You're not in pain, dear. You're not. Everything is fine. Look, I know you think you're hurting, but you're not. I'm your mother and I've been here for your whole life. Trust me. You're fine.
That's not blood. I know it looks like you're bleeding, but that's just ketchup. You were drinking ketchup out of the bottle and you just happened to spill some on yourself. Go on, taste some.
All right, it tastes like blood. But that's only because Heinz release a new, extra salty, tomato free ketchup. You're right - it's not very good. But you're open minded, and that's why you decided to try it. That's just the great sort of person you are.
So, do you believe me now? You're not in pain. That ache you're experiencing in your chest is nothing at all. The dizziness, the nausea - those things aren't happening. You're good.
And, obviously, I didn't stab you. Maybe that's what you remember, but it wouldn't make sense that I would do such a thing. Therefore, logically, it never happened.
Right? Right!
There. I'm glad that's sorted out.
Now, keep your fucking mouth shut or I'll stab you again.
Kidding! Kidding! Mommy didn't stab you darling. You're fine. Stop crying, you little shit. There. Good. All better.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Christ is a Masochist
Two young women, maybe in their early 20s, knocked on my door today. I didn't hear what they said, because they were holding pamphlets clearly marked "Jesus Christ".
"We're not interested," I said politely, and they left.
Thing is, I am interested. Reading old psychoanalytic texts on masochism, the idea of Christ as a masochist was bopping around in my head. But it probably would have been wrong to invite these young ladies into my home to ask if they'd ever considered the masochistic elements of Christianity.
"Did Jesus have a boner on the cross?" is an offensive question, to them. To me, it's fair game. It's like asking if Spiderman ever used his web power to tie up his girlfriend for sex play.
(Answer: of course he did. And that's the answer to BOTH questions.)
Lately, I wonder if the masochism inherent in Christianity has fucked up a lot of people. Jesus died on the cross. He was tortured and died. It seems pointless. But Christianity teaches us this was an awesome sacrifice that changed the world.
And the moral of the story appears to be, "Suffering is good, even if it only results in death. Doesn't matter if it's suffering endured while working to complete a task, or just suffering for no reason."
Again, this line of thought is probably not something two young missionaries will be able to explore. They probably never really thought about it. Plus, if they listened to me go on about it, I'd be forced to listen to whatever bullshit they wanted to spew at me.
"God is love."
"God is love, in leather, with riding crop."
"We're not interested," I said politely, and they left.
Thing is, I am interested. Reading old psychoanalytic texts on masochism, the idea of Christ as a masochist was bopping around in my head. But it probably would have been wrong to invite these young ladies into my home to ask if they'd ever considered the masochistic elements of Christianity.
"Did Jesus have a boner on the cross?" is an offensive question, to them. To me, it's fair game. It's like asking if Spiderman ever used his web power to tie up his girlfriend for sex play.
(Answer: of course he did. And that's the answer to BOTH questions.)
Lately, I wonder if the masochism inherent in Christianity has fucked up a lot of people. Jesus died on the cross. He was tortured and died. It seems pointless. But Christianity teaches us this was an awesome sacrifice that changed the world.
And the moral of the story appears to be, "Suffering is good, even if it only results in death. Doesn't matter if it's suffering endured while working to complete a task, or just suffering for no reason."
Again, this line of thought is probably not something two young missionaries will be able to explore. They probably never really thought about it. Plus, if they listened to me go on about it, I'd be forced to listen to whatever bullshit they wanted to spew at me.
"God is love."
"God is love, in leather, with riding crop."
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Grow A Soul
You have to be authentic, they said.
And they sort of refuse to explain what that means. I guess that's because you can't really teach that.
Find your voice, is another one they said.
Write what you know, is another one.
And people think they know what all that means. Write what you know.
"I grew up in suburbia. Should I write about that? I guess I know it."
All these words read like just words. That's the frustrating part about language. How can I use the alphabet to get inside your head and plant something in there?
Be authentic. Find your voice. Write what you know. Ignore that all of this appears to be about writing. Pretend it's just advice about life. What they're all really saying is, grow a soul.
The soul -- a very old fashioned concept. Not one we modern people talk about. It's all so primitive and embarrassing. But think about it... Have you ever met a person and realized, there is no one in there. No one has his hands on the wheel. It's a tumbleweed shaped like a human being.
That's soullessness.
Be authentic, find your voice, write what you know -- all of this means, grow a soul. Find a self. Be what you are.
Don't compromise? Maybe. I'm not sure about that one, because even language feels like a compromise some days. Grunts and groans and farts would sometimes be a more authentic expression of feeling. Screaming into a microphone, maybe. Singing, maybe. Slapping spoons against your knees in a frantic rhythm.
I'm trying to find some truths, and the ones I pick up lately, that really make me go "Wow!" sound way too much like self-help seminar crap.
"Own your life!"
Can't you hear that in a seminar? Some retreat your horrible boss sends you on? But it's true. Sometimes those seminars are true, in spite of the fact that your employer sent you there. In a sense, they teach you to quit your job and strive for something more.
"Your are responsible for your own happiness."
"You can only change yourself."
"You are responsible for you."
These words almost fail because of the way they are used.
"Be who you are..." because it will help you sell more toaster ovens?
"Be authentic..." because it will allow you to sell yourself and get a better job?
If we cut the corporate part out, and take these words, and make them into a kind of spirituality -- does that help? Does that take us anywhere?
Ayn Rand take it to the wrong extreme. "Be selfish! Greed is good!"
Yeah, be selfish in the sense that, if you don't look after yourself, no one will.
And even the socialists can go too far.
"If it doesn't help the collective, it's evil!"
What, I'm not allowed to be happy, because there's a drug addict downtown jonesing for a fix? Fuck him, if he can't get his shit together. Sure, I don't want him to suffer. Sure, I want social programs for him. If he wants to kick, let's help him kick. But if he's set on getting behind the wheel of a car and driving a thousand miles an hour into a brick wall, there's not a lot I can do about it.
So, if there are opportunities for people to save themselves, and they don't want to take them, fuck them.
I've gotten off track. I was going somewhere else and I got distracted.
Grow a soul. Look inside yourself, find the fertile ground. Plant a seed. Grow.
It's frustrating. There has to be a better way to say it.
You won't know who you are until you stop and ask yourself, "Who am I?"
If you never stop and ask, you'll never know. And most of us never stop and ask. Because it's frightening. It's easier to say, "I am my job, I am my wife, my husband. I am my kids. I am my dog. I am my car, my motorcycle, my bus pass. I am my voice, my writing, my song."
That last one is a little closer to the truth.
Anyway, I don't know how to say it. I feel it. Inside. It's hard to get out. Maybe language is failing me. Maybe I'm failing me. I don't know.
Do you get it?
And they sort of refuse to explain what that means. I guess that's because you can't really teach that.
Find your voice, is another one they said.
Write what you know, is another one.
And people think they know what all that means. Write what you know.
"I grew up in suburbia. Should I write about that? I guess I know it."
All these words read like just words. That's the frustrating part about language. How can I use the alphabet to get inside your head and plant something in there?
Be authentic. Find your voice. Write what you know. Ignore that all of this appears to be about writing. Pretend it's just advice about life. What they're all really saying is, grow a soul.
The soul -- a very old fashioned concept. Not one we modern people talk about. It's all so primitive and embarrassing. But think about it... Have you ever met a person and realized, there is no one in there. No one has his hands on the wheel. It's a tumbleweed shaped like a human being.
That's soullessness.
Be authentic, find your voice, write what you know -- all of this means, grow a soul. Find a self. Be what you are.
Don't compromise? Maybe. I'm not sure about that one, because even language feels like a compromise some days. Grunts and groans and farts would sometimes be a more authentic expression of feeling. Screaming into a microphone, maybe. Singing, maybe. Slapping spoons against your knees in a frantic rhythm.
I'm trying to find some truths, and the ones I pick up lately, that really make me go "Wow!" sound way too much like self-help seminar crap.
"Own your life!"
Can't you hear that in a seminar? Some retreat your horrible boss sends you on? But it's true. Sometimes those seminars are true, in spite of the fact that your employer sent you there. In a sense, they teach you to quit your job and strive for something more.
"Your are responsible for your own happiness."
"You can only change yourself."
"You are responsible for you."
These words almost fail because of the way they are used.
"Be who you are..." because it will help you sell more toaster ovens?
"Be authentic..." because it will allow you to sell yourself and get a better job?
If we cut the corporate part out, and take these words, and make them into a kind of spirituality -- does that help? Does that take us anywhere?
Ayn Rand take it to the wrong extreme. "Be selfish! Greed is good!"
Yeah, be selfish in the sense that, if you don't look after yourself, no one will.
And even the socialists can go too far.
"If it doesn't help the collective, it's evil!"
What, I'm not allowed to be happy, because there's a drug addict downtown jonesing for a fix? Fuck him, if he can't get his shit together. Sure, I don't want him to suffer. Sure, I want social programs for him. If he wants to kick, let's help him kick. But if he's set on getting behind the wheel of a car and driving a thousand miles an hour into a brick wall, there's not a lot I can do about it.
So, if there are opportunities for people to save themselves, and they don't want to take them, fuck them.
I've gotten off track. I was going somewhere else and I got distracted.
Grow a soul. Look inside yourself, find the fertile ground. Plant a seed. Grow.
It's frustrating. There has to be a better way to say it.
You won't know who you are until you stop and ask yourself, "Who am I?"
If you never stop and ask, you'll never know. And most of us never stop and ask. Because it's frightening. It's easier to say, "I am my job, I am my wife, my husband. I am my kids. I am my dog. I am my car, my motorcycle, my bus pass. I am my voice, my writing, my song."
That last one is a little closer to the truth.
Anyway, I don't know how to say it. I feel it. Inside. It's hard to get out. Maybe language is failing me. Maybe I'm failing me. I don't know.
Do you get it?
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Pork Chop World
You smell wrong. Not bad, necessarily. Wrong. Off, slightly. Like you're milk going sour, or butter gone a little rancid. I don't mean this to be insulting. I just...
Maybe it's me. My nose might be malfunctioning. People say I'm overly sensitive to smells.
"Smell that?"
"What?"
"Sort of sweet. Barbecue, maybe. A block away?"
"I don't smell anything."
That happens to me all the time. And turned out not to be barbecue, in that particular case. A daycare was on fire.
Anyway.
Off. Sour. Bad. Like you're rotting inside. Do you feel rotten? Is there something wrong with you? Maybe your gallbladder has gone funny. You know how sometimes internal organs just fail? When they do, they rot. I wonder why?
Have you been eating something you shouldn't? Maybe there's something rotten in your guts.
Maybe you've been thinking bad ideas? Have you had any weird dreams lately, about meat?
I dreamt last night I was in a city made out of pork chops. Were you there too? You kind of smell like pork chops. Maybe that's it. You and I in the land of pork chops. Only I was smart enough to dream about taking a shower before I woke up. That's why I don't smell and YOU do.
Dream hygiene. It's important. Think about it.
In the land of pork chops, I saw a baby made of pork chops playing with a puppy made of pork chops. And I thought to myself...
How can these people stand it? They're all made of pork chops! How do they stop from eating each other? Or even eating themselves? Why isn't this child EATING this puppy? Why isn't this puppy EATING the child? Or the floor? Or the building?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE CREATURES? That's what I wanted to know.
Anyway. Stop crying. Stop crying or I'll hit you again. Look, if you want me to untie you, you're going to have to start answering my questions. I can't figure out these things on my own.
I promise to let you go. See? I promise. There. Now chill the fuck out and help me make sense of this pork chop world.
Maybe it's me. My nose might be malfunctioning. People say I'm overly sensitive to smells.
"Smell that?"
"What?"
"Sort of sweet. Barbecue, maybe. A block away?"
"I don't smell anything."
That happens to me all the time. And turned out not to be barbecue, in that particular case. A daycare was on fire.
Anyway.
Off. Sour. Bad. Like you're rotting inside. Do you feel rotten? Is there something wrong with you? Maybe your gallbladder has gone funny. You know how sometimes internal organs just fail? When they do, they rot. I wonder why?
Have you been eating something you shouldn't? Maybe there's something rotten in your guts.
Maybe you've been thinking bad ideas? Have you had any weird dreams lately, about meat?
I dreamt last night I was in a city made out of pork chops. Were you there too? You kind of smell like pork chops. Maybe that's it. You and I in the land of pork chops. Only I was smart enough to dream about taking a shower before I woke up. That's why I don't smell and YOU do.
Dream hygiene. It's important. Think about it.
In the land of pork chops, I saw a baby made of pork chops playing with a puppy made of pork chops. And I thought to myself...
How can these people stand it? They're all made of pork chops! How do they stop from eating each other? Or even eating themselves? Why isn't this child EATING this puppy? Why isn't this puppy EATING the child? Or the floor? Or the building?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE CREATURES? That's what I wanted to know.
Anyway. Stop crying. Stop crying or I'll hit you again. Look, if you want me to untie you, you're going to have to start answering my questions. I can't figure out these things on my own.
I promise to let you go. See? I promise. There. Now chill the fuck out and help me make sense of this pork chop world.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Quick Pornography Rant
Have you ever been at one of those stupid drunken parties, and there's a fairly unattractive young woman who is desperate for attention and love, and she takes her shirt off? And instead of being aroused or titillated, it's just kind of sad and embarrassing. But there's always one guy who loves that sort of crap -- or maybe he's just really drunk. And he yells:
"WOOO!"
Because for him, breasts are always exciting, no matter what the context.
It could be a woman whose shirt is on fire, and she's taking it off so she doesn't burn to death and he'd be saying, "That's right bitch, take it off. Oh yeah!"
She could be 80, and it would make no difference. "That's right, grandma! Work it!"
We could be at a funeral parlour, and one of the workers preparing the corpse of an 80 year old woman starts taking her shirt off, and this guy would go, "Oh yeah! Gonna see some titties! Pretty excited about it!"
A lot of porn is like this:
There's the sad, attention-seeking girl, taking her shirt off. She's not into it. She looks miserable. And it's just embarrassing.
And standing right behind me is the guy screaming "WOOO!"
He's trying to tell me how exciting and arousing this is, but he's wrong. This is sad.
And sure, I clicked some buttons on the Internet, and that's how I now find myself in this situation. I did it to myself. All the same, for a brief moment, it's all very horrifying.
But then I click a few buttons, and a genuinely interesting and attractive woman pops up, and I yell out "WOO!" and it's all okay again.
That's all.
"WOOO!"
Because for him, breasts are always exciting, no matter what the context.
It could be a woman whose shirt is on fire, and she's taking it off so she doesn't burn to death and he'd be saying, "That's right bitch, take it off. Oh yeah!"
She could be 80, and it would make no difference. "That's right, grandma! Work it!"
We could be at a funeral parlour, and one of the workers preparing the corpse of an 80 year old woman starts taking her shirt off, and this guy would go, "Oh yeah! Gonna see some titties! Pretty excited about it!"
A lot of porn is like this:
There's the sad, attention-seeking girl, taking her shirt off. She's not into it. She looks miserable. And it's just embarrassing.
And standing right behind me is the guy screaming "WOOO!"
He's trying to tell me how exciting and arousing this is, but he's wrong. This is sad.
And sure, I clicked some buttons on the Internet, and that's how I now find myself in this situation. I did it to myself. All the same, for a brief moment, it's all very horrifying.
But then I click a few buttons, and a genuinely interesting and attractive woman pops up, and I yell out "WOO!" and it's all okay again.
That's all.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Fuck
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.
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.
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?
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