Dear Community,
Within the strange dream of nighttime editorials conducted in a regrettable innocence I staked my coin purse and reputation on, I conversed with contributors who liked our terribleness. We were young and our friendly arrogance was greeted mostly with warmth. We weren’t a problem yet. It took one year and several months to drain the tub of any real hope of irritating any lasting difference in the literary community. We will always maintain the strong pride of entrepreneurship and love our authors and artists for their consent and participation in the dangerous performance of allowing themselves to be fully known. The self-surgery of willing your own disease into discovery creates digital ripplings that kills careers and breaks esteem so badly the lost community member’s disappearance encourages further concentrated efforts at demanding blood for others’ raw-baked approaches towards justice. Blind advocacy can lead their witnesses towards a philosophy of safely quitting before the productive rupturing of dialogue finds proper aim, landing, and eclipsed effect. What’s achieved is generally regarded as broken street glass. Enlisting bullying tactics in order to achieve a manipulated version of organic internet democracy dismantles any brave, young plans for passionate gestures. This passion is still dusted with 18th century American soil and knows only that the quick curiosities of the small figure growing her anger towards *goal floods her actions with the pure violence of making noise. It’s a barbaric response to the quiet deaths of those who have succumbed to invisible illness. With the bleak knowledge that a brain’s made to bake in its own broth while politics decides on expensive nuance around funding and faulty mass educational tactics, the culprit (our angry girl) spits on stage. A cause claims the soul for an hour of honest fighting, and our advocate’s confused actions are legitimized under the our national privilege, and she’s made fun of for her friendliness. The internet eats the friendly idiot like a snack, and the idiot only feels the bite as a violent lesson. However, learning requires the patience of a community. Proper comprehension for the state of my ego is something I consider a personality failing I only wish to correct. But it’s too late for that, now. My career, here, is over, but yours, I pray, will meet with better luck on the easy climb towards the comparative languages of an online community fighting for its 600 year survival. I’ll write with the jovial caution of an idiot in love with her own concept from here on out. The relentless need for narratives that dry the jello of having lived it into something discernable is scary stuff to contemplate, let alone enact successfully in this hyper climate of weaponizing causes as means towards establishing stylish social status for ourselves. We are all scared. If you’re visiting this website, we hope that you will treat this artwork like precious urine samples. I have no hope for Libre living past May, but we will promptly entertain the works of our remaining contributors like missed trains. Each week, we quicken our steps towards the door for an alternative ending, and each week I realize that the meager talents of a 35-year-old woman collapse against the community’s disinterest. Libre never meant to annoy and we thank you for your time and trouble to understand our incompleteness.
Yours, in good faith that our brains break the speed of sound…
Mary B.
losing our grip on purpose 