I don't know what's wrong.
Nothing. Nothing is. That's the fucking problem.
Why is that? What's wrong with a little peace?
Do you not remember what happened last year? What's been happening the past rwo- the past half a dozen- the past-
I get it. Life has been... Difficult. Right?
I'm not doing enough. Something will happen. I'm sure of it. I'm going to get hurt. I can do so much to protect us but I can't stop the world, I can't control other people, someone somewhere something is going to go wrong and we'll get hurt once again and I can't live through that anymore, I don't want to, I just can't.
Is this... What you're worried about? A future we cannot predict? Choices we cannot make or change, whether it be ours or another person's?
Well... Aren't you?
I don't care enough to be.
You and I both know what apathy has cost us.
Yes, yes, we were so depressed we hardly got out of bed. Big whoop.
Don't you... Isn't that at all traumatising? Don't you still feel the shame and guilt you hid underneath?
...no? I let it all go. I stopped giving a fuck. It's been nice to just... Not care. I realised that... The future is untouchable. And yes. It'll probably be shit, based on my track record. I'm just going to avoid human contact as much as possible, go for class as much as I am able, try to ignore the fact that I have a period that feels wrong in my body and try to get tf out of this homophobic country. Or die trying. Those are the two options. Even when I gave up, I hadn't exactly given up. I was still alive. We were still alive.
I'm terrified. I'm constantly terrified.
You're not. But I do know you're scared. I'm you, am I not? Your madness is mine. Your suffering is mine. And no matter how much we've forgotten, glimpses always remain. I know it's been hard. I know you're worried about how much worse it could possibly get. I just... Want you to know that I'm here. And whatever happens, as long as we don't die and all, I still will be here. Give me a chance to get us through this. I need you to trust me. To trust in yourself and all we've survived through. I know you think your life is nothing, that you're such a crybaby for feeling the normal human emotion that is sadness... I know how upset you are with me for the things I've said and done. I can't change the past. I can't see the future. I can't promise you perfection. But I can promise you that this is our relationship, love. That I've been with you from the very beginning. I was formed and shaped with you. You see yourself as nothing but you are all there is in my eyes. No one could love you more. No one.
I seem to remember a time when you felt the opposite...
I'm changing. Little by little. It makes more sense to stop treating you like shit, honestly. I'm tired of comparing us to the rest of the world. They're just as fucked up and tired as we are, ha. That's the scary thing. Humans are all good and bad. There is no black, no white. Only gray. It won't be the easiest thing in the world but I want to be alive with you. Watch movies with you. Eat with you. Have wine with you. Write stupid shit like this with you, things that come right from somewhere deep within us, things that make us feel... Something. Gift me the kindness of sticking around with me. There's so many things we could still see. So many things I want to experience with you, fuck everybody else.
...well. I do want to watch the second season of Heartstopper... And finish that one book.
Attagem. Let's do that. I'll be by your side every step of the way. So no, you're not alone. Okay?
Yeah... Good talk, self.
Good talk. Say bye to the reader, we've gotta go wipe our ears man. Bathing gets em all wet and icky- anddddd that's a TMI right there. Yup.
Bye, reader human person alien individual of coolness! Have a good day or night or whaddever. I'm gonna try to umm... Not completely freak out about existing today <3
a terrible thing to read without a casserole
"life is just too confusing " is what i write, after reading @estherflowers1 post. but what could i write?
could i write anything?
i agree with much , that she wrote,
but if ever i need to express emotions of my own, except for negative ones, i would find myself feeling like i stepped on some chewing gum; i can feel it every step i take, yet can't do much about it. scraping it off does not help, and there is no time to do anything about it but just suffer a bit more . experince the torture that this universe brings a minutly bit further.
the answer is that maybe i just have no emotions at all.
i wind the clockwork with the key inserted behind my ear, and for a moment i feel pleasure, but maybe it isn't plessure at all. on an objective level , it is just a stupid kinkspring releasing potential energy in a controlled manner. it moves some gears, and flips a thing, and pushes against something else, and then it all stops, when there is no more impetus.
then i just feel confused again.
i get attached,
i get upset..
those emotions don't require a mechanical kickstart, they just come about of their own.
but these too, must have some chrystaline oscillation that either canceles out the wave or amplifies it.
exterior stimuly, like the itching of the dorsal fins, or the secretion along the path of the daily slither, are reacted to and experienced mostly in a predictable way. i never feel joy, surprise or hunger when i feel the coarse road, grinding against my thorax.
i also see things, and hear them too,
and the mechanism pushes through a set of orders. but it is nothing new either.
i try to test how much of this scyborg of evolution and contamination is just mechanism, by writing stupid absurdities on this website. by'stuoid absurdities' 'i mean that they are absurd, but that they could have been better written or thought out.
today it was one of my "cooking" posts; "cooking with the dreadful feeling of consequence; public transport edition". but the mechanism that got the 'brilliant' idea to start this thing was superceded by the fact that the traffic jam ended, and there was no more time. such is the way of the 372 bus line.
Idea.. think of the word. I and dea. (which, i am just spitballing, is derived from the word Deos. ) . what were those grecko-romans thinking? was all conception supposed to a product of muse? and if thought was such an inspired thung, are emotions as well, just a run through of the finger of Zeus, or Baal, or Cathulu?
outside , there is a man who is going through the garbage, picking out bottles, it is not done for academic purposes, yet i wonder, if there is some kind of greater wisdom, some clue to the world itself and how it works, that can be derived from this employment of effort.
wonder and wander. is it coincidental that a word meaning hypothetical thought sounds akin to walking directionless, and without an appointment?
burrow and borrow? an act of taking up a loan, normally with the aid of a contract, or other legal instruments, are akin in sound to the act of digging a shelter horizontally?
than and then?!?!?!
the thing is that i feel this moment, through the interaction of the gears, that i have no true soul at all. there is a great deal of talk about souls in the swamp, and in this wasteland as well. but it does not mean that everyone has it.
which leads me to the root of it all; sleep deprivation.
why is it, that there is just not enough time to sleep? to put it in bloody Mary's words, "You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream, How you gonna have a dream come true?"
I hate this human condition it is a prison from which I cannot escape until my sentence is over.
I despise everything about humanity!
I hate being a human being!
I feel this mortal body decaying every day, as it restricts and confines my real self from being true.
I observe humanity feeding upon itself as if were a mass of zombies absorbing one another in hatred for any reason, color, language, certain clothing, certain class!!!
Ridiculous reasons really, but that’s humanity for ya.
Entitled people who were spoiled bratty children are now expecting other people to spoil them and when they are finally told “NO” they throw a two year old tantrum only it’s not funny because they are adults!
Greed is running rampant everywhere as prices on goods and services are rising past what normal people can afford. Now you have to be rich just to get by.
Why would anyone want to be a human? Humans treat everyone and everything like sh!t. They treat their neighbors like sh!t, they treat their dogs like sh!t and some even treat their families like sh!t! People lie!
Animals don’t lie.
Nature doesn’t lie.
I’m sorry if this offended anyone it’s just how I feel right now.
The Idylls of Bluegrass
For as long ago now as the snow was first on the ground and the nights grew slowly behind it, I’ve been reading a collection of essays by Wendell Berry. What a happy chance I bought them that day last summer in the bookstore. I wouldn’t have either, I suspect, if serendipity had not made the exact pages so ready to fall, and me, so gently nudged by their soft proposal. By the delicacy of circumstance, I landed on an essay called ‘Standing by Words’ which crept up on me with the readiness of awe. We were soon of a piece, like a sort of finding and fitting together. I should say it was as much the beginning of that essay, while I stood in the stacks and read, as it was the photo of the author that decided me in that moment. A man in the low leaning of sundown, looking like someone who lived in the world as though he were not in it at all. There, on some planks of barnwood, he gave up a smile that seemed to promise me something; that seemed to say I am just a man.
“Maybe this will change things…will keep them the way they are”—I hadn’t a very good idea of what I was rebelling against. But I bought them all the same, those essays, right down the to the last one, thinking the world must be better for it.
It is an accident I could have never expected, the words of a Kentucky farmer reaching hundreds of miles from their birthplace to tug at me in the corner of a Toronto mall. I know it is childish to admit, but I do feel I have saved them somehow, those abandoned copies, maybe even days before they were taken off the shelf forever.
They now have what I believe is the lovely tenure of my care. They will be read—which cannot be said for most books. They will be cherished—which is rarely the fate of anything produced nowadays. And the messy leavings of my ink will transform their pages anew. The margins will sink and scrape as I press my notes into them, and they will wake with the dignity of having been studied in their old age. With that quick Spring of being touched and considered, they will finally learn to rest. And so what started as an act of charity, will end as a favor done entirely to me.
Every great artist is in possession of a great talent, and if he has the mind to apply it to a worthy end, he is in possession of a great truth.
Wendell is in possession of many great truths, whether he means it or not. Certain of his sentences leave behind plenty of these little indestructible nuggets. And what’s harder to imagine, they are almost more true because he has chosen to explore them; because he has placed them with the care of so many expert touches of style and life. In some unexplainable way, it is as though they would cease to exist altogether if they weren’t his.
What I am trying to get at, perhaps, is that I am bothered a great deal over these little grains I pick up here and there across my readings; dropping them precariously into my mind like so many beans piling up over the edge of a pot. All of anything I may ever know of myself is in relation to this pile, the lengths I’ve gone to preserve it, and the meticulous pickings and pluckings of its smallish features.
Until quite recently, I’ve dedicated much of myself to the ways of its upkeep and have sensed the adequacy of life through them. But I fear that I have gathered too much too quickly, for the final joy of reading has at last become its limit, and my pile has reached its natural end. Any additional weight now seems to push out a hundred more of all my favorite things, spilling off into oblivion or sending them to scoop and crack like dead mountains rising at my feet. Settling disastrously around me is the forgotten stuff of stories, of quaint learnings and lost happenings—the wastes of my own remembering.
Just before writing this, I finished a handsome essay on the idylls of Bluegrass and the narrow bottoms where Wendell has made an ample idea of life in the countryside; its unbroken woodlands, the vast pleasures of its landscape, and the deliberateness that it demands on a man and writer; a place that entered my imagination and gave its substance to me in a strange and new wonder, one that I will never fully close myself to.
I have done what I can to secure this in me, with a good deal of effort, and establish it as a pleasant fixture of my mind; to have it as a fact of me and draw on it as an amplitude in my life. But what happens when this story slips from me; when I forget the long-legged house and the silver sycamores, the bits of dead straw and the sucks and slurs of the river? And traveling a bit further on, what happens when I finally forget Wendell himself and all his essays, the day I found them at the store and the pleasing luck with which I bought them? What then shall I say was the meaning of it? On some distant day, I will look back on this long winter of reading as never having happened at all. Where then, in all these fussy movements of today, is my permanence?
I wish I was a different kind of dog
On a strange impulse,
I wave a knife near my dog's face.
He doesn't flinch or even
acknowledge the knife. He only looks at me
with horrible, trusting eyes.
His tail wags and I am disgusted.
I am ashamed of myself
for being capable of great violence.
More so, I am ashamed
of this human capability
to even consider harming him.
I’m addicted to Goodwill
Yesterday someone cut me off in traffic and I went to Goodwill and bought four dresses and a leather skirt out of spite. I parked all wrong, too: my car took up two parking spots, and when I noticed this, I continued to walk into Goodwill, raising my hand up to press the 'lock' button on my keys, almost like a dance, or a trance, into shopping oblivion.
When I'm stressed I 'thrift.' I go into Goodwill, or whatever boutique sells reused clothes, and I buy clothes. I love fashion, but it's not even that: it's the thrill of the find. Yesterday one of the dresses I bought was a scarlet red, floor-length dress with creases in the bottom half, making it look like crepe. The whole front has buttons up it, not the kind you can actually button, just decorative pieces of joy (also red). There's a Peter Pan collar and cuffs that have the same red buttons that adorn the front, but they snap shut, closing off my wrists like delicate jailers. I am absolutely in love. I pull it off the rack and I have. to. have it.
Then there's the leather skirt I mentioned. I was actually, when I found it, looking for a black slip, to place under one of the four dresses I was also going to buy. Unfortunately, that dresses is see-through. But I love the pattern so much (blue and black stripes haphazardly splayed like bold streaks of paint all over the dress), that I was now searching for a slip. A slip? I know. My mom once told me to buy a slip and I said, "What, like it's 1988?" But this time it was relevant.
I searched the skirts section. Usually this is risky: I usually search for floor-length, work-appropriate skirts. Usually, they only have either 1) entirely too dowdy skirts even for me or 2) see-through (again!) skirts or 3) too short skirts. I was looking for that slip (and asking a Goodwill employee would be too much effort), so I was frantically whipping through the available selection, and finding nothing. Then, I see it - right smack dab in the middle of the skirts section. A leather skirt.
Leather is tricky because it can (perhaps obviously) be too tight. This leather skirt was a size medium. I assessed the waist: very stretchy, even forgiving. I put it over my arm. It was a "must-have" clothing purchase. (It turned out to be too big later, around the waist, no less. But such is The Risk Of The Thrift.)
One of the four dresses is a pink, skin-tight dress with almost a translucent appearance, with a seventies collar. When I say seventies collar, I mean it looks like it's straight out of a space comedy from that decade: the collar is raised, and goes around my neck about two inches away from my actual neck. Like a space helmet should be placed on top of it. When I was considering placing it on my arm at Goodwill (the ultimate 'this is a Final Find') I was worried it would be too tight. It turned out to be yes, tight, but not too tight.
You're probably wondering why I don't just try these on at the actual Goodwill, before buying them and taking them home. During Covid, the fitting rooms were outright closed off - and even now, some are still closed. There are, however, a couple fitting rooms still available - but for me, it's the thrill of the not knowing. Not knowing if they'll end up fitting, a surprise for later. (They almost always fit once I get home - I'm good at 'eyeballing' the fit of clothes.) Will the see-through dress be all wrong? We'll see. Is the scarlet red dress going to flow the way I want it to? Maybe. It's all up to chance, to fate, to the gods that be.
Maybe I'm a Goodwill addict. And after writing all this, I'm realizing it just makes me so incredibly happy to shop there. But there's a limit. Here's me, airing my personal grievance to myself: I thrift too much, and I need to stop, possibly with the leather skirt, possibly with my next (and final! ) purchase.
"In accordance with Henry Edward, angry people are "slaves to themselves""
I am angry. I hold it in my throat -- sometimes it escapes at the wrong times, earning me a weird look, or "your personality is so different from how you dress."
because I am sweet! and kind! I am gentle! I am lovely! I am 5 feet tall and I have the tiniest hands and I tremble when I lift a 2 pound weight. But after the lingering fear passes, I feel rage. I feel like, yeah, today is the day that I snap.
It never is. The day that I snap, I mean. I walk away and usually wish that I could extract my rage and just feel the sadness I'm hiding from. I've been feeling it recently, honestly. I'm sad that I feel so angry. I'm sad that I forgot
what it means to be a good person. I spend so much time thinking about people I don't like. I concoct fruitless revenge schemes, that exist mostly for my best friend to laugh at. I can't stop yelling when I'm behind the wheel.
The thing is, though, that I love so deeply it makes me cry most of the time. One of my oldest friends was just the lead in our school play, and I teared up all throughout the bows. She was the happiest I've ever seen her in a long time. I'd give a ride to anyone who asked. I'd bring soup for anyone who was sick. What do I do with that?
How can I be so angry at the world and yet want to cup all my friends' hearts in my hands like little birds? How can I lust for a fight, yet simply ache to lie down in someone's arms? I want to let down my guard. But I'm too scared to. I'm too angry to.
The most Selfish of the Selfless
I think I might be a terrible person.
I often find myself elbow deep in selflessness, drudgery, and humility: putting on a show for the rest of the world-- being the woman they so desperately want me to be.
I am a servant to others.
I am here for the one purpose: to serve-- to make the world a better place with it.
But it's a lie.
At the end of the day, I resent it.
I'd like to run away.
I'd like to do... just ONE thing for myself.
The mask I put on... it's beautiful.
I am ever the doting, self-sacrificial lamb.
I would jump in front of a bullet for many a random stranger.
I would give my lunch and coat to the homeless man, in hopes he might not freeze to death in the night.
The truth is... I am a coward. I am too terribly frightened to show the world the pitiful, wretched excuse of a human being hiding behind my many coats and hats.
I know the world would shun me:
The woman who longs for luxury.
The woman who might quite like to be a queen amongst peasants.
The woman who smiles to your face and cackles bitterly behind your back.
The truth is... I don't even know who I am anymore, because in my deepest, darkest heart... I would sacrifice myself for a stranger. I would give away my very last penny to feed the hungry. I would forsake my every desire, just to see my children smile a little more often.
But. I would feel bitterly, wretchedly sorry for myself with every 'selfless' action.
So here I stay, trapped always in a war with my own conscience, tearing me in half, and feeding my scraps to the needy, desperate for respite, but always starving to feed their pleas. A coward. A martyr. A monster. The most selfish of the selfless.
Bitter like me
You get more bees with honey
that’s what they say
but bees will also sting you
and I like vinegar
i can’t remember the last time I even had honey
You know who else likes honey?
thats what they say anyway
so to keep the bees and bears away
I’ll be happy to share vinegar today
Looking through that mirror glass,
At last I see what an ass,
Looking up and down,
And all around,
I know there is no doubt,
That I am the only one in the the room with a monstrous shout.