Fuckers. Fucking fuckers. Fuck fucking fuckers. Fuck fucked fucking fuckers.
Take the above sentences and illustrate them.
1. Fuckers. People fucking. Let's say they're pink.
2. Fucking fuckers. The same people as in number one (the pink people) except suddenly they are being fucked by new, scary people who just showed up out of nowhere. They are green, these new people.
3. Fuck fucking fuckers. The green people are fucking the pink people, and a giant purple hand is giving them all the finger, much to everyone's shock and surprise.
4. Fuck fucked fucking fuckers. The big purple hand giving the finger is still there. The pink people (looking miserable) are being fucked by the green people (who look surprised) who are now being fucked by crazy smiling blue people.
Doctor Seuss should have done porn.
The End.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Ice in my Heart
I cut open my chest. I take out my heart. I cut open my heart. Inside, there are diamonds. They are big and beautiful, but they're choking my heart.
I lift my heart up to my mouth, suck the diamonds out of the chambers, and spit the diamonds on the floor. They taste salty and cold. I do this over and over. When my heart is entirely clear of diamonds, I stitch my heart up, put it in my chest, and stitch my chest closed.
When I look to the floor, the diamonds are gone -- melted. It turns out they were just ice.
And now that my heart is clear of ice, it beats hot, and fierce, and loud. As if for the very first time in my life, I feel my blood running through my veins like deer running through the woods.
You look at the logs, the grassy knolls, weeds, and other debris. You think nothing can run through all of this. And then one day you see a deer sprint through all of it, never once looking down at its feet. More graceful than any dancer or martial artist, deer know how to move.
And now my blood is like that. My blood runs through my body, never looking down at its feet, dancing through my veins.
Where did the ice come from? My eyes give off heat. What I don't look at, inside of me, becomes cold. I stopped looking inside my heart, and ice formed. It's that simple.
There are two ways to deal with ice in your body. You can do what I did, and perform surgery on yourself. Or you can just ignore it. What's frozen doesn't really hurt.
Yes, walking around full of ice will cause a lot of problems for you. Sluggish, dependent on others, neither quick to anger nor quick to cry, an irritable sort of logic grabs hold of you, and you call it "reason" and declare it "good enough". You call your cynicism "sensible", and your blindness "sticking to the facts". People hate you, tolerate you, think of you as one of those dependable people with nothing interesting to say.
And you can live that way for years and years. No one will tell you, "Hey, you're full of ice." For starters, most won't notice. They're full of ice, and blind too. Others will notice, but know the futility of trying to tell you about it.
"Your heart is full of ice," are not the sort of words people tend to hear. Some statements are like that. They just don't fit into ears.
The only real way, to know if your heart is full of ice, is to look in there yourself. Not a quick peek. That won't do it. You need to cut your heart open and stare into all the chambers, one at a time, for a long, long time.
Are you willing to look inside your heart? Do you want to know if your heart is full of ice? If you look, and find ice in there, are you going to do something about it?
I lift my heart up to my mouth, suck the diamonds out of the chambers, and spit the diamonds on the floor. They taste salty and cold. I do this over and over. When my heart is entirely clear of diamonds, I stitch my heart up, put it in my chest, and stitch my chest closed.
When I look to the floor, the diamonds are gone -- melted. It turns out they were just ice.
And now that my heart is clear of ice, it beats hot, and fierce, and loud. As if for the very first time in my life, I feel my blood running through my veins like deer running through the woods.
You look at the logs, the grassy knolls, weeds, and other debris. You think nothing can run through all of this. And then one day you see a deer sprint through all of it, never once looking down at its feet. More graceful than any dancer or martial artist, deer know how to move.
And now my blood is like that. My blood runs through my body, never looking down at its feet, dancing through my veins.
Where did the ice come from? My eyes give off heat. What I don't look at, inside of me, becomes cold. I stopped looking inside my heart, and ice formed. It's that simple.
There are two ways to deal with ice in your body. You can do what I did, and perform surgery on yourself. Or you can just ignore it. What's frozen doesn't really hurt.
Yes, walking around full of ice will cause a lot of problems for you. Sluggish, dependent on others, neither quick to anger nor quick to cry, an irritable sort of logic grabs hold of you, and you call it "reason" and declare it "good enough". You call your cynicism "sensible", and your blindness "sticking to the facts". People hate you, tolerate you, think of you as one of those dependable people with nothing interesting to say.
And you can live that way for years and years. No one will tell you, "Hey, you're full of ice." For starters, most won't notice. They're full of ice, and blind too. Others will notice, but know the futility of trying to tell you about it.
"Your heart is full of ice," are not the sort of words people tend to hear. Some statements are like that. They just don't fit into ears.
The only real way, to know if your heart is full of ice, is to look in there yourself. Not a quick peek. That won't do it. You need to cut your heart open and stare into all the chambers, one at a time, for a long, long time.
Are you willing to look inside your heart? Do you want to know if your heart is full of ice? If you look, and find ice in there, are you going to do something about it?
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Truth
"You get truth through hard work.
The truth is earned," he said.
"Here's some truth," I replied,
and kicked him in the head.
Some truth is hard and pointy.
Some truth is soft and round.
Sometimes you have to hunt for it.
Some truth is simply found.
"You get truth through hard work.
The truth is earned," he said.
I beat him with a baseball bat
until all his truth was red.
Some truth is quite comforting.
Some truth will cause you pain.
But if you insist your truth is all,
you'll drive everyone insane.
"You get truth through hard work.
The truth is earned," he said.
Then some truth fell from the sky
and crushed his lumpy head.
[slightly rewritten 21st Nov. 2009]
The truth is earned," he said.
"Here's some truth," I replied,
and kicked him in the head.
Some truth is hard and pointy.
Some truth is soft and round.
Sometimes you have to hunt for it.
Some truth is simply found.
"You get truth through hard work.
The truth is earned," he said.
I beat him with a baseball bat
until all his truth was red.
Some truth is quite comforting.
Some truth will cause you pain.
But if you insist your truth is all,
you'll drive everyone insane.
"You get truth through hard work.
The truth is earned," he said.
Then some truth fell from the sky
and crushed his lumpy head.
[slightly rewritten 21st Nov. 2009]
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Theatre
This piece of experimental theatre is planet-wide. Everyone is an actor in it, whether they want to be or not. We're not sure when it's going to end. And it has already started. I'm just telling you about it, so you know what's going on. I'm no director. Or, at least, we're all directors. It's kind of an improv piece.
You can wear whatever you want. You can play whatever part you'd like. You can do whatever you want. Please try to be interesting. You get extra points for authenticity. Lots of feeling, please.
The plot is really complicated. There is a cast of billions, after all. Just jump right in, do whatever feels right.
And.... go!
* * *
The sad thing is, there are people who insist, angrily, that they're not a part of the play. They try to hide in caves, bachelor apartments, what have you. They have few friends, or they only hang out with other people who are anti-theatre.
Makes no difference. They can hide if they want, but they're still on stage. The audience is inside us. It's in our blood.
And on some level they know it. Stage-fright, basically. That's all it is. They'll get over it. And even if they don't, it doesn't matter. It's a sub-plot we can work with.
* * *
Everyone is god. We are all gods. And we got bored, so we started playing. We said, "Let's pretend we're not gods. Let's give up our powers for a little while, limit our consciousness, and see what we do. Let's pretend we're mortal. What an awesome game! There will be real consequences to everything."
"What's my line?" asks a young, lost actor. "What's my part? What am I supposed to be doing or saying?"
"Oh Shiva," I think to myself, "What silly game are you playing now?"
[That idea totally stolen from Alan Watts. Credit where it's due.]
* * *
You were born into the theatre. Play your part to the best of your abilities. Anything else is nonsense. And know that your script is inside of you. Yes, you're faking it, in a sense. But there are real lines in your belly. When you deliver the right dialogue, you'll know it. When it rings false, you'll know it too.
Do the best you can. Even if you fuck up your lines, you're doing pretty good. We'll improv around your errors. And errors is the wrong word, really. But it'll do.
I guess I fucked up my lines, when I said "error". That's okay. Mistakes make a performance even more interesting.
* * *
You can do it. I have faith in you, Shiva. I have faith in all of us.
You can wear whatever you want. You can play whatever part you'd like. You can do whatever you want. Please try to be interesting. You get extra points for authenticity. Lots of feeling, please.
The plot is really complicated. There is a cast of billions, after all. Just jump right in, do whatever feels right.
And.... go!
* * *
The sad thing is, there are people who insist, angrily, that they're not a part of the play. They try to hide in caves, bachelor apartments, what have you. They have few friends, or they only hang out with other people who are anti-theatre.
Makes no difference. They can hide if they want, but they're still on stage. The audience is inside us. It's in our blood.
And on some level they know it. Stage-fright, basically. That's all it is. They'll get over it. And even if they don't, it doesn't matter. It's a sub-plot we can work with.
* * *
Everyone is god. We are all gods. And we got bored, so we started playing. We said, "Let's pretend we're not gods. Let's give up our powers for a little while, limit our consciousness, and see what we do. Let's pretend we're mortal. What an awesome game! There will be real consequences to everything."
"What's my line?" asks a young, lost actor. "What's my part? What am I supposed to be doing or saying?"
"Oh Shiva," I think to myself, "What silly game are you playing now?"
[That idea totally stolen from Alan Watts. Credit where it's due.]
* * *
You were born into the theatre. Play your part to the best of your abilities. Anything else is nonsense. And know that your script is inside of you. Yes, you're faking it, in a sense. But there are real lines in your belly. When you deliver the right dialogue, you'll know it. When it rings false, you'll know it too.
Do the best you can. Even if you fuck up your lines, you're doing pretty good. We'll improv around your errors. And errors is the wrong word, really. But it'll do.
I guess I fucked up my lines, when I said "error". That's okay. Mistakes make a performance even more interesting.
* * *
You can do it. I have faith in you, Shiva. I have faith in all of us.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
This Space Intentionally Left Blank
Derek attacks the blank page like a serial killer attacking a victim. Every word is a blow. He wants to kill it. Kill the blankness of the page -- and if it has to be blood spattered all over the white, so be it. Killing empty space is no crime.
It doesn't matter what the words are. Strangely, Derek has always found the words take care of themselves. He's never had writer's block. Writing is a form of violent dreaming. He always has dreams (and thoughts, and feelings) so he always has words. He just puts his hands down on the paper and things come out. Later, he can shape them, sculpt the wounds in the paper.
The trouble with wounds is they're hard to line up into chapters. So Derek tends to write short pieces. And wounds can be unpleasant to look at, so he'll often write something, turn the page, and never go back. A finished story is finished. Trying to sell it, let alone read it again, is just a bad idea. Never return to the scene of the crime, he thinks. That is how they catch you.
There are volumes of murdered pages in his home. Some are hidden on shelves. Others are hidden in the hard drive of his computer. Still other victims are buried on the Internet.
Again, no one notices these are killings. It is not a crime to murder blank pages. Everyone does it. Everyone is killing empty space. When a woman walks through a room, her body murders emptiness. Even something as simple as a hand gesture can kill emptiness.
Sometimes, Derek thinks that maybe killing emptiness is wrong. Murdering blank pages is wrong. If only he could find a different way to write. If only there was a way to write that didn't kill the blankness, that kept it intact. Write white letters on white paper. Use invisible ink.
Imagine a novel of blank pages. Force a reader to stay on each page for thirty seconds. Force them to read an empty book as though it were a novel. Like monks sitting, meditating, staring at a blank wall -- but in book form. Would that be an experience of pure peace, or would it just be torture and stupidity?
For reasons Derek doesn't understand, the concept of writing blankness terrifies him. He meant it as a joke for himself, an intellectual gag, but he finds it genuinely frightening. It makes him think of the novels of Virginia Woolf. Derek hates her books. They are so empty and bland. Maybe, he thinks, she was writing blankness and emptiness.
When he was forced to read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, he felt like he was being forced to read an empty book. Stare at these blank pages. Read them. Process them.
Derek remembers nothing of the novel at all. None of it stuck. He just remembers cold, emptiness, blankness, nothing.
"I will keep killing the page," he thinks, and tries to think of this statement as a sort of passionate, angry, Hemingway statement. Bull fighting and violence and play. Fight Club. Wildness. Crazy fun.
But now that he's thought of it, he worries the blankness will creep into his words. And, in a way, he welcomes it. Somehow embracing at least a little nothingness feels like maturing, as a writer. And maybe it's empty space that joins chapter-wounds together into something as big as a novel.
Blank walls
demand
to be smeared
with shit.
Empty rooms
demand
to be cut
with gestures.
Blank pages
demand
to be soaked
in blood.
It doesn't matter what the words are. Strangely, Derek has always found the words take care of themselves. He's never had writer's block. Writing is a form of violent dreaming. He always has dreams (and thoughts, and feelings) so he always has words. He just puts his hands down on the paper and things come out. Later, he can shape them, sculpt the wounds in the paper.
The trouble with wounds is they're hard to line up into chapters. So Derek tends to write short pieces. And wounds can be unpleasant to look at, so he'll often write something, turn the page, and never go back. A finished story is finished. Trying to sell it, let alone read it again, is just a bad idea. Never return to the scene of the crime, he thinks. That is how they catch you.
There are volumes of murdered pages in his home. Some are hidden on shelves. Others are hidden in the hard drive of his computer. Still other victims are buried on the Internet.
Again, no one notices these are killings. It is not a crime to murder blank pages. Everyone does it. Everyone is killing empty space. When a woman walks through a room, her body murders emptiness. Even something as simple as a hand gesture can kill emptiness.
Sometimes, Derek thinks that maybe killing emptiness is wrong. Murdering blank pages is wrong. If only he could find a different way to write. If only there was a way to write that didn't kill the blankness, that kept it intact. Write white letters on white paper. Use invisible ink.
Imagine a novel of blank pages. Force a reader to stay on each page for thirty seconds. Force them to read an empty book as though it were a novel. Like monks sitting, meditating, staring at a blank wall -- but in book form. Would that be an experience of pure peace, or would it just be torture and stupidity?
For reasons Derek doesn't understand, the concept of writing blankness terrifies him. He meant it as a joke for himself, an intellectual gag, but he finds it genuinely frightening. It makes him think of the novels of Virginia Woolf. Derek hates her books. They are so empty and bland. Maybe, he thinks, she was writing blankness and emptiness.
When he was forced to read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, he felt like he was being forced to read an empty book. Stare at these blank pages. Read them. Process them.
Derek remembers nothing of the novel at all. None of it stuck. He just remembers cold, emptiness, blankness, nothing.
"I will keep killing the page," he thinks, and tries to think of this statement as a sort of passionate, angry, Hemingway statement. Bull fighting and violence and play. Fight Club. Wildness. Crazy fun.
But now that he's thought of it, he worries the blankness will creep into his words. And, in a way, he welcomes it. Somehow embracing at least a little nothingness feels like maturing, as a writer. And maybe it's empty space that joins chapter-wounds together into something as big as a novel.
Blank walls
demand
to be smeared
with shit.
Empty rooms
demand
to be cut
with gestures.
Blank pages
demand
to be soaked
in blood.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Comments are broken!
God damn it, the comments are broken. I'll ask the powers that be to fix them. I love comments.
Damn it.
Later...
Michelle fixed them. She is a genius.
Damn it.
Later...
Michelle fixed them. She is a genius.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The First Reality Is What One Can Swallow
...the infant wants to put [things] into its mouth. It was hunger, repeatedly disturbing the peacefulness of sleep, which compelled the recognition of the outside world. The experience of satiation, which first banished this tension, then became the model for the mastery of external stimuli in general.
The first reality is what one can swallow. Recognizing reality originally means to judge whether something helps to gain satisfaction or whether it raises tensions, whether one should swallow or spit it out. Taking-into-the-mouth or spitting-out is the basis for all perception, and in conditions of regression one can observe that in the unconscious all sense organs are conceived as mouth-like.
-- Fenichel, The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis (1945)
Our eyes eat the world. Everything we see is chewed up and digested. It goes inside of us, becomes a part of us. And what is seen cannot be unseen, cannot be thrown up, undigested.
We don't get to choose what we eat. We're not in control. We'd like to think we're in control. Everyone wants to think they choose the menu. That's not how it works. What we perceive is what we eat. Everything goes inside of us. Everything.
We fill up. We bloat, ready to burst, fill up with all that we see, and we're still not satisfied. We're never warm and full and comforted. We eat more, and more.
Eyes are mouths. Ears are mouths. Hands. The nose. Every sense organ is constantly chewing and sucking at the world, taking it in. Making it a part of us.
You can't fight it. There's no fighting it. You were born a mouth. You suck on the world, trying to find some kind of comfort, some kind of satiation. It never happens. You will chew and suck and devour until the day you die, and you will never, ever be happy and full.
There's always more world to eat. Something else waits for us around the corner. We can't help but explore. We're curious mouths.
Sharp, stabbing, ripping teeth. Lips seeking out nipples and morsels of food. Think hyena mouths, with no hyena. We eat each other, digest each other, we're all cannibals. But no one dies. We can eat each other anew every day. Worse than vampires, worse than zombies. Worse than blowjobs and cunnilingus. Everyone is a mindless breast-feeding baby, instinctively rooting for some sort of nurturing, some kind of caring.
"You will feed me, whether you like it or not. I will drain all the fluid from you, until you're dry and dead."
There's no reason to feel guilty. They're doing the same thing to you. We feed off of each other like incestuous leeches.
Nothing can be done about it. We were born this way. Monstrous mouths and teeth and tongues, horrible pacmen roaming the earth, devouring everything. It's evolution. It's being an animal. Genetics. A biological curse.
Pretend you're cruelty free by being a vegetarian -- that won't help. Be careful not to step on ants -- so what? You can tear out all the teeth from all your mouths, and it won't do you any good. If you can see or smell or taste, you're eating the world.
When you move through space, you eat the air, the light. The sound of your steps eats the silence. Your eyes eat colour. You are a violent, stupid animal, with a cherry of consciousness on top. Just enough self-awareness to be horrified at your own existence. Just enough understanding to know what you are, unable to do anything about it.
The best we can hope for is enough sanity to eat smaller portions. No more cruelty than necessary. Swallow it down. Hold it in the belly. Keep it there, still, your stomach clenched like a fist. Call that momentarily held meal "my soul". See if that helps. I doubt it will.
If you have teeth, you need to chew. If you don't have teeth, you can still swallow. You could always swallow. From birth, onwards. You could always conquer the world, by swallowing it.
And then, eventually, the world swallows you.
The first reality is what one can swallow. Recognizing reality originally means to judge whether something helps to gain satisfaction or whether it raises tensions, whether one should swallow or spit it out. Taking-into-the-mouth or spitting-out is the basis for all perception, and in conditions of regression one can observe that in the unconscious all sense organs are conceived as mouth-like.
-- Fenichel, The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis (1945)
Our eyes eat the world. Everything we see is chewed up and digested. It goes inside of us, becomes a part of us. And what is seen cannot be unseen, cannot be thrown up, undigested.
We don't get to choose what we eat. We're not in control. We'd like to think we're in control. Everyone wants to think they choose the menu. That's not how it works. What we perceive is what we eat. Everything goes inside of us. Everything.
We fill up. We bloat, ready to burst, fill up with all that we see, and we're still not satisfied. We're never warm and full and comforted. We eat more, and more.
Eyes are mouths. Ears are mouths. Hands. The nose. Every sense organ is constantly chewing and sucking at the world, taking it in. Making it a part of us.
You can't fight it. There's no fighting it. You were born a mouth. You suck on the world, trying to find some kind of comfort, some kind of satiation. It never happens. You will chew and suck and devour until the day you die, and you will never, ever be happy and full.
There's always more world to eat. Something else waits for us around the corner. We can't help but explore. We're curious mouths.
Sharp, stabbing, ripping teeth. Lips seeking out nipples and morsels of food. Think hyena mouths, with no hyena. We eat each other, digest each other, we're all cannibals. But no one dies. We can eat each other anew every day. Worse than vampires, worse than zombies. Worse than blowjobs and cunnilingus. Everyone is a mindless breast-feeding baby, instinctively rooting for some sort of nurturing, some kind of caring.
"You will feed me, whether you like it or not. I will drain all the fluid from you, until you're dry and dead."
There's no reason to feel guilty. They're doing the same thing to you. We feed off of each other like incestuous leeches.
Nothing can be done about it. We were born this way. Monstrous mouths and teeth and tongues, horrible pacmen roaming the earth, devouring everything. It's evolution. It's being an animal. Genetics. A biological curse.
Pretend you're cruelty free by being a vegetarian -- that won't help. Be careful not to step on ants -- so what? You can tear out all the teeth from all your mouths, and it won't do you any good. If you can see or smell or taste, you're eating the world.
When you move through space, you eat the air, the light. The sound of your steps eats the silence. Your eyes eat colour. You are a violent, stupid animal, with a cherry of consciousness on top. Just enough self-awareness to be horrified at your own existence. Just enough understanding to know what you are, unable to do anything about it.
The best we can hope for is enough sanity to eat smaller portions. No more cruelty than necessary. Swallow it down. Hold it in the belly. Keep it there, still, your stomach clenched like a fist. Call that momentarily held meal "my soul". See if that helps. I doubt it will.
If you have teeth, you need to chew. If you don't have teeth, you can still swallow. You could always swallow. From birth, onwards. You could always conquer the world, by swallowing it.
And then, eventually, the world swallows you.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
White Winged Crow
A crow with white wings lives in my neighbourhood. I want to be his friend. I want him to teach me how to speak crow, and tell me all the secrets of the crows in my city. Sitting up on the telephone wires, staring down at the people below. Flying over the city, screaming, "FUCK! FUCK!" in crow language. Eating dead things off the street, not caring who watches. Being crow. Feeling crow.
He could make me king of the crows. His white wings give him that power. Place a crown of pigeon bones on my head. Caw the right words in my ear. The other crows would bow before me. The white winged crow would sit on my shoulder. Royal advisor. Keeping me in line with crow beliefs. Counseling me proper, in crow etiquette and law.
King of crows is a title that comes with responsibility. Crows will come to me with their petty squabbles.
"I was in the backyard, watching the pie on the window sill, all ready to dive down, and then he comes along..."
"That's bullshit! I was there first! I was watching from the barn next door. I had dibs. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about..."
Judge Judy of the crows. In fact, Judge Judy might be crow royalty too. Every state, province, town -- hell, every neighbourhood might have a king or queen of crows. It's not like crows are organized. Or reasonable. Or sane.
Crows are crazy, dirty, wild. Bikers with wings. A group of them is called a "murder", but they call themselves an anarchy of crows. All flutter and strut and violence, black eyes against black feathers, staring like midget mob bosses. Everything is food, to them. And they don't care. Crows are hard. The only reason they don't have teeth is because they don't need them. They've got that beak, like a razor and a claw hammer in one.
As a crow king, I'll need to watch my back. Assassination attempts every afternoon. Crows are easily bored.
"Up for some regicide?"
"Sure. Why the fuck not?"
I'll need a cluster of semi-loyal crow underlings to protect me. My court of crows. Maybe outsource some work to owls, robins, and gulls. Crows aren't above hiring others to do their dirty work.
We'll set up our court in an empty warehouse by the river. The windows are gray with bird droppings. Our court jester is a mentally ill one legged ostrich we saved from a zoo. She hops around, the bells on her head ringing. Everyone pelts her with pebbles when she tells a bad joke.
"Never let them know you're human," the white winged crow whispers to me. "They'll stop listening you. All of them. They'll fly off, abandon you. Our kind, we don't hate humans. We just consider them beneath us. They drop the food we eat. Their cars kill the things we peck at on the road. So we need them. But we need them the same way you need wheat. No one really respects or cares about wheat."
Can't they tell I'm human? Isn't it obvious? And yet, somehow, it's not. Faking humanity for so long, it was easy to shake it off one day, become a king of crows. So many people, faking it. One day they wake up, drop their humanity on the bathroom floor like a dirty old bathrobe.
"Won't be needing this anymore. Off to better things."
And we humans fade out, become king of crows, queen of coyotes, knight of the chipmunks, lord emperor of the groundhogs. Plenty of opportunities everywhere you look, if you know how. Little colonies of animals even in the centre of the city. Last month I met the duchess of termites. It's considered the highest breach of protocol to say it, but she was a naked woman in her sixties.
We human royalty of animal worlds all have a silent pact -- never give anyone else away. Seeing as how we're all in vulnerable positions, it's an easy pact to keep.
All of this will be my life. Any day now. First thing I have to do, is talk the white winged crow down off his wire. Bring him down to street level. Have him sit on my shoulder. Become his friend. Once we're friends, it will all play out beautifully.
I need the proper lure. A bribe. Is he the sort of crow who collects shiny bits of metal? Fabrics of all different colours? Would he do it for a chunk of muffin that's just turning moldy? Blueberries, perhaps? What is it he wants?
It's a test. I can see that much. He's sitting up there, on the lamppost, looking down at me, waiting for me to figure it out. Once I find the key, once I prove myself worthy, we can get underway.
"Solve it. Solve my riddle. Solve the riddle of me, the white winged crow. Figure out what I want and give it to me. Then your life will change forever. You'll shed your humanity and live in an empty warehouse, a king of crows. It won't be an easy life, but it will be a life worth living."
***
(There really is a crow with white wings in my neighbourhood.)
He could make me king of the crows. His white wings give him that power. Place a crown of pigeon bones on my head. Caw the right words in my ear. The other crows would bow before me. The white winged crow would sit on my shoulder. Royal advisor. Keeping me in line with crow beliefs. Counseling me proper, in crow etiquette and law.
King of crows is a title that comes with responsibility. Crows will come to me with their petty squabbles.
"I was in the backyard, watching the pie on the window sill, all ready to dive down, and then he comes along..."
"That's bullshit! I was there first! I was watching from the barn next door. I had dibs. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about..."
Judge Judy of the crows. In fact, Judge Judy might be crow royalty too. Every state, province, town -- hell, every neighbourhood might have a king or queen of crows. It's not like crows are organized. Or reasonable. Or sane.
Crows are crazy, dirty, wild. Bikers with wings. A group of them is called a "murder", but they call themselves an anarchy of crows. All flutter and strut and violence, black eyes against black feathers, staring like midget mob bosses. Everything is food, to them. And they don't care. Crows are hard. The only reason they don't have teeth is because they don't need them. They've got that beak, like a razor and a claw hammer in one.
As a crow king, I'll need to watch my back. Assassination attempts every afternoon. Crows are easily bored.
"Up for some regicide?"
"Sure. Why the fuck not?"
I'll need a cluster of semi-loyal crow underlings to protect me. My court of crows. Maybe outsource some work to owls, robins, and gulls. Crows aren't above hiring others to do their dirty work.
We'll set up our court in an empty warehouse by the river. The windows are gray with bird droppings. Our court jester is a mentally ill one legged ostrich we saved from a zoo. She hops around, the bells on her head ringing. Everyone pelts her with pebbles when she tells a bad joke.
"Never let them know you're human," the white winged crow whispers to me. "They'll stop listening you. All of them. They'll fly off, abandon you. Our kind, we don't hate humans. We just consider them beneath us. They drop the food we eat. Their cars kill the things we peck at on the road. So we need them. But we need them the same way you need wheat. No one really respects or cares about wheat."
Can't they tell I'm human? Isn't it obvious? And yet, somehow, it's not. Faking humanity for so long, it was easy to shake it off one day, become a king of crows. So many people, faking it. One day they wake up, drop their humanity on the bathroom floor like a dirty old bathrobe.
"Won't be needing this anymore. Off to better things."
And we humans fade out, become king of crows, queen of coyotes, knight of the chipmunks, lord emperor of the groundhogs. Plenty of opportunities everywhere you look, if you know how. Little colonies of animals even in the centre of the city. Last month I met the duchess of termites. It's considered the highest breach of protocol to say it, but she was a naked woman in her sixties.
We human royalty of animal worlds all have a silent pact -- never give anyone else away. Seeing as how we're all in vulnerable positions, it's an easy pact to keep.
All of this will be my life. Any day now. First thing I have to do, is talk the white winged crow down off his wire. Bring him down to street level. Have him sit on my shoulder. Become his friend. Once we're friends, it will all play out beautifully.
I need the proper lure. A bribe. Is he the sort of crow who collects shiny bits of metal? Fabrics of all different colours? Would he do it for a chunk of muffin that's just turning moldy? Blueberries, perhaps? What is it he wants?
It's a test. I can see that much. He's sitting up there, on the lamppost, looking down at me, waiting for me to figure it out. Once I find the key, once I prove myself worthy, we can get underway.
"Solve it. Solve my riddle. Solve the riddle of me, the white winged crow. Figure out what I want and give it to me. Then your life will change forever. You'll shed your humanity and live in an empty warehouse, a king of crows. It won't be an easy life, but it will be a life worth living."
***
(There really is a crow with white wings in my neighbourhood.)
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Hunter
Young and ugly, with a shade of purple hiding behind the blue eyes. Tired. Maybe he's been drinking. Hard to say. A half smile on his face. The other half of it is a snarl. Have you ever seen someone pretending to be kidding but not kidding? Telling a joke but it's no joke?
"I hate you -- ha ha! Just teasing."
But not teasing. Evil, and pretending to take it back. But still evil.
When I was young, I saw a dead rabbit. It had jumped off a low ledge and landed on an icicle. The snow had melted, and the icicle was sticking up out of the ground like a knife buried in the dirt. The rabbit had jumped, landed on the point, and died instantly. It's a sight that has never left me. A meaningless, random death.
One second, a rabbit, running. The next, dead.
He's like this -- the man. The young, ugly man. Hard to tell if he's the rabbit or the icicle. He's one or the other.
I'm not entirely sure he's human. Some people, when you look at them, emit a vibration meant to comfort you. Just another human being. Just like you.
Only they're not. Maybe a zombie -- human shell with no inside, no thought, no soul. Or worse. A human shell with alien insides. Not alien, as in from outer space. Alien, as in not human. Beyond foreign. His own sort of rules and purpose. Playing a game no one else can comprehend.
For example, maybe every time he sees a red headed woman holding a yellow umbrella, he scores a point. His purpose is to get a high score. But it could be anything that gets him a point. A sound. A smell. An action. Every time he makes a child cry. Every time he smiles at a dying animal. Every time he sticks a fork into the back of an old woman's hand.
It could be any or all of these things. And he's half smiling, half snarling. He walks among us. His eyes, his vibration. Purple. Somehow the colour purple fits into it. He's all bruise. His blood, pooling under every inch of his skin. You can't see the bruise, but you can feel it. Looking at him, my empathy is activated. I can feel his all over bruise, even if he can't.
Icicle or rabbit? Either way, he's dangerous. About to die or about to kill. His footsteps are very soft. The concrete sidewalk seems to turn to rubber under his shoes. His lips, curling and uncurling -- snarl and smile and snarl and smile.
I'm afraid of him. I follow him. Into a diner. He sits and orders french fries. He doesn't eat them. Did this earn him a point?
He goes into the bathroom and writes something on the bathroom wall with a magic marker. Then he leaves the diner. I go into the bathroom and see the letters. They're still wet.
"Stop following me."
That's all. He never looked at me. He never said anything. There's absolutely no reason he should know I've been watching.
I worry he's the icicle. I worry I'm the rabbit. I decide to give this game up. I'm not entirely sure how I score points either. Maybe following him. Finding things out. Now I need to change the rules. Find a new game. Again.
I rub my hand over the wet letters on the bathroom wall and smear them into a black, blurry cloud.
"I hate you -- ha ha! Just teasing."
But not teasing. Evil, and pretending to take it back. But still evil.
When I was young, I saw a dead rabbit. It had jumped off a low ledge and landed on an icicle. The snow had melted, and the icicle was sticking up out of the ground like a knife buried in the dirt. The rabbit had jumped, landed on the point, and died instantly. It's a sight that has never left me. A meaningless, random death.
One second, a rabbit, running. The next, dead.
He's like this -- the man. The young, ugly man. Hard to tell if he's the rabbit or the icicle. He's one or the other.
I'm not entirely sure he's human. Some people, when you look at them, emit a vibration meant to comfort you. Just another human being. Just like you.
Only they're not. Maybe a zombie -- human shell with no inside, no thought, no soul. Or worse. A human shell with alien insides. Not alien, as in from outer space. Alien, as in not human. Beyond foreign. His own sort of rules and purpose. Playing a game no one else can comprehend.
For example, maybe every time he sees a red headed woman holding a yellow umbrella, he scores a point. His purpose is to get a high score. But it could be anything that gets him a point. A sound. A smell. An action. Every time he makes a child cry. Every time he smiles at a dying animal. Every time he sticks a fork into the back of an old woman's hand.
It could be any or all of these things. And he's half smiling, half snarling. He walks among us. His eyes, his vibration. Purple. Somehow the colour purple fits into it. He's all bruise. His blood, pooling under every inch of his skin. You can't see the bruise, but you can feel it. Looking at him, my empathy is activated. I can feel his all over bruise, even if he can't.
Icicle or rabbit? Either way, he's dangerous. About to die or about to kill. His footsteps are very soft. The concrete sidewalk seems to turn to rubber under his shoes. His lips, curling and uncurling -- snarl and smile and snarl and smile.
I'm afraid of him. I follow him. Into a diner. He sits and orders french fries. He doesn't eat them. Did this earn him a point?
He goes into the bathroom and writes something on the bathroom wall with a magic marker. Then he leaves the diner. I go into the bathroom and see the letters. They're still wet.
"Stop following me."
That's all. He never looked at me. He never said anything. There's absolutely no reason he should know I've been watching.
I worry he's the icicle. I worry I'm the rabbit. I decide to give this game up. I'm not entirely sure how I score points either. Maybe following him. Finding things out. Now I need to change the rules. Find a new game. Again.
I rub my hand over the wet letters on the bathroom wall and smear them into a black, blurry cloud.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Silence = Death
I'm sitting there, listening to Ed spewing bullshit, silently disagreeing with him. Actually telling Ed I disagree seems like too much effort. Ed will argue with me for hours, and I don't have the energy. So instead I think, "I don't agree with that, but I'll just wait until Ed talks about something else."
Of course Ed takes my silence to mean agreement. Which is fine. Who cares if Ed gets me wrong? Sure, it could make for complicated relations down the road, when he finds out I was just humouring him. So what?
Only now, the real horror of that situation strikes me -- on some level, listening politely while silently disagreeing isn't enough. Ed's ideas leak in. Ed's beliefs leak in. Years from now, sitting down and contemplating my beliefs, I'll find little crumbs of Ed scattered through my brain.
I asked a friend, "Is this really how people work? Is it just me? Am I crazy?"
She said it happens to her too -- particularly with her mother.
It could be a friend, a boss, some "expert". It could be anyone. But parents seem like the most obvious example. Growing up, they influence us in a billion different ways that never fully register. It takes a lot of insight and personal exploration to realize just how much of mom and dad's bullshit shaped who we are today. Beliefs and biases creep in, and we could not even know it.
I don't know that there's any way to prove my silent disagreement notion. Sure, there are studies on cognitive dissonance and all that. This feels different. It could explain how advertising works. Or how society unites as a whole. Maybe even how the Nazis got their death camps. It's not about force, and it's not entirely about authority.
It's about being polite, and silently judging, without taking any action. Maybe politely biting our tongues does more than just keep the peace. Maybe it lets other people's beliefs leak into our heads.
This is probably why we should yell at our television when it tells us something stupid. It stops the stupid at the door. Maybe a conversation is more than just talking. Maybe it's a telepathic rearranging of the furniture in our heads. If you let someone in, and rearrange the furniture, you're doing yourself a disservice.
You can't just think, "That couch shouldn't be against that wall. This woman is an idiot!"
It's your couch. Grab it, and put it back, or risk terrible feng shui in your own head.
At work, everyone is losing their minds about the H1N1 swine flu virus. Purell is everywhere. When I turn my computer on in the morning, I get a screen that gives me facts about the virus. (Washing my hands is supposed to save my life.) My boss tells me she's working on an emergency plan on the off chance we experience 100% staff off sick.
A coworker says to me, "Oh, thank goodness for Purell! When I leave the bathroom, I open the door with a paper towel. There are germs on the doorknob, you know. And why don't they have Purell in the servery rooms? That's where it should be."
I'm not letting this craziness in my head, I thought. And I'm going to politely disagree.
"You know, there are studies that say all this antibacterial soap and ooze is getting into the environment, killing off weaker bacteria, allowing the more serious stuff to take over. That's why some antibiotics aren't working any more. Purell is everywhere, and it might be doing us more harm than good."
To my surprise, she agreed with me. "That's what my pediatrician says. Soap and water is good enough. But what are you supposed to do when soap and water aren't available?"
We talked it out a little more after that. And I have to wonder -- is every conversation a struggle of some kind? That's an exaggeration, of course. But something about it feels right. The idea that silently disagreeing with people isn't enough. I need to speak my side, or lose something.
The meek won't inherit the earth. They'll be pushed to one side by the strong.
My coworker is germ phobic -- opening bathroom doors with paper towels. Maybe I'm conversation phobic -- afraid of the idea germs (memes) infecting me?
Only some memes deserve to be let in. Some thought diseases are fine. It's not about blocking all ideas from getting into my head -- just the ones I can immediately tell are not for me.
Of course Ed takes my silence to mean agreement. Which is fine. Who cares if Ed gets me wrong? Sure, it could make for complicated relations down the road, when he finds out I was just humouring him. So what?
Only now, the real horror of that situation strikes me -- on some level, listening politely while silently disagreeing isn't enough. Ed's ideas leak in. Ed's beliefs leak in. Years from now, sitting down and contemplating my beliefs, I'll find little crumbs of Ed scattered through my brain.
I asked a friend, "Is this really how people work? Is it just me? Am I crazy?"
She said it happens to her too -- particularly with her mother.
It could be a friend, a boss, some "expert". It could be anyone. But parents seem like the most obvious example. Growing up, they influence us in a billion different ways that never fully register. It takes a lot of insight and personal exploration to realize just how much of mom and dad's bullshit shaped who we are today. Beliefs and biases creep in, and we could not even know it.
I don't know that there's any way to prove my silent disagreement notion. Sure, there are studies on cognitive dissonance and all that. This feels different. It could explain how advertising works. Or how society unites as a whole. Maybe even how the Nazis got their death camps. It's not about force, and it's not entirely about authority.
It's about being polite, and silently judging, without taking any action. Maybe politely biting our tongues does more than just keep the peace. Maybe it lets other people's beliefs leak into our heads.
This is probably why we should yell at our television when it tells us something stupid. It stops the stupid at the door. Maybe a conversation is more than just talking. Maybe it's a telepathic rearranging of the furniture in our heads. If you let someone in, and rearrange the furniture, you're doing yourself a disservice.
You can't just think, "That couch shouldn't be against that wall. This woman is an idiot!"
It's your couch. Grab it, and put it back, or risk terrible feng shui in your own head.
At work, everyone is losing their minds about the H1N1 swine flu virus. Purell is everywhere. When I turn my computer on in the morning, I get a screen that gives me facts about the virus. (Washing my hands is supposed to save my life.) My boss tells me she's working on an emergency plan on the off chance we experience 100% staff off sick.
A coworker says to me, "Oh, thank goodness for Purell! When I leave the bathroom, I open the door with a paper towel. There are germs on the doorknob, you know. And why don't they have Purell in the servery rooms? That's where it should be."
I'm not letting this craziness in my head, I thought. And I'm going to politely disagree.
"You know, there are studies that say all this antibacterial soap and ooze is getting into the environment, killing off weaker bacteria, allowing the more serious stuff to take over. That's why some antibiotics aren't working any more. Purell is everywhere, and it might be doing us more harm than good."
To my surprise, she agreed with me. "That's what my pediatrician says. Soap and water is good enough. But what are you supposed to do when soap and water aren't available?"
We talked it out a little more after that. And I have to wonder -- is every conversation a struggle of some kind? That's an exaggeration, of course. But something about it feels right. The idea that silently disagreeing with people isn't enough. I need to speak my side, or lose something.
The meek won't inherit the earth. They'll be pushed to one side by the strong.
My coworker is germ phobic -- opening bathroom doors with paper towels. Maybe I'm conversation phobic -- afraid of the idea germs (memes) infecting me?
Only some memes deserve to be let in. Some thought diseases are fine. It's not about blocking all ideas from getting into my head -- just the ones I can immediately tell are not for me.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Etc
I'm sitting in front of a toppled tree stump, staring at the four tortures arms that were once roots. It's cold. I'm in Jasper. The people I am camping with are still asleep. They seemingly will never wake up.
Looking at this end of a dead tree, I realize it's dead roots stretch out into the earth. So what? There are stones popping up out of the earth like new potatoes. There's a rock nestled in the twisted roots. My fingers are cold, typing this on my iPhone.
The car is locked. I can't get a book out. I can't get my stuff to go have a shower. I can't get the cable to recharge my phone.
I bought M&Ms at the vending machine. I'm tired of eating crap. Someone is moving in one of our tents, but I'm not sure if they're getting up or not.
My hands are cold. I hear squirrels an birds and distant cars. I could really go for some hot oatmeal.
Other campers are awake. Just not us.
A zipper!
This tree over here is oozing mustard coloured sap. It looks like an infection.
Wake up!
Looking at this end of a dead tree, I realize it's dead roots stretch out into the earth. So what? There are stones popping up out of the earth like new potatoes. There's a rock nestled in the twisted roots. My fingers are cold, typing this on my iPhone.
The car is locked. I can't get a book out. I can't get my stuff to go have a shower. I can't get the cable to recharge my phone.
I bought M&Ms at the vending machine. I'm tired of eating crap. Someone is moving in one of our tents, but I'm not sure if they're getting up or not.
My hands are cold. I hear squirrels an birds and distant cars. I could really go for some hot oatmeal.
Other campers are awake. Just not us.
A zipper!
This tree over here is oozing mustard coloured sap. It looks like an infection.
Wake up!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The New Colour scheme
Welcome to the new colour scheme. I picked this one because I once had a windsurfer sail with the same 70's era colours. It's the only other instance I am aware of, ever, where somebody thought this looked good.
Plus, Nik went to some effort to give me the power to change the scheme to something stupid and inconvenient, and I thought it would be rude if I didn't make an effort. So there you go.
And, for those of you who are keeping up, I'm off to be trained as a worker bee tomorrow morning!
Plus, Nik went to some effort to give me the power to change the scheme to something stupid and inconvenient, and I thought it would be rude if I didn't make an effort. So there you go.
And, for those of you who are keeping up, I'm off to be trained as a worker bee tomorrow morning!
Mindfulness and Bud the Buddha
There's this buddhist practice known as mindfulness where you're supposed to be aware of everything going on around you at all times. The idea is that most people sleepwalk through their lives instead of actively participating in it.
Why would you want to be mindful? As far as I can tell, the smugness. You can point at other people and say:
"You see that idiot over there, waiting for the bus, his mouth hanging open, wearing baggy jeans, headphones in his ears, his eyes yellow from not blinking? He's a mindless asshole. But not me. I'm fucking MINDFUL."
(And then you trip over your untied shoelace and hit your head on a lamppost.)
I like smugly feeling superior to other people, so I am considering looking into this whole "mindfulness training" thing. The big problem is the way Buddhists try to cultivate this ability -- by sitting on their asses for hours and hours, doing nothing. They call this "meditation", but to me it kind of sounds like working for the government. Only government workers sit on their asses doing nothing for years, not to attain enlightenment, but to attain retirement, which pays better.
But back to Buddhists. Beginner meditators are supposed to sit there and concentrate on their breathing. If your mind drifts to other things -- and why wouldn't it? -- you're supposed to gently return your thoughts to your breathing. This can go on for hours and hours.
You know, it would be easier to sit there doing nothing if there was a TV or something to watch -- something to keep my mind active. Like an episode of Jeopardy.
Personally, I would like to be mindful, but I don't want to do all this work. Isn't there a faster way? Like, a pill or something?
***
We interrupt this blog for a message from our sponspor.
Want to become enlightened, but are too lazy to sit and meditate? Ask your doctor about Zenloft.
"I was meditating six days a week, 10 hours a day, getting whacked on the head with a board... That's when I thought I'd try Zenloft. Now I am at one with the infinite, and I don't have horrible pains in my legs and knees. Thanks, Zenloft!"
Caution -- Zenloft may cause constipation, rectal bleeding, seizures, drowsiness, and excessive smugness.
***
The weird thing about Buddhists is that they're always talking about this guy, the Buddha. They're almost as bad as Christians going on about their guy... What's his name? Moses or something. Abraham. Some guy.
Anyway, here's the story of Buddha -- Bud for short.
Bud was a prince. His dad was super sheltering the guy, and kept Bud locked up in a compound where he never saw sickness or death. So, like Paris Hilton, only in India.
One day, Bud wanders out of the compound and sees all kinds of sickness and death and old people for the first time. This freaks him out. So to deal with this new understanding of the horrible world, he abandons his wife and kids, throws away all the wealth he could have used to make the world a better place, and goes off to learn to meditate.
Kind of like when Paris Hilton got arrested and spent half a day in jail.
Bud starves himself, sits under a tree, and meditates for years. He gets all skinny and angsty. Some say the Buddha was the first emo.
One day, Bud realizes all this meditating and suffering shit is stupid. He wasn't happy as a rich and spoiled prince. He's not happy as a starving, poor wretch.
"Wait a minute! Forget wallowing in luxury and wallowing in misery! I should do something in the middle. I'll follow the middle path!"
And thus the middle class was born -- a class of people who simultaneously sneer at the wealthy for their excesses, and sneer at the poor for their laziness. You want to talk about smugness? That's the middle class.
Once Bud was enlightened and middle-class, he went on a speaking tour, explaining his philosophy to his friends. Here are some highlights of what he said.
"If I point at the moon, don't stare at my finger, retard. Look at the mother-fucking moon."
"I don't know what the fuck to say to your stupid question, so I'm just going to hold up this flower. Look! Dave gets it! Or he's pretending to. Dave, you are such a suck-up."
"Nothing lasts. Everything changes. Get fucking used to it, you morons."
People recognized Bud was wise, so they kept him fed and clothed. And so Bud didn't have to work for a living -- not even for the federal government.
And I think we can all learn a lot from his example.
Why would you want to be mindful? As far as I can tell, the smugness. You can point at other people and say:
"You see that idiot over there, waiting for the bus, his mouth hanging open, wearing baggy jeans, headphones in his ears, his eyes yellow from not blinking? He's a mindless asshole. But not me. I'm fucking MINDFUL."
(And then you trip over your untied shoelace and hit your head on a lamppost.)
I like smugly feeling superior to other people, so I am considering looking into this whole "mindfulness training" thing. The big problem is the way Buddhists try to cultivate this ability -- by sitting on their asses for hours and hours, doing nothing. They call this "meditation", but to me it kind of sounds like working for the government. Only government workers sit on their asses doing nothing for years, not to attain enlightenment, but to attain retirement, which pays better.
But back to Buddhists. Beginner meditators are supposed to sit there and concentrate on their breathing. If your mind drifts to other things -- and why wouldn't it? -- you're supposed to gently return your thoughts to your breathing. This can go on for hours and hours.
You know, it would be easier to sit there doing nothing if there was a TV or something to watch -- something to keep my mind active. Like an episode of Jeopardy.
Personally, I would like to be mindful, but I don't want to do all this work. Isn't there a faster way? Like, a pill or something?
***
We interrupt this blog for a message from our sponspor.
Want to become enlightened, but are too lazy to sit and meditate? Ask your doctor about Zenloft.
"I was meditating six days a week, 10 hours a day, getting whacked on the head with a board... That's when I thought I'd try Zenloft. Now I am at one with the infinite, and I don't have horrible pains in my legs and knees. Thanks, Zenloft!"
Caution -- Zenloft may cause constipation, rectal bleeding, seizures, drowsiness, and excessive smugness.
***
The weird thing about Buddhists is that they're always talking about this guy, the Buddha. They're almost as bad as Christians going on about their guy... What's his name? Moses or something. Abraham. Some guy.
Anyway, here's the story of Buddha -- Bud for short.
Bud was a prince. His dad was super sheltering the guy, and kept Bud locked up in a compound where he never saw sickness or death. So, like Paris Hilton, only in India.
One day, Bud wanders out of the compound and sees all kinds of sickness and death and old people for the first time. This freaks him out. So to deal with this new understanding of the horrible world, he abandons his wife and kids, throws away all the wealth he could have used to make the world a better place, and goes off to learn to meditate.
Kind of like when Paris Hilton got arrested and spent half a day in jail.
Bud starves himself, sits under a tree, and meditates for years. He gets all skinny and angsty. Some say the Buddha was the first emo.
One day, Bud realizes all this meditating and suffering shit is stupid. He wasn't happy as a rich and spoiled prince. He's not happy as a starving, poor wretch.
"Wait a minute! Forget wallowing in luxury and wallowing in misery! I should do something in the middle. I'll follow the middle path!"
And thus the middle class was born -- a class of people who simultaneously sneer at the wealthy for their excesses, and sneer at the poor for their laziness. You want to talk about smugness? That's the middle class.
Once Bud was enlightened and middle-class, he went on a speaking tour, explaining his philosophy to his friends. Here are some highlights of what he said.
"If I point at the moon, don't stare at my finger, retard. Look at the mother-fucking moon."
"I don't know what the fuck to say to your stupid question, so I'm just going to hold up this flower. Look! Dave gets it! Or he's pretending to. Dave, you are such a suck-up."
"Nothing lasts. Everything changes. Get fucking used to it, you morons."
People recognized Bud was wise, so they kept him fed and clothed. And so Bud didn't have to work for a living -- not even for the federal government.
And I think we can all learn a lot from his example.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
It Bites
It bites, and it bites, and it bites. I'm it. I'm the thing that bites. Or it's inside of me. And it has teeth like an alligator and it's a violent baby - puts everything in its mouth and chews.
Watch out for me. I'm an ugly vampire. I'm a beautiful zombie. And I can eat anything.
The hole inside - it guards the hole. Grabs people and things and food and throws them all in the pit of need. The bottomless pit of need that's like a black hole of the soul.
Alligator teeth and a gray leather tongue and eyes that are all bloody and blind. No arms, no legs. A snake? A worm? A cock with teeth and bloody eyes?
Chomp down on the earth and shake it. Break the entire world's back. Make violent rape love to the molten core at the centre of the earth.
That's what I'm dealing with here. Keep your distance. I have a monster inside me. His name is Omen. His middle name is Lust. His surname is Apocalypse.
Watch out for me. I'm an ugly vampire. I'm a beautiful zombie. And I can eat anything.
The hole inside - it guards the hole. Grabs people and things and food and throws them all in the pit of need. The bottomless pit of need that's like a black hole of the soul.
Alligator teeth and a gray leather tongue and eyes that are all bloody and blind. No arms, no legs. A snake? A worm? A cock with teeth and bloody eyes?
Chomp down on the earth and shake it. Break the entire world's back. Make violent rape love to the molten core at the centre of the earth.
That's what I'm dealing with here. Keep your distance. I have a monster inside me. His name is Omen. His middle name is Lust. His surname is Apocalypse.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Pregnancy Tests
They're expensive, those piss sticks. Not sure why. I mean, I don't know how they work -- a girl pees on them, and you either get one line or two. Obviously there's some kind of chemical inside it, that is affected by pregnant piss. But what kind of chemical is that expensive?
Maybe they just make them pricey because they have you over a barrel. Your woman is FLIPPING OUT because she thinks she's knocked up. She wants to know what's going on right goddamn now. And as a chivalrous, modern male, you're supposed to pay for the pregnancy test. Those are the rules. I think they even covered this in a very special issue of GQ.
"Pregnancy Tests: Must You Pay?"
Yes, you must.
Last time I checked, a pregnancy test is around $25. And the last time I bought one, the woman insisted I buy a second one, just to be on the safe side. That's $50 to ease her conscience -- and she then refused to believe the tests and we ended up going to a walk-in clinic. I blew $50 so you could then drag me to the doctor? We could have done that first!
Come to think of it, this means pregnant pee is different. Shouldn't you be able to taste the difference? They should train pharmacists in this kind of thing.
"Here's my girl's pee. Is she pregnant or not?"
And the pharmacist gargles the piss for a few seconds.
"Dude, you're totally in the clear. Not pregnant."
Or maybe they could equip every pharmacy with a piss sniffing dog. Just hold the urine up for Lassie to take a whiff. One bark yes, two barks no.
Not that I am into pee at all, but which do you think tastes better: regular pee, or pregnant pee?
This is why I'll never be in charge of handing out government grants. I have all these really stupid questions I want answered that no one else cares about.
Out of curiousity, I just did a google search to find out how expensive pregnancy tests are. I found this helpful answer on Yahoo! Answers.
"They're a dollar in a dollar store, maybe $7.00 in a drug store, and Planned Parenthood offers free or cheap pregnancy tests but you have to make an appointment."
They sell pregnancy tests in dollar stores? What kind of a cheap, uncaring bastard do you have to be to buy a pregnancy kit at a dollar store? Yeah, I know I was just complaining that they charge way too much for these things, but, a dollar?
"Honey, come on, we're on a budget!"
Or maybe this way you can have twenty of them in the medicine cabinet.
Now I want to get one. Not for Michelle to use. For me. I want to pee on a stick. It's pointless -- I may look pregnant, but I never will be pregnant.
Maybe if I eat a lot of a particular food, I can get a false positive on a pregnancy test. Like, brussel sprouts or something.
How awesome would that be? Michelle comes home from work, and I come out of the bathroom saying:
"Honey, I've got some bad news for you."
And she looks at the pee stick and it indicates I am pregnant.
I am a mean, mean person. I apologize in advance.
Maybe they just make them pricey because they have you over a barrel. Your woman is FLIPPING OUT because she thinks she's knocked up. She wants to know what's going on right goddamn now. And as a chivalrous, modern male, you're supposed to pay for the pregnancy test. Those are the rules. I think they even covered this in a very special issue of GQ.
"Pregnancy Tests: Must You Pay?"
Yes, you must.
Last time I checked, a pregnancy test is around $25. And the last time I bought one, the woman insisted I buy a second one, just to be on the safe side. That's $50 to ease her conscience -- and she then refused to believe the tests and we ended up going to a walk-in clinic. I blew $50 so you could then drag me to the doctor? We could have done that first!
Come to think of it, this means pregnant pee is different. Shouldn't you be able to taste the difference? They should train pharmacists in this kind of thing.
"Here's my girl's pee. Is she pregnant or not?"
And the pharmacist gargles the piss for a few seconds.
"Dude, you're totally in the clear. Not pregnant."
Or maybe they could equip every pharmacy with a piss sniffing dog. Just hold the urine up for Lassie to take a whiff. One bark yes, two barks no.
Not that I am into pee at all, but which do you think tastes better: regular pee, or pregnant pee?
This is why I'll never be in charge of handing out government grants. I have all these really stupid questions I want answered that no one else cares about.
Out of curiousity, I just did a google search to find out how expensive pregnancy tests are. I found this helpful answer on Yahoo! Answers.
"They're a dollar in a dollar store, maybe $7.00 in a drug store, and Planned Parenthood offers free or cheap pregnancy tests but you have to make an appointment."
They sell pregnancy tests in dollar stores? What kind of a cheap, uncaring bastard do you have to be to buy a pregnancy kit at a dollar store? Yeah, I know I was just complaining that they charge way too much for these things, but, a dollar?
"Honey, come on, we're on a budget!"
Or maybe this way you can have twenty of them in the medicine cabinet.
Now I want to get one. Not for Michelle to use. For me. I want to pee on a stick. It's pointless -- I may look pregnant, but I never will be pregnant.
Maybe if I eat a lot of a particular food, I can get a false positive on a pregnancy test. Like, brussel sprouts or something.
How awesome would that be? Michelle comes home from work, and I come out of the bathroom saying:
"Honey, I've got some bad news for you."
And she looks at the pee stick and it indicates I am pregnant.
I am a mean, mean person. I apologize in advance.
What?
According to legend, Jack Kerouac famously believed that editing is for pussies. Self censorship, he called it. Going back, fixing words, making them pretty -- that's like wearing a condom when you masturbate. I don't know if he'd put in such a charming fashion as that...
But the idea is, if you're all worried about being pretty, you're going to fuck up what you're trying to say. Maybe that's it.
Honestly, I've always avoided reading Kerouac, because I found him impenetrable, bland, and etcetera.
Recently, I bought a copy of Dharma Bums. I have yet to open it. I read the first few opening lines. And lately the idea of not worrying so goddamn much about every word makes sense to me. There is a rhythm in stream of consciousness. That sort of dance can come natural, if, like me, you usually spend hours going over every sentence and breaking it like taming a wild horse.
So why not just let it flow, sometimes? Why not let the horse run wild? Maybe I've tamed so many sentences, they don't all need to be wearing saddles and all that accouterment shit.
See, so long as I am revisiting all the rules, picking them up, weighing them, trying to figure out where the rule came from, who stuck this in my head... So long as I am reevaluating all the rules, why not reevaluate the literary rules I live by too?
Why not? Why must my art be this? Why must my writing be that? Why does God need a starship, to quote the worst and the best Star Trek movie ever made?
Can you even tell I didn't polish each of these sentences until they struck me as decent enough to let out of the stable, to gallop all around the internet, in a meaty merry-go-round of writing shit?
You can't tell. That's the sweet irony. Agonizing and agonizing and rewriting and editing and carving the sentences, when I can just let them grow all by themselves without trying to warp them into something else.
Fuck you, Kerouac. You goddamn brilliant bastard. I assume you are brilliant, though I have read very little by you.
(There's a new barking dog in my neighbourhood and he just started barking and he's not going to stop. I am going to go outside now and rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass. Oh great, now another dog is barking. A fucking chorus of retarded, territorial animals in fenced-in backyards, yelling nothing at the sky. Just like me and my typing, I guess, so who am I to fault that stupid, fucking, annoying dog?)
Oh. They stopped. That's better.
Now I forget what I was saying.
But the idea is, if you're all worried about being pretty, you're going to fuck up what you're trying to say. Maybe that's it.
Honestly, I've always avoided reading Kerouac, because I found him impenetrable, bland, and etcetera.
Recently, I bought a copy of Dharma Bums. I have yet to open it. I read the first few opening lines. And lately the idea of not worrying so goddamn much about every word makes sense to me. There is a rhythm in stream of consciousness. That sort of dance can come natural, if, like me, you usually spend hours going over every sentence and breaking it like taming a wild horse.
So why not just let it flow, sometimes? Why not let the horse run wild? Maybe I've tamed so many sentences, they don't all need to be wearing saddles and all that accouterment shit.
See, so long as I am revisiting all the rules, picking them up, weighing them, trying to figure out where the rule came from, who stuck this in my head... So long as I am reevaluating all the rules, why not reevaluate the literary rules I live by too?
Why not? Why must my art be this? Why must my writing be that? Why does God need a starship, to quote the worst and the best Star Trek movie ever made?
Can you even tell I didn't polish each of these sentences until they struck me as decent enough to let out of the stable, to gallop all around the internet, in a meaty merry-go-round of writing shit?
You can't tell. That's the sweet irony. Agonizing and agonizing and rewriting and editing and carving the sentences, when I can just let them grow all by themselves without trying to warp them into something else.
Fuck you, Kerouac. You goddamn brilliant bastard. I assume you are brilliant, though I have read very little by you.
(There's a new barking dog in my neighbourhood and he just started barking and he's not going to stop. I am going to go outside now and rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass. Oh great, now another dog is barking. A fucking chorus of retarded, territorial animals in fenced-in backyards, yelling nothing at the sky. Just like me and my typing, I guess, so who am I to fault that stupid, fucking, annoying dog?)
Oh. They stopped. That's better.
Now I forget what I was saying.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Pet Peeve (language)
I heard today an instance of a form of sentence that bugs me.
It goes "I hate to say it, but (something racist or sexist) "
Look- everyone around you hates it when you say it, too. If you really hate it, then indulge yourself for once, and don't say it.
/rant
It goes "I hate to say it, but (something racist or sexist) "
Look- everyone around you hates it when you say it, too. If you really hate it, then indulge yourself for once, and don't say it.
/rant
Actively Unintelligent
Wild pride, a perverse and violent love of self. Intricate and elaborate, a soul like a maze mixed with a Swiss watch. Each part hides what the other parts do.
Narcissism? You'd think. But self love isn't always a sickness. If anything this whole world of ours seems designed to breed self loathing and distrust of self. But I'm a maze Swiss watch. I'm elaborate and real. I'm blood and bone and bottomless.
You are too, of course. I'll share the wealth. Everyone is blood and bone and bottomless. It's only fair.
Listen: we need to live. Time is always running out. But really, there's no rush. If you're not ready yet, it's okay. But I'd advise you to start livng soon.
And here's the thing. They'll say you're crazy. You're not. All that maze is real. It's there. Wander inside of it. Look at the pictures on the walls. Feel it. Be it.
Yes, they'll all say you need to be reasonable, rational, logical. Sane. But they're none of those things. They're faking it. Everyone is faking it. And they get scared when others stop faking it.
The scariest statement there is is "I don't know". They all pretend to know. When they say they know, you challenge them on it. You say, "Thats crap. You're a liar."
Be the Swiss watch maze of blood and bone. Bottomless. Infinite maze of blood and bone and mechanics and art.
Narcissism? You'd think. But self love isn't always a sickness. If anything this whole world of ours seems designed to breed self loathing and distrust of self. But I'm a maze Swiss watch. I'm elaborate and real. I'm blood and bone and bottomless.
You are too, of course. I'll share the wealth. Everyone is blood and bone and bottomless. It's only fair.
Listen: we need to live. Time is always running out. But really, there's no rush. If you're not ready yet, it's okay. But I'd advise you to start livng soon.
And here's the thing. They'll say you're crazy. You're not. All that maze is real. It's there. Wander inside of it. Look at the pictures on the walls. Feel it. Be it.
Yes, they'll all say you need to be reasonable, rational, logical. Sane. But they're none of those things. They're faking it. Everyone is faking it. And they get scared when others stop faking it.
The scariest statement there is is "I don't know". They all pretend to know. When they say they know, you challenge them on it. You say, "Thats crap. You're a liar."
Be the Swiss watch maze of blood and bone. Bottomless. Infinite maze of blood and bone and mechanics and art.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Boomerang Days
I feel like I'm about to be shot out of a cannon. Or like I'm at the long end of a fully stretched bungee cord, and that there's about to be a big change in direction and velocity. Possibly a boomerang would be a better metaphor. Bungee cords can only return you in the direction you came from, but they generally don't have enough elasticity to actually get you back to the spot you jumped from. And in any case, I don't wanna go back to where I jumped from, or I wouldna have jumped in the first place.
Long ago experiments with boomerangs out in an industrial park in Nepean indicated that, at least when I throw them, boomerangs don't exactly come back. But sometimes they go whanging right by before zooming onto the roof of a nearby building. That's kinda what I'm hoping for.
I'm not sure if this is an appropriate venue for this. I thought it was going to be a sanatorium.
Long ago experiments with boomerangs out in an industrial park in Nepean indicated that, at least when I throw them, boomerangs don't exactly come back. But sometimes they go whanging right by before zooming onto the roof of a nearby building. That's kinda what I'm hoping for.
I'm not sure if this is an appropriate venue for this. I thought it was going to be a sanatorium.
The Future of Nothingness
What if there was a place on the Internets where peace and love reigned supreme? And then me and my friends came along and pissed all over it, for fun? That would be great.
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