I won’t comment on God’s hate towards humanity in general, but suffice it to say that I’m with you, and that I’m quite confident he does, in the very least, truly loathe you and me both. Because somehow I was born into one of the few functional families left on earth, and to add a peculiarly bitter tasting icing to the cake, it’s a family who also loves each other and wants to spend an annoying amount of time with one another. It’s a Catch-22 really, because I hate people, but I also experience pithy periods—extremely pithy periods—of seemingly needing people, and I kind of hate that, too. I took a Myers-Briggs test once and the results told me rather conclusively that I was introverted, intuitive, thinking and judgmental: an asshole. I remember interpreting the test after the fact with my older sister, a psychology major, who seemed to find an inexplicable amount of joy in finally proving that I was actually some type of pathological motherfucker, and I recall thinking something akin to Fuck you. Carl Jung probably sucked dick anyway. I knew I wasn’t an asshole despite what I was consistently told and despite that which society and my friends and family continue to try and convince me; due to the fact that I’d rather stay at home than go on vacation, read instead of hanging out at a dinner party, write instead of talk, “not-live” instead of “live,” I’m abnormal, a freak without friends or a life or anything at all, and you should stay away from me. Well whatever, I bet he probably did suck dick anyway.
Ever since that day I’ve attempted to find a way by which I might further suppress what little emotion I express, some sort of valve I can open and thus release the consistently bottling pressure inside of me (maybe of hatred, maybe of…well, I’m pretty sure it’s hatred) toward the world. I have found that writing suits that purpose brilliantly. Much control is gained through the process of writing, of formulating sentences and clauses and phrases and subject and object and verb and so on and so on, of creating a piece that flows eloquently even in structure, logically, rationally blending in a way through which you can control yourself, or at least direct the release of yourself through that flowing ink. Because there is something more personal in the experience of writing than in any of those experiences in which those who are “living” presumably take part. There is an emotional intimacy you gain—if only with yourself—by reflecting on and being unable to bullshit through your actual emotions and thoughts and feelings and desires, and then having to actually write them down in a manner personal yet simultaneously easy to relate to in order that someone might actually want to read it,
since sometimes it’s just necessary to stop writing and start pouring, to put away the transitions and the punctuation and just let your heart and your soul drip onto the paper because there’s just too much going on too quickly in the heart and soul for the mind to organize and rationalize in any orderly manner or any manner at all, and sometimes it’s just necessary to put away style and form and diction and instead simply exhale your feelings through the tip of your pen, as there are some things which are bound to us and which we must bear because we are human without being able to think it out fully, or write it out fully, and which we are unable to comprehend or come to terms with as some sort of perpetual punishment for being, or at least thinking we are beings, who are less than we were made to be. See?
It’s just tough sometimes, you know? Life is just hard sometimes, and I wake up and think Well, here we go again as an enigmatic unhappiness starts wringing me like a white towel that comes and goes as surely as the tip of my first cigarette to the filter of my last, this for no other reason than because life has a sense of indefatigable and insurmountable fuck you to it. Maybe it stems from some sort of feeling of lostness or self-abhorrence or other type of depression buried inside of me below the rest of the muck I, we, carry around on a daily basis, but it doesn’t matter whatever way, this or that, because it’s here and it’s how I am and it’s how you probably are too; and I wish people would just leave me the fuck alone. Sometimes life just isn’t bearable, especially with so many people, and I just wish they would leave me be. Leave me fucking be, please. I know when you’re here because you have nowhere better to be, or when you’re here because we’re “family” (whatever the fuck that means) and so it’s what family does—talk and be merry minimally, and if you live on the southern edge of Kansas, be merrily carnal too—or of course, because it’s altogether what society expects of us. Are you sure you don’t want to…&c. be social? And when I say, I’m fine here, thanks, the world stops turning and heads fly in my direction with bulging eyes and sarcastic eyebrows and judgmental smirks, all of which say, Wow, what a…&c. and I suddenly turn into some sort of immature child to them because I can’t put away what rumor has it to be my own selfishness to join in the ethereal merriment which apparently occurs around all social functions but which I was never able to grasp or understand or even stand under. I’m told time and again that it’s human, that I should join in and love and empathize with someone else and do something for someone else once in a while because we all need each other and none of us can do it alone (though you’ll never convince me we’ve ever really tried). But I understand myself, and I trust myself, and I’m happy by myself, which I have repeatedly been told is some type of insecurity with others around me—but isn’t it just security in me?; somehow, society has this hold on me and I care what people think of me, or how I appear to them, and my actions change and will be changed because of that and I disgust myself. I wish I didn’t care, and maybe from now on I’ll try not to care. Just, please stop trying to rape me up and down the be-social ladder for fuck’s sake.
And even so, nobody understands. Nobody understands. Nobody understands. And sometimes I just want everything to end and cry out just fucking stop and sometimes I can’t escape at all and I don’t know what to do and I don’t know where to turn or look or go or even quit. And I just keep thinking and thinking and that makes it worse because it’s thinking that has got it all started in the first place, and nothing helps until I’m so tired I can’t think anymore and I’m finally exhausted and just can’t do it anymore, can’t do it here or there and so it just stops, and one way or the other it’s going to stop. Yet again, it is as if there are two of me, one who desires more than anything to meet society’s standards, not to disappoint anyone and instead become precisely what is expected of me, and the other who wants to stop giving a flying fuck what other people think and do what I want to do, say what I want to say, be what I want to be without so much as a thought to the contrary. People bitch at me and say Sean be social, don’t you want to make more friends? Why aren’t you dancing with everyone? Why aren’t you mimicking some variation of a happy emotion like everyone else? Don’t you want to base your societal value on how many people you can say hello to in the hallway of work or school or wherever it is that you spend your time? Because Sean, that’s the Christian way. That’s what God expects of you. That’s what everyone expects of you. To be social and loving and funny and caring and everything they want you to be even when you don’t want to be.
How about you all fuck all the way off.
From my limited understanding of humanity, it’s my general impression that children bathe and shower with the oversight of their parents until they can be trusted not to drown themselves. I have no doubts that I would do this with my children too, because how else could you appropriately ensure their safety while also ensuring that they don’t skimp out on properly washing and scrubbing everything that needs to be properly washed and scrubbed, or at least until they’re used to the incessant drip drop of a leaky shower head? The parents just know better, and so they tell them to go, grabbing them by the arm if they have to, saying Get in the shower even if the kid doesn’t want to because dirty stains and smells only linger and accumulate and intensify until the children themselves are an infested mass of pungent putrescence decaying and crawling with the filth that their parents never helped clean from their bodies.
So they come into the shower and hear my drip drop drip drop until the steady stream of water is turned on and it begins. And it gets hot, invariably too hot at first, burning, scalding, like thorns being thrust over your head; but soon a bit cooler and a bit cooler while the parent says How do you like that? after each correction, and eventually the child is forced to say Okay okay because how many adjustments does it take before it’s too cold, freezing, numbing? And sooner or later starts the soaping and shampooing, and the sponging and scrubbing, and the washing and rinsing, for some longer and for some shorter, each for as long as needed until the parent thinks them sufficiently dirtless and thoroughly cleansed. Then off goes the flow of streaming water, and they dry themselves to the relentless pit-pattering of a cracked shower head going drip drop drip drop drip drop.
Though my deathless and rhythmical drip dripping was not always so, hadn’t existed at all let alone as a monotonous and interminable telling of the unspoken and unseen both steady and unending. It began how it always did, with a loud crash and a bang, screams, and the stomp stomp stomp of a feverish moving up stairs, a telling of the heavy rage which always lumbered and stumbled up the creaky wooden steps and eventually found its way to me either then or later, whenever the nausea and perhaps self-hatred became too much and he finally couldn’t keep his shit down anymore and had to drown everything away in a swirl and flood of water. But he was not alone this time, this time his child was thrown through the bathroom door first, the father close behind and smelling of liquor and frenzied bitterness and maybe shameful deprecation bordering on madness, this not for any particular reason or another but just for the unrelenting dropping of a life lived but not lived, which didn’t feel like living even day by day but was more like dying day by day, hardening and dying, slipping and fading away from even questioning anymore, so him just accepting and so quitting, being sliced and marred pieces at a time and bleeding out with a dying drip drop drip drop of control gradually being wrenched from the hands of a madman disobeyed; all but old Priam, surrendering a defeated life bit by bit to the slow death which he watched find his wife and sons and city, to a slow death even if he had escaped the Greeks because it was just a concession of living to a lamenting despair, a powerlessness to correct that slithering mistake which was the opening of his gates to hell on earth disguised as an animal and a broken tree, a fuck-up which would never have happened in the hands of a competent King, all because he didn’t have or couldn’t find a scapegoat to steal any of that lost life or redemption back from.
But now the boy’s dad had one, and he picked up his little scapegoat by the shirt and threw him over the side of the tub shouting Get in the fucking shower and our heads collided with a crash and spatter of red, and the father terrible towering turned on my water turned it on and it was hot, too hot, burning, scalding. Steam rising the boy squirmed and held his head and curling up started screaming because the water was too hot burning scalding and the father saying Is that too hot? dropping a booted foot into the little boy’s side again again again one two three like hammering into crosses on a hill, but I stopped seeing because of the steam expanding and thickening or maybe because I was trying to shut out what I was watching what was happening, still I couldn’t escape the hearing the stomp stomp stomp once twice three times Is that too hot? and the boy’s screaming and wailing and burning, crying Yes yes please it hurts until my water turned cold, freezing, numbing and I could taste the alcohol and sweat and hear the manful heavy breaths and laughter alongside the repeated stomp stomp How do you like that? once twice now next to the boy’s chattering and shivering like the crowing of trust betrayed. And I could almost feel the father’s dominating drunken smile and his knowing that this is love.
Then the bathroom door slammed and I opened my eyes because I no longer heard the stomping or conquering, only the soft broken whimpering and the tears going drip drop drip drop on the tub’s vermillion stained porcelain, the boy curled up, arms wrapped around his blue sides in a defeated bundle of flowing crimson. Slowly, slowly and painfully he crawled up the tub and turned off the water, still trembling in shivers from the pain and the cold, moaning as he reached up with his blood stained hands as if to say Dad why, why have you and used me as a crutch to pull himself up excruciatingly out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. There on the dirty tile he collapsed, broken arms wide and unable to stop his dropping, falling in a ceaseless mess of purpled bruises and bloodied water and splintered bones, mouth open and head cocked to the side staring that blank stare, that lifeless stare of no longer knowing or comprehending Why have you, that never went away again because he was nailed to a heap of his father’s shame and deprecation and hatred for the world and didn’t understand why it was him, why he had to be so sufficiently dirtless and thoroughly cleansed. And the boy’s lingering blood slipped from my head and into the tub, whirling down the drain in swirls and streaks of red mixed with the same water in which I dipped my hands, as a steady sound of a memory eternal, unvanquished and sufficient: drip drop drip drop drip drop.
There were no other times, no worse times; that one was the first and last of them; that one was all that was needed; that’s why water trickles through this cracked head and into the bath with a drip drop of no redemption, like a brokenness caused not fixed by a rip down the middle, one soon to be replaced and then forgotten, one left behind, without any promises of rescue, without the time or faith which brought Simeon to his knees to wait and then to beg, without any salvation whatsoever; one just left with memories stronger than any water or soap could wash away, still here with the boy, who now showers by himself but who can’t do so without sitting scrunched in the corner staring up with that dead empty stare, confused and not understanding why, holding his knees and then his sides shaking shivering in the ice cold water, whispering trembling sobbing forsaken me forsaken me.
I see you and you see me. I say Hello and you say Hello and we start walking, walking. You look at me and I look at you and think This could be real. I grab your hand and you look at me and we smile and keep walking looking around not back but just walking. And there are a lot of people. And some start pushing, pushing and saying No no but you hold my hand tighter and say It’s okay and I know it is too and so we just keep walking, walking ignoring them not caring just knowing that this may be real and so smiling.
We stop at a light and you look at me and I look at you. And then you ask Can I have your heart? But I’m scared because it’s how I’ve always been and maybe how you’re always supposed to be so I say No not yet and you say Okay.And so we keep walking and walking. We turn and then you stop. You look at me and say Please let me have your heart? and I look down and stare at my chest and think Maybe it would be okay now. But I still say No because it’s my heart and I’m attached to it and I like to think it’s attached to me. And so we walk on and walk on, walking and walking. Then you stop and grab my hands and say What if I gave you mine? and I laugh but you look at me and say it without saying it, your eyes saying it without saying it,and I know you mean it. So I say Okay. And you reach down and then reach over and you give me your heart. I take it and you look at me and you smile. I smile, and we start again, walking faster and stronger this time because I have your heart.
We stop at another light and you look at me and you’re still smiling, and then you say Are you going to give me your heart? And I look down and then at you and then down, but the light changes and I say Next time we stop and you say Promise? and we keep walking. Promise I tell you. So you grab my hand and I look at you and you smile again and then I smile again and I think Next time I’ll give her my heart. And there are a lot of other people walking by but not walking gliding because we’re gliding and smiling and you see me and I see you and smiling and walking. And you understand and it’s still okay because I have your heart and I’m going to give you mine.
Then we are stopped and you look at me and smile and grab my hand, and I know it’s time to give you my heart. So I reach down and pull up and look at you and say Here and hold out my hand, but you’re not smiling anymore and your eyes aren’t smiling anymore. I look at my hand and there’s nothing there, and I reach down again and pull up and there’s still nothing there and you’re still not smiling. And I look down and squint and stare but I can’t see anything only emptiness, and I turn and show you and you don’t look, can’t look No no no because you can’t imagine that it could be empty or that it’s gone. And I look into your eyes and I don’t know where they went where you went and I say What’s wrong? and you say But you promised.And I look down and look at you and see your face is moving, changing, flowing and I know that I caused the flowing and I don’t know what to do. I look at you and I don’t see you but I know you see me now and you shaking and shaking and I say I’m sorry and you say Please don’t and trembling and shaking and flowing and I don’t know what to do.
So I start running, running running and you behind me saying Wait wait but I can’t because my hand was empty and there’s no waiting not anymore. And I keep going faster faster and turning and faster turning turning and you disappear and I look back and I don’t see you anymore. Then I look down. I still have your heart. And now I’m shaking and I think Maybe I can give it back but you’re gone and I don’t know where you are and I know it’s too late. So I cry and flow and cry, and I’m not gliding anymore barely walking barely crawling and still crying and I don’t know what to do because I stole from you, stole it from you. I want to give it back but I don’t know where you are and I can’t find you and I wish I could but I can’t because I can’t move anymore I’m just tangled, within myself tangled, legs and arms and chest all tangled. And there are no more people anymore and I need help but can’t ask and can’t help myself so I just lay for a while and hold my chest and say Why why. But I know why, I did this to me and did this to you and so still just laying. ButIstop crying and slowly untangle everything and finally crawl again, and then walk again, walking, walking, and I begin looking. And I look for you a long time.
And then I find you, and you’re walking, walking, but with someone else, and he’s not walking he’s gliding and I can’t tell if you’re gliding but I hope you’re not I hope you’re just walking. And you see me and I see you again, and you smile, and I smile, and I think It will be okay again. But the light changes, and I’m on one side and you’re on the other and I yell I took your heart and you yell I know and I yell back I’m going to give it back and you smile and say I don’t need it anymore. And I don’t understand, and my chest hurts and I don’t understand. Then you look at him and he looks at you and you two see each other and smile. And then you look at me and smile again, and I know you mean it. And my chest hurts and I have to lean against the light or else I’ll fall and fall and fall. And the light turns and you two walk toward me, and you touch my hand as you walk by and I look up and you look at me and then at him, and he looks at you and then at me. And I look into him and see that he has no heart, and I say What? But I look at you and you reach down and reach over and you have his heart. See? And I look at him and he smiles and I look at you and you smile, and then you reach down and put it back and you start walking again, but not walking or gliding, flying, flying.
And then I wake up, panting and sweating and trembling and looking around, and I say Thank God it’s not real. But then I start crying, crying and shaking and sobbing, because I know it is.
Socialism: You have 2 cows and you give one to your neighbour.
Communism: You have 2 cows; the Government takes both and gives you some milk.
Fascism: You have 2 cows; the Government takes both and sells you some milk.
Nazism: You have 2 cows; the Government takes both and shoots you.
Bureaucratism: You have 2 cows; the Government takes both, shoots one, milks the other and throws the milk away..
Traditional Capitalism: You have 2 cows. You sell one and buy a bull. You herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.
An American Corporation: You have 2 cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow dropped dead.
A French Corporation: You have 2 cows. You go on strike because you want three cows.
Japanese Corporation: You have 2 cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called Cowkimon and market them Worldwide.
An Italian Corporation: You have 2 cows, but you don't know where they are. You break for lunch.
A Swiss Corporation: You have 5000 cows. None of which belong to you. You charge others for storing them.
Chinese Corporation: You have 2 cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim full employment, high bovine productivity, and arrest the newsman who reported the numbers.
An Iraqi Corporation: Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have none. No one believes you and they bomb your arse. You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of a Democracy.......
Counter Culture: 'Wow, dig it, like there's these 2 cows, man, grazing in the hemp field. You gotta have some of this milk!'
Surrealism: You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.
Fatalist: You have 2 doomed cows...
A West-Country Corporation: You have 2 cows. That one on the left is kinda cute.
A Brazilian Corporation: You have 2 cows. You pay taxes for 6 cows. You have to sell one cow in order to pay the taxes. Your remaining cow gets sick and dies while waiting for availability in the public vet hospital.
Moffat: You have two cows. Both of them are your daughters time travelling from the past where they had a brief love affair with Da Vinci making you the rightful Queen of England.
This is just another Tom’s Shoes, an address to the top layer of the issue and not the foundational issue in itself. Invisible Children is more or less just attempting to get people to buy their little action packs, the money of which goes to the Ugandan government. Two things are wrong with that: 1. Kony hasn’t been in Uganda since 2006. 2. Those in the Ugandan government are likely as corrupt as Kony himself, especially given the fact that they themselves haven’t done anything about him. Also, given that he’s a part of this greater organization, the LRA, the only thing we are guaranteeing in arresting him is that someone equal as sadistic and malicious will take his place. All taking him out of the picture does is create a power vacuum which will allow an even more extravagantly maniacal man to come in and run the show. The basis of the issue has to be addressed or else we’ll simply be trying to beat down a huge international organization one man by one, as hundreds apparently join their ranks daily; taking out the leader does not guarantee anything will stop, and it’s naive to think so at all.
What is left?
(save the ceasing will)
A dying breed and
Broken quill;
Ink to trickle
In a fading ellipsis,
As careless drops
Of tattered blisses.
Streaks of marigold are the limited domain
Of our brief thoroughfare around the
Spaces of tomorrow, while
Edges are licked clean by tongues
Of vermillion warnings who halt
Lapses without any thank you.
letters2burn:
kendrarhymeswithhideouscarwreck:
THANK YOU.
Just write a fucking check to Africa, you don’t need the ugly shoes.
wow alright…
first off, they are priced that high because they are making TWO shoes…TWO. you are essentially paying for TWO. That other pair is going to kids in different places, not just Africa. The movement actually started in Argentina. ALSO, the look is unique/different, because it is a form of advertisement that people will notice, and want to join in the efforts. And it’s convenient.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BUY THE SHOES. They do have other merchandise that you can buy, and they’ll still send a pair of shoes to these kids who don’t have any.
I bet you aren’t just donating anytime soon either. At least they’re for a good cause. Sometimes you can get over yourself to help some people out.
Or not.
I’m sorry…I couldn’t pass this one by without saying something.
As for the durability argument, I had a friend who wore his Toms all year long, even hiking in Honduras, and they are still fine. I don’t know what you people do to rip them up to shreds. Even so, it’s better than walking barefoot in those filthy places allowing the risk of horrible infections.
I think it’s a good effort too. Though the argument has been made—and on strong evidence—that Toms shoes actually hurts small town economies, as it puts local shoemakers (among other things) out of business. In the end, it also seems to be just another hand-out thrown at the face of the problem rather than something done to fix the foundation of it.
(Source: the-unpopular-opinions, via frothy-loins)
