than trying to escape the page.

That good.......

This morning, a comment on her blog from a reader picking nits, reminding me so forcefully of an art 'teacher' I once knew who regularly berated students for the basic flaw of having talent.
At the time I encountered this 'teacher', her actions engendered only anger in me. How dare that obnoxious old hag harangue truly gifted artists solely to crush them before their light had a chance to shine?

Now.... this commenter's words brought a rush of forgotten emotion in the same vein, but more, and newer thoughts as well.

Yes, the boob made some borderline mean and useless comments with no other purpose than to cause pain. This alone was reason to dislike... feel anger... desire a personal meeting to discuss the words. But.... something new creeping in..... and something I would never before have felt.

Pity.

This person, through his long, torturous comment, revealed something about himself that moved me to feel pity for him. Not enough to stop the anger at his petty bashing of the beautiful, but enough to surprise me.

This fool can't see beauty. He reads words so artfully crafted as to bring tears to a rough
and jaded man such as myself, and all he can see are letters in constructed rows.
To such a person, viewing a Monet would bring forth a judgment on the relative merits of walnut framing versus cherry, with a heaping of scorn on anyone who noticed the mere dabs of paint within the woodwork.

Oh, what a small and mean life that must be to lead.......... never hearing the music, never seeing the sunrise. Only knowing the harshest outermost edges of the packing and never the gorgeous perfection nestled within.

My friend? She will soon get over this small slight from such a low and meaningless person.
But him? He...... will never be able to get away from himself. Each morning, he will wake to the person he is. And also, wake to the person he isn't, and never will be.

So... so....... sad.