I pooped a dinosaur today. It looked at me, up out of the water. It roared.
I called him the pooposaurus. I phoned the Smithsonian. They sent scientists over.
The scientists studied it. Then they went off and discussed their findings.
The head scientist came up to me and said:
“For this discovery, we award you the Nobel Prize of Awesomeness.”
He handed me a tinfoil medal and a Starbucks card worth $15.
Next week, I’m going to be on The View with my pooposaurus.
I hope it bites Whoopi Goldberg on the ass.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, August 6, 2010
Ten Timeless Spasms
We live among the remains of dead people. It's an unpleasant state. It's quiet and it's cold and we never get to sleep.
The wind throws razor blades at us. We bleed all the time. Our blood is orange and syropy, drooling down our sides and into our socks. It doesn't matter.
How often have strangers visited here? Tourists wander in. They look at us as though we were museum exhibits. After a weekend, they return to their homes, and forget what they've seen.
We can crawl on our hands and knees. Rarely we can stand. It's almost always raining ash from the sky. We used to have pet dinosaurs. We used to live in crystal caves.
"Clever monkey. Kind monkey. Ugly little shit, with claws that drip poison. I've got every right to grind you up for dog food. Every goddamn right."
Random. Random and cold. Random and pointless and cold and crying. With no teeth. With no hair. Bald, toothless, and lacking any meaning. Barely alive. Barely moving -- not even crawling any more.
We cook camel meat over a fire in a shopping cart. Burning car tires. It's only Monday. It's always Monday. A world full of never-ending Mondays.
We don't have to do this. We don't have to live this way. But we do. No one knows why. It's always been this way. There are rules. No one knows who made them. They aren't written down anywhere. We just know what they are.
We can't stop the shudders. And why would we want to?
We miss our pet dinosaurs.
The wind throws razor blades at us. We bleed all the time. Our blood is orange and syropy, drooling down our sides and into our socks. It doesn't matter.
How often have strangers visited here? Tourists wander in. They look at us as though we were museum exhibits. After a weekend, they return to their homes, and forget what they've seen.
We can crawl on our hands and knees. Rarely we can stand. It's almost always raining ash from the sky. We used to have pet dinosaurs. We used to live in crystal caves.
"Clever monkey. Kind monkey. Ugly little shit, with claws that drip poison. I've got every right to grind you up for dog food. Every goddamn right."
Random. Random and cold. Random and pointless and cold and crying. With no teeth. With no hair. Bald, toothless, and lacking any meaning. Barely alive. Barely moving -- not even crawling any more.
We cook camel meat over a fire in a shopping cart. Burning car tires. It's only Monday. It's always Monday. A world full of never-ending Mondays.
We don't have to do this. We don't have to live this way. But we do. No one knows why. It's always been this way. There are rules. No one knows who made them. They aren't written down anywhere. We just know what they are.
We can't stop the shudders. And why would we want to?
We miss our pet dinosaurs.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
James Bond and The Cookie Monster
"James Bond is a serial rapist."
"No, he's not. The women consented. He seduced them. Bond never raped anyone."
"I'm afraid you're wrong. You'll have to read the books again, with a more careful eye. It's not so much the text as the subtext you need to pay attention to."
"That's bullshit. You can read a book, looking to fulfill a particular theory, and you'll see what you expect to see. You're trying to turn James Bond into a rapist, and I'm not playing your game."
"In 'Casino Royale', Bond says something about the 'sweet tang of rape'. That hardly strikes me as subtle. It seems pretty blatant."
"The real question here is why you would want to think of Bond as a rapist. What sick psychological purpose does that theory serve for you? Why would you want to turn a hero into a villain? Are you threatened by his prowess, as a man, and a spy? Maybe you feel a resonance inside of you -- you want to be like him. You want to gamble, kill bad guys, and fuck beautiful women. Terrified by your desires, you try to turn him into a rapist. Is that your game?"
"It's no game. Or, that is, it's only a game in so much as it's about analyzing a text for its deeper meaning. The meaning which is entirely there, if you're willing to see it."
"Oh, you're sick. You're fucked up. First it's Bond the rapist, then what? Cookie Monster, the compulsive eater, binging to escape the knowledge he's a monster?"
"That is a valid interpretation of Cookie Monster. Why else would he eat so much?If he is a monster, of some sort, it only makes sense that he..."
"Stop. Just stop. Bond is not a rapist, okay? He just likes to fuck. It's his thing. Cookie Monster likes cookies. Bond likes to fuck. He's a spy. He doesn't get to settle down. He's sent on missions. Okay?"
"Nothing happens without a reason, a purpose. Even in works of fiction. Ian Fleming wrote Bond as sex obsessed. A rapist. We can either examine Bond on his own terms, or look at Bond as a cultural product and ask what he does for our culture. Or we can look at Ian Fleming and ask what aspect of his own psyche is served by a serial rapist with a license to kill."
"Or we can look at Cookie Monster and speculate what trauma lead him to become a binge eater. Was he raped? Is he brain damaged due to some kind of head trauma or assault? That would certainly explain his broken speech patterns. Me like cookie. Me love cookie. Me rape cookie, because me like James Bond."
"You're mocking me, but you really could interpret Cookie Monster that way. Seriously. The thing about fiction is that you can always take it further. As long as it's consistent and the story fits, it's valid. Bert and Ernie could be gay. Why not?"
"And James Bond is a serial rapist?"
"Couldn't it fit the facts we have?"
"I guess. But it pissed me off. It takes a symbol of masculine power and perverts it, makes it evil. There are fewer and fewer positive role models as time goes on. Fewer heroes. Everything becomes jaded and cynical and negative. You're trying to do that to Bond."
"You have a point there. Rewriting fiction is often about taking positives and turning them negative. Revealing opposites. That's why people add porn to Harry Potter and Star Trek. They want to see what never gets shown. So they take the story there. The hero becomes the villain."
"Do you think James Bond would rape the Cookie monster?"
"I would."
"Me too."
"No, he's not. The women consented. He seduced them. Bond never raped anyone."
"I'm afraid you're wrong. You'll have to read the books again, with a more careful eye. It's not so much the text as the subtext you need to pay attention to."
"That's bullshit. You can read a book, looking to fulfill a particular theory, and you'll see what you expect to see. You're trying to turn James Bond into a rapist, and I'm not playing your game."
"In 'Casino Royale', Bond says something about the 'sweet tang of rape'. That hardly strikes me as subtle. It seems pretty blatant."
"The real question here is why you would want to think of Bond as a rapist. What sick psychological purpose does that theory serve for you? Why would you want to turn a hero into a villain? Are you threatened by his prowess, as a man, and a spy? Maybe you feel a resonance inside of you -- you want to be like him. You want to gamble, kill bad guys, and fuck beautiful women. Terrified by your desires, you try to turn him into a rapist. Is that your game?"
"It's no game. Or, that is, it's only a game in so much as it's about analyzing a text for its deeper meaning. The meaning which is entirely there, if you're willing to see it."
"Oh, you're sick. You're fucked up. First it's Bond the rapist, then what? Cookie Monster, the compulsive eater, binging to escape the knowledge he's a monster?"
"That is a valid interpretation of Cookie Monster. Why else would he eat so much?If he is a monster, of some sort, it only makes sense that he..."
"Stop. Just stop. Bond is not a rapist, okay? He just likes to fuck. It's his thing. Cookie Monster likes cookies. Bond likes to fuck. He's a spy. He doesn't get to settle down. He's sent on missions. Okay?"
"Nothing happens without a reason, a purpose. Even in works of fiction. Ian Fleming wrote Bond as sex obsessed. A rapist. We can either examine Bond on his own terms, or look at Bond as a cultural product and ask what he does for our culture. Or we can look at Ian Fleming and ask what aspect of his own psyche is served by a serial rapist with a license to kill."
"Or we can look at Cookie Monster and speculate what trauma lead him to become a binge eater. Was he raped? Is he brain damaged due to some kind of head trauma or assault? That would certainly explain his broken speech patterns. Me like cookie. Me love cookie. Me rape cookie, because me like James Bond."
"You're mocking me, but you really could interpret Cookie Monster that way. Seriously. The thing about fiction is that you can always take it further. As long as it's consistent and the story fits, it's valid. Bert and Ernie could be gay. Why not?"
"And James Bond is a serial rapist?"
"Couldn't it fit the facts we have?"
"I guess. But it pissed me off. It takes a symbol of masculine power and perverts it, makes it evil. There are fewer and fewer positive role models as time goes on. Fewer heroes. Everything becomes jaded and cynical and negative. You're trying to do that to Bond."
"You have a point there. Rewriting fiction is often about taking positives and turning them negative. Revealing opposites. That's why people add porn to Harry Potter and Star Trek. They want to see what never gets shown. So they take the story there. The hero becomes the villain."
"Do you think James Bond would rape the Cookie monster?"
"I would."
"Me too."
Monday, April 26, 2010
Random Crap
"You remind me," I say, "of a kid who used to beat me up in high school."
"I have a small, unpleasant wound, on my back," he says. "It looks like a mouth. I have had lips surgically grafted to the wound, to make it look like a mouth. Plastic surgery. But it's not a mouth, it's a wound. I have to cut it open again every morning, otherwise it starts to heal. I use a metal hook, to cut it open. I boil the hook in the morning, for half an hour, to sterilize it. So, when I cut myself, the hook is extremely hot."
"That's stupid," I say. "You're stupid for doing that. Only someone incredibly stupid would go to such great lengths for no reason at all. It's not art, it's not a statement about anything. You're just a fucking idiot."
"That's what it's a statement about. My own stupidity."
"You could save a lot of time by just announcing to everyone you meet, 'I am stupid.' Say it instead of hello. You'd save a lot of time in the morning. You wouldn't have to boil your hook. You wouldn't have to bend your arm in a painful fashion to cut open your healing wound."
"When you were talking just now," he says, "I wasn't thinking about what I'm going to say next. People do that, apparently. Instead of listening. They think about what they're going to say. And some part of them says, 'Hurry up, asshole, and finish talking. I have something I want to say.' People do that. But that's not what I was doing. What I was doing was thinking, 'What is he going to say to me in response to what I am about to say?' You see, I take it to the next step. Like in chess. Don't think about just your move. And don't just think about your opponents next move. Think six moves ahead. I do that with conversation. I guess you could say I am a conversation master."
"Why a wound on your back?" I ask. "Is it some kind of male vagina? Is that it? Do you want to be a woman, but you're afraid to castrate yourself? Do you want to be a hermaphrodite? And why on your back? Why put the wound mouth there? Because you want to be sodomized? Because you're a fucking faggot? Is that it?"
"I think some day my mouth, on my back, will grow teeth. That is my hope, anyway."
"Are you a faggot?"
"No," he says. "Unfortunately not. I think the cachet of homosexuality would improve my life tremendously. But, sadly, I'm straight."
"Did you just use the word 'cachet' in a sentence?"
"I did," he admits.
"That makes me want to carve a new mouth in your throat. Where is this hook of yours? Where do you keep it when you're not boiling it, or cutting yourself?"
"Sometimes, when it's raining, I stare out the window, and I think about the flood, where Noah built the ark and all that. And I think how great it would be to be underwater, like a fish, so that when it rains it doesn't mean anything. Or maybe in a submarine."
"You remind me," I say, "of someone I used to beat up in high school."
"People say that to me a lot," he says. "I have that kind of face."
"I have a small, unpleasant wound, on my back," he says. "It looks like a mouth. I have had lips surgically grafted to the wound, to make it look like a mouth. Plastic surgery. But it's not a mouth, it's a wound. I have to cut it open again every morning, otherwise it starts to heal. I use a metal hook, to cut it open. I boil the hook in the morning, for half an hour, to sterilize it. So, when I cut myself, the hook is extremely hot."
"That's stupid," I say. "You're stupid for doing that. Only someone incredibly stupid would go to such great lengths for no reason at all. It's not art, it's not a statement about anything. You're just a fucking idiot."
"That's what it's a statement about. My own stupidity."
"You could save a lot of time by just announcing to everyone you meet, 'I am stupid.' Say it instead of hello. You'd save a lot of time in the morning. You wouldn't have to boil your hook. You wouldn't have to bend your arm in a painful fashion to cut open your healing wound."
"When you were talking just now," he says, "I wasn't thinking about what I'm going to say next. People do that, apparently. Instead of listening. They think about what they're going to say. And some part of them says, 'Hurry up, asshole, and finish talking. I have something I want to say.' People do that. But that's not what I was doing. What I was doing was thinking, 'What is he going to say to me in response to what I am about to say?' You see, I take it to the next step. Like in chess. Don't think about just your move. And don't just think about your opponents next move. Think six moves ahead. I do that with conversation. I guess you could say I am a conversation master."
"Why a wound on your back?" I ask. "Is it some kind of male vagina? Is that it? Do you want to be a woman, but you're afraid to castrate yourself? Do you want to be a hermaphrodite? And why on your back? Why put the wound mouth there? Because you want to be sodomized? Because you're a fucking faggot? Is that it?"
"I think some day my mouth, on my back, will grow teeth. That is my hope, anyway."
"Are you a faggot?"
"No," he says. "Unfortunately not. I think the cachet of homosexuality would improve my life tremendously. But, sadly, I'm straight."
"Did you just use the word 'cachet' in a sentence?"
"I did," he admits.
"That makes me want to carve a new mouth in your throat. Where is this hook of yours? Where do you keep it when you're not boiling it, or cutting yourself?"
"Sometimes, when it's raining, I stare out the window, and I think about the flood, where Noah built the ark and all that. And I think how great it would be to be underwater, like a fish, so that when it rains it doesn't mean anything. Or maybe in a submarine."
"You remind me," I say, "of someone I used to beat up in high school."
"People say that to me a lot," he says. "I have that kind of face."
Monday, April 12, 2010
Blogger ennui
I suck as a blogger, because I post weekly, or infrequently. Apparently a real blogger posts trivial shit daily. Or even twice a day.
Thing is, I know that 80% of what I do is of no interest to anyone, let alone to myself.
Many people don't suffer from such inhibitions. Every opinion, every action, every thought seems to merit a post. How strange.
Am I the sick one? Are they all sick? Because newspapers, which are dying, are full of empty words and meaningless opinion.
Meanwhile, I have only recently allowed myself to write and post opinion pieces. Prior to that, I only wrote about things I experienced first hand. If I see it, I feel comfortable writing about it.
But who sets these limits for me? Why can't I just write about whatever I want? If I feel the need to dedicate 80 paragraphs to my thoughts on the smell of old porn mags, who is going to stop me? Who is going to care?
This is the Internet. Everything is permitted.
Thing is, I know that 80% of what I do is of no interest to anyone, let alone to myself.
Many people don't suffer from such inhibitions. Every opinion, every action, every thought seems to merit a post. How strange.
Am I the sick one? Are they all sick? Because newspapers, which are dying, are full of empty words and meaningless opinion.
Meanwhile, I have only recently allowed myself to write and post opinion pieces. Prior to that, I only wrote about things I experienced first hand. If I see it, I feel comfortable writing about it.
But who sets these limits for me? Why can't I just write about whatever I want? If I feel the need to dedicate 80 paragraphs to my thoughts on the smell of old porn mags, who is going to stop me? Who is going to care?
This is the Internet. Everything is permitted.
Monday, March 15, 2010
You're Okay
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.
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.
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
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