Hate has a smell. Not the rancid tang of fear, nor the mouldering smell of denial, but a special smell all its own. It's a ruthless smell, a cold smell. Sharp with anticipation, edged with glee, damp and dark and dank like the corners of the mind it hides in.
More below the dooblydoo.
I mention the smell of hate because it permeates my home. It comes out of the television and overpowers even 12 indoor cats and dusty corners. It reeks as it rolls along the floors and grows strong in the corners of rooms. It is not subtle, though people often do not recognise it for what it is. It smells of pus and vileness, of evil - and it pours out the mouths of men and women in nice clothes and expensive haircuts into the homes of America.
It cheapens everything it touches. It taints and tarnishes. It laps at the feet of the old and the frightened while ginning up the young and immature. It uses cheap phrases of doubt and implication and avoids light at all cost - but it is bold. It uses confusion to stand its ground you might say - to demand consideration in a mind that can no longer tell wrong from right from constant exposure.
I am not sure how to scrub it away - how to counteract the agency of ignorance. But I will stand my own ground and I will try. Starting tomorrow I have three days of peace and quiet to try and clear the gloom and miasma of hate from my home. I will scrub the furnishings and wash the covers and vacuum the carpets, clearing out cobwebs and unexplored corners where it might seek refuge.
I will bring in thought and action and inspiration in its place that I might drive it further away from the areas I inhabit and where my family spends their time. Languages. Culture. Laughter. Thoughtful discussion. Three days of cleansing in the face of years of ignorance and hate spewed like drops from a rabid dogs maw.
I hope it will be enough.
A POX on them that feed from the trough of the vilest in man. A pox on them all.