I do have the requisite glasses and I live in the right state for this. Or-eee-gone. Or to natives–Ore-gun. [Correct pronunciation– ORE-gun] I hope this solar event [sky event? event taking place way, way above my head?] is everything it’s supposed to be. A total distraction from Life In America, a mystical journey into my soul and a big bag of Easter candy. [Mostly those super-sweet Cadbury Eggs. I’m thinking the eclipse will send a rain of Cadbury Eggs. A girl has got to have #dreams]
I’d write some long-winded diatribe that veers off into #WTFPumpkincuntLOL but hey, tomorrow, if WE ARE ALL STILL HERE, is another day. Oh my gosh…which side won the Civil War again? I have to go check the local statues. Bye!
Um, on a note that has nothing to do with the Eclipsia…coffee is such a wonderful beverage. Sometimes you have to take a stand, ya’ll. [yawl]
Well, it’s nearly ECLIPSE TIME, and boy, is Oregon overcrowded a bit right now. Whee!! I have almost no interest in this cosmic event; it’s rather weird and starting to upset me a bit. I should be coming out of my own skin over this. I should be able to spout eclipse facts and know the exact trajectory of when our common moon eats our common sun up there in that big blue thing for a bit. I should be able to map with geometric exactness where that eclipse will best be seen. Basically, I know in my area it will last about thirty seconds, and over in Weiser, Idaho…it will be about two minutes. That’s it. That’s what I’ve gleaned.
I did manage to go to my bank and get three pairs of viewing glasses. They were free. Whee. Whoop.
Central Oregon [which is code for Not-Portland] has turned into the Los Angeles 405 during rush hour. Crazy, man. Crazy. Prineville, the Ochocos, Madras, Bend, Redmond–crowded as hell’s waiting room, baby.
Gas stations, I’ve heard/read seem to be running out of gas. Basic necessities seem lacking due to all the folks who’ve come from far and wide choking the poor middle of Oregon like a chunk of gristly pork during a family picnic. Gag gag cough cough. Oh and there’s some truly crazy wingnut over on Twitter called Deplorable Amy throwing a shit sandwich of a shit fit over how everyone is so ‘mean’ to her because she’s a Central Oregon tRump Supporter.
TRULY DISGUSTED AT HOW MANY PPL WISH ME ILL WILL BCUZ I LIVE IN CENTRAL OREGON & AM A TRUMP SUPPORTER. THESE AREN’T THE OREGONIANS I KNOW..
One of the replies to that tweet is from Turtle Vision: Oh I’ll say it Do Go Fuck Yourself -Real Oregonian
[Who doesn’t love a good juicy in-state Twitter tirade met by fellow Oregon staters on the ‘other side’? It was under Central Oregon if you wish to go peruse that or even drop a Tweet or several.]
Oh I know why I’m rather indifferent to the cosmic fun about to go down.
My country seems poised to become Whitelandia.
Now!! Oh believe me, I had a whole diatribe about Whitelandia, that batshit insano ‘fake news’ conference where Pumpkincunt went off the rails and tried to take us all with it. [I can’t think of Pumpie as a ‘he’. Sorry. Just can’t do it. I guess that makes me just as evil and awful as your basic Aryan Nations ‘nice’ person.] I live in a state that overflows with those separatists hate the gubbermint sorts who have caches of military grade weaponry ready to go against the leftie commies trying to turn ‘murikka into some commie playground. [That would be me, I guess.]
Portland, Eugene, Salem, that’s the liberal paradise everyone thinks Oregon is. More like most of the folks in Oregon live there and so the state remains fairly blue. As the rest of the state is about as red as a baboon’s ass. But they don’t have the votes necessary to overcome the commie hippie libtards that mope over there in Portland, hello. Otherwise, Oregon would be as red as poor ole Idaho. Californians are also blamed for how ‘liberal’ Oregon seems. [As in they move here, all Cali transplants are liberal and hence they buck up the votes for liberal causes.] This can all be researched on your own time. Take it from a native Eastern Oregon sort…Oregon has a red undercoat that’s dangerous, ready to rebel for white causes and more than ready to kick some commie liberal Portland weak asses. Family values, you know.
I find it hard to write anything these days that doesn’t descend into gibberish or sarcastic despairing. I pull up a new file and my brain meat smokes and fumes. The words that do manage to land seem clumsy or not the words meant. [Which is, I think, the actual curse of nearly all writers ever.] So I’ll return to the eclipse because the stark, awful political landscape fills me with razor blades, gopher poison pellets and an obsession to see if our guns are locked and loaded just in case. Just in case. [Yes, the left is armed and ready, too. Despite rhetoric and the comforting belief that the ‘other side’ are pussies who won’t fight back when, WHEN, it all goes down.]
I, like others, am waiting for a Savior To Rise and make all this jagged awfulness go away. It’s like lines from Thunder Road, a Springsteen song– You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain/Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain/Waste your summer praying in vain/For a savior to rise from these streets…
I think after the eclipse mania dies down, we’re gonna have to save ourselves. There’s no deus ex machina about to swoop in and make it all better. After all, we’re not about to repeat history over and over and over and over and over. We’re not that fucking stupid, are we? [Yes, yes, we are. I was being, like, totally sarcastic.]
Well, what to write this week. If anything to write this week. The world slumbers in the dog days of summer and nuthin’ is going on. Except the threat of nuclear annihilation and some other stuff, but hey…
I did write a very Mean Girls post but my better angels punched me in the face. So.
I’ve been doing submissions. Always a fun time. [That was sarcasm.] I did two this morn! Two. An excerpt from a novel entitled The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. A one-act play about two star-crossed lovers at a Las Vegas bus stop, called Free Range Chickens. That one place did say you could submit excerpts from novels…and hey, I took them at their word.
It’s been a rather smoky caul over my tiny corner of the universe lately. Rather like being back in Shenyang City, China. That was heavy industrial pollution, this is just wildfire smoke. Or being in Beijing, which is even worse than Shenyang! I know! They are trying to ‘clean’ that all up now, that pollution over there in China. We here in America are prepared to take up the pollution slack, however! Yay! Can’t wait! I’m not bitter at all.
What have I been writing? Oh? Um. well, let’s kindly call it ‘crap’, shall we?
Yeah, don’t worry. I will not be smearing that clear-the-head writing here. It’s bad, trust me. Note: maybe I will. I have tons of it. It might be the next ripoff of Games of Thrones meets LOTR with a splash of Story of O. Intrigued???
Ahem, anyway!! It has the depth of My Pretty Pony fanfiction. Not that I’ve read any. I’m assuming most of that is unreadable claptrap. I’m also taking a break from politics, life and life’s politics via said Claptrap Crap, which helps yours truly do some very minor coping.
I also now have Ibuprofin and have resorted to using the morning’s old coffee to make iced coffee in the afternoon, because I’m a resourceful little kitty-cat. And, poured over onion-flavored ice [don’t ask], leftover morning iced coffee treat is…well, something I can drink that’s not water-flavored. It’s the little things, baby. I’m jonesing for black cherry Kool-Aid, by the way. Yes, I made some sun tea! Geez! I found some ancient tea bags I got at the Dollar Store. Yum.
Now for a Serious Writer Gal update: I went back into the third book of my trilogy wannabe and let the chips fall where they wished. I’ve got the ending [note– it’s a sad ending for right now. I am letting that soak in the inner crock-pot gravy, don’t worry!], so where was I? I have the ending, more or less, and now just need the beginning and middle! [As the ‘story’ keeps shifting about like a damn Garden of Eden snake. Eve couldn’t have crucified that damn snake and…anyway.] Whee!! Woot woot!
Saint Lysette and Bloody Alicecooks in my inner crock-pot. It heats up slowly, I can leave it all day, come back in the evening and viola, meal. If you don’t know what a crock-pot is or why you can leave it all day…Google is your friend. [Not if you have a vagina, though…tee hee.]
It will be cooler. Hopefully, we won’t be fighting for scraps in the bomb shelters. [I don’t even have mine dug yet!!! Fuck. Sonofabitch!]
Football, and pumpkins, and dying leaves, oh yes! The blankets come back out. Rain returns. We’re supposed to get another bad winter. I should dig out my mittens and scarves right now! Or go dig a bomb shelter. And find some, what, lead? Maybe line it with mangina juice scraped off King Magical Pumpkincunt? I had to get one shot in, come on.
Hey, if anyone wants to read Free Range Chickens or, um, like, produce it…HERE YA GO!!
PART ONE: IN WHICH I DECIDE TO TAKE ON UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS
It’s hot. It’s smoky. There’s wildfires burning merrily away. Merrily for the fire, not so much for the men and women fighting said merry wildfire/s. Clownstick von Pumpkincunt lied about the Boy Scouts calling It to tell It what a goodly, bigly speech It gave to the Boy Scouts. Woot woot!
Um, Pumpkincunt and Racist Elfboy [Sessions]now say it’s white folks who are the real victim of discrimination. They are diverting money from actual programs set up to fight racism and segregation and etc, etc…to investigate the real victims of America’s racist climes–WHITE FOLKS! Oh my! I wish I had made that up; I’d win some goddamn writing prizes, for sure, for sure. Or maybe not. I’d have to use a different name, maybe Sally Houswifelady. Or Jellytits McFly.
I mentioned, casually and off the cuff, that I should write a happy post about…wait for it…wait….wait for it…
Unicorns and rainbows. Mostly because my last few posts have been in the Debbie Downer column. Politics. Depression. Writing about writing. Ugh! Gross me out the door already, right?
PART TWO: ECLIPSE, NEW MONTH, NOT YET TO THE UNICORN OR RAINBOW GOOD BITS
And it’s a new month.
A brand spanking new month. Where anything can happen. Like an eclipse. I have no actual interest in the moon eating the sun — science is a liberal plot to get free government cheese and free cell phones for illegal pretty-girl dismemberment teams. The eclipse– is that even an ENGLISH WORD???— is a sign that Jesus doesn’t want anyone to get gay married, that women should become livestock and that tax cuts for the wealthiest is one of the Beatitudes.
Apparently, if you say ‘just kidding’ after whatever batshit statement you make…it absolves you of all blame and responsibility for whatever happens/doesn’t happen. Yay!
PART THREE: BIG PHALLIC HORNED VIRGIN FINDERS
Unicorns. Mostly what I know about them is that they’re virgin-finders. A white horse with a big phallic ‘horn’ sticking out of its forehead goes about finding pure gals…yeah, can you say fragile male fanfiction about their own genitals? Weee.
I remember a tale about how to capture a unicorn– you find a virgin [good luck with that, eh, boys??] female and the unicorn will find her and put its head in her lap. Um. I guess if the girl is not a virgin, you find that out, too, when no unicorn shows up. A version of Medieval slut shaming, weeeee. Though, they didn’t have social media back then to slut shame, they had other methods. Like oh, burning them alive for witchcraft, woot woot, for one. We all know witches are sluts and should be burned alive, that’s just a given.
And unicorns are pretty! Big, pretty, white or golden [I’ve seen unicorns featured in other colors, with lion tails, etc.] horse-like creatures that have magical virgin-finding powers, among other gifts. What girl, with some mild or actual artistic talent, has not drawn herself an entire portfolio of unicorns? Are there any tales of evil unicorns? Mm…
PART FOUR: GOD VERSUS EVERYONE ELSE OR THE HAPPY RAINBOW
Rainbows! God’s promise, in the Old Testies, to NOT KILL NEARLY EVERYONE ON THE PLANET BECAUSE THEY WERE ICKY. Sinning. Whatever.
It’s the symbol of God saying, hey, I won’t destroy my own creation anymore but hey, I’m still gonna keep score, you fucks.That’s my own interpretation of those dusty verses, anyway. Ahem.
The rainbow is also the symbol of Gay Pride. We’re queer, we’re here! Love trumps hate! Love wins! Love love love! All of that celebration, parading and legislation to make ‘those’ into actual ‘citizens’. Which sets the Christian Right’s teeth on edge; not only on edge but shatters those teeth. [And to be fair…no, no, I don’t have to be fair. I don’t have to say Not All Christians blurgh blag bluk. They go low, I give them wedgies.]
That rainbow flag waving about versus some dusty verses in the Old Testies…that’s just good old-fashioned fun right there. If you’re sitting on the sidelines with no dog in this here hunt, that is. [That’s an American idiom– no dog in this hunt. I understand it instantly, but I am from an actual hunting/farming/hillbilly/poor folks background.]
The rainbow is also some scientific thingie
to do with weather…or something.
But hey, let’s not bring anything so liberal elitist social justice warrior feminazi victimize the white folks into this here discussion on how the poor rainbow has been used to take down Jesus. Amen.
PART FIVE: CONCLUSIONS, MEANDERINGS AND GENERAL SMARTASS-NESS
Purity and visible evidence that God won’t take us out again for being sinners. Unicorns and rainbows. Cute fantasy figure and using the visible spectrum of colors to fight for inclusion of LGBTQ folks in all walks of life. An equine symbol of purity [sorry, gals, not even Mother Teresa can out-pure a unicorn. Even the Virgin Mary looks like a grubby pole dancer next to a one-horned horse.] and a symbol of God’s divine decree that even if we’re down here lining up puppies to debauch, God won’t send a heavy rain.
God didn’t say anything about earthquakes or other natural disasters. As people, to this day, equate a local/not local earthquake or some other fun Mother Nature-ish event, with some judgment they just know is being delivered on the heads of the local/global sinners. God punishes everyone they hate —It’s just great that God hates everyone I hate, ain’t it??– with a tornado.
It’s very convenient, random punishment by random earthquake or other disaster natural or otherwise, and such conclusions of divine justice involve no actual work or use of brain tissue. Earthquake equals suffering and death for sinners. And a few innocent bystanders who probably deserved it.
Yeah. I once had a carload of elderly ladies try to tell me that earthquake in Fukushima, Japan was God’s judgment on Japan for being atheists. My my my. We humans never seem to get away from branding all happenings, good or horrible or in between, with some sort of divine agency. Yes, I came to that conclusion all on my own…I amz smartie.
Back to the divine symbol of God’s forgiveness--I forgive you motherfuckers for being shitbirds, even though I designed you, but I ain’t taking any responsibility for how you fuckwads turned out, no way, no how! Have a goddamn rainbow, you sunsabitches!
So, God is reduced to striking small areas along fault zones or in tornado alley or in the path of hurricanes or…yeah, instead of punishing us all at once and just starting over with new models.
PART SIX: TEQUILA!
Why didn’t God just wipe out Noah and company, too, and start over? Other mythologies have just this– where the gods and goddesses had to start over and over and over again with humanity. So why didn’t the God in the Old Testies just do that with the obviously fatally flawed shits it created from dirt and probably a truly gargantuan cosmic-wide tequila bender? Yes, God created tequila before he created the sun. I know it, you know it, let’s get over it together, fellow babies.
Having been the victim of that truly evil liquid myself, I can well sympathize with God cataclysmically messing up humanity and forming them into such imperfect little shitwads of hatred, nastiness and so forth. Who hasn’t done stupid things while buzzed on tequila?? Hands? Hands? Yeah, okay then!!
Am I actually blaming the faults of humanity on God having one too many shots of demon juice AKA tequila? Yes. Yes, I am.
Oh that note!! August, it promises to be a super-hot crap-smeared slide into madness and further obscurity for yours truly. Hoooray!! If I start low, all I can go is high, right? Shhh. I think I hear a unicorn…nope, just my hopes and dreams being stomped to death by an angry horse with a plastic horn duct taped to its face.
A Texas preacher was wailin’ and waxin’ large on how this is going to be a bad day for the devil. And naturally, on hearing this shouted from the next room, during the early hours… I had a thought of– is any day a bad day for the devil? It seems the devil gets a lot of shit done. Wars to petty little malicious gossip fun. Everyone’s getting devoured by that devil walkin’ around. The devil takes a stroll and checks things off her list.
What?? Her list??
Have I lost my gol-durn mind? Yes, I have, but that’s a whole other hysterical and barely readable blog post.
Part Two: Gender Politics
I have always wondered this. Why is the devil male? Other than patriarchal absolute control over everything from religion to nail polish choices, of course. Positions of power must always be filled with male figures! Even in legends, mythology, religion and tall tales. Women with power tend to be evil queens, evil stepmothers and witches. Or a combo thereof– an evil stepmother queen witch, such as Snow White’s dad’s second wife. Yep! There are ‘good’ witches but…they’re still suspect, because they have vaginas under those pretty princess-esque ensembles. And could go rogue at any time! We don’t get many tales of queens without there being some sort of ‘love’ story involved where she ends up secondary in her own story as a kingly sort steps up and ‘saves’ her from having to rule and make decisions or she falls into disgrace and gets tricked or…I’ll stop there. Ahem.
Other than that…why is the devil always portrayed as a male figure? We have witches, of course. But. They’re subservient and doing the will of their master…yeah. Witches went from powerful independent sorts to cringing, tricked, lied to servants of Satan. They went from enjoying their power and their relative sexual freedom to being puppets who just endured the cold sexual caresses of Hell’s Landlord. [Because why not strip even sexual enjoyment out of witchcraft, can I get an amen??] See Malleus Malificarum.
Women and power, it’s makes people uncomfortable. I get it. There’s reams written here. The powerful woman getting reduced to evil crone who licks the devil’s bottom during ceremonies held beneath the full moon. Read all that stuff. Read about the witch craze and how midwives were suspect and…yeah. But.
Part Three: A Tale of Love Gone Wrong
That rebellious beautiful angel who went against God. That reads more like a love story gone horribly wrong than some servant acting up and getting spanked, big time, for all eternity. Actually, that fallen angel gets rewarded, by being made the Big Baddie who gets to pretend to go against God. [And here, you can start screaming I don’t know anything about religion, the devil, God or blah dee blurg. That my years in the Lutheran church apparently did nothing more than give me a curious case of soul rash.] After all, does it not say, in Revelation, that God wins?
It’s right there. That’s bad storytelling. You don’t invent this great villain and then say, baldly, that that villain is going to lose. We know the villain loses, we want to pretend some actual surprise. There has to be a moment when we think the Joker is going to squash Batman and yank his wings off. That’s just how good stories trot along. We want, maybe, to even believe, for a bit, that the villain, the Big Bad, will win the day and destroy the planet, kill the tied up girlfriend/love interest/wife/some random girl; uh, get that death ray to work, etc, etc. You don’t state that so and so will win while presenting some Big Bad as the ‘villain’. Unless you plan on springing a surprise on us. Like some super-villain in the wings. Maybe her name is Mary who wraps her holy thighs around the devil and God and devours them both with her girl parts and comes out the winner of it all.
I would so watch that movie. I would even buy the over-priced gold-plated popcorn to munch as I watched that movie.
You cannot announce that you’re the winner ahead of time. It’s insulting. Why do you need an adversary? Especially one that seems on the payroll? Why is he needed at all? Oh…because the devil has a case of bitter grapes and seeks to take down as many as he can before THE END OF IT ALL. [No, seriously, that’s the answer I’ve seen to this one. The devil wants to have a game of freeze tag before the End. Yep.] Cue evil laughter, ala Vinny Price.
PART FOUR: MORE GENDER POLITICS AND EVEN MORE LOVE GONE WRONG MUSINGS
How bitter do you have to be to infect as many humans as you can before God yanks the curtains closed?? That’s female territory…that’s spurned lover territory. That’s…yeah. I’m marching out some rather tired female tropes here— the woman scorned, the bitter woman who wants to repay her ex in spades, the nasty woman who will do anything to smear her ex, etc. Entire industries chug along on that crap alone. There’s also the crazy ex who stalks the current Pretty Young Thang and there’s a catfight where boobies bounce a lot. That’s both a movie plot go-to and the newest ad campaign for Chanel Number Five. Petty revenge against a force that’s all-powerful and who announces they’re going to win no matter what happens…doesn’t seem like male on male catfighting. [Can men have catfights?? Mmm. Maybe tomcat fights? Because tomcats are both slinky and possess testicles? MMMM!]
PART FIVE: WHAT SORT OF DAY DOES THE DEVIL HAVE?
But anyway. The devil, in my opinion, always has a good day. The list of sins is long and people are stupid. You can’t even have naughty thoughts without making God’s I Saw That! list. You can’t lust in your head, your thoughts are on trial. God is literally the thought police. The devil wants you to run that hardcore dungeon daddy fantasy involving a Viking era cowboy-ish muscled up pretty boy who puts you through your paces with a small whip and a large donkey. The devil is saying, hey, baby, go for it. You say, okay! Good day for the devil. Or maybe, hey, you’re in charge of an entire country. And you’ve got pretty bombs and tanks at your disposal. Why not use them on something? Like Chicago?? Yeah, the devil doesn’t even have to do more than shrug and go, hey, baby, go for it. That whisper of permission to give in to your darkest or most silly little vices. Instead of living with your knees crossed and your mind full of amens and hallulujahs and notions that the world is burning alive.
So it makes sense, to me, to make the nemesis of the desert God who stalked about in the lands of Canaan and Judea and so forth…a girl.
And hey, if we keep the devil a boy, well…kettle of very LGTBQ fish, can I get a high five and a clobber verse, amen? [There are six, by the way, six. That’s it. There’s about six maybe references in the entire Bible about this issue. Uh huh.] You can’t have women with power, after all and you can’t even entertain the notion of God and the also-male devil being exes…because how soon before we’re making bestiality and incest legal and letting people marry their own houseplants?? Hello!
A seductive temptress whispering, go for it, baby, as she picks your pocket and paints a target on your back. That, after all, is what women are…we’re either whores or good girls. That Madonna/Whore dichotomy. One fall from grace and we’re forever branded a sin-filled whorebeast, we gals. There’s no forgiveness for us if we tumble a bit or a lot or at all… We have to be kept covered and controlled and in our place otherwise…chaos. That’s the central core message of pretty much any major or minor religion…women are suspect. Big time. Beware. You give women any sort of freedom and they turn to the devil and become witches and try to become men and want to vote and shit. Gol durn it, not on my watch!
PART SIX: WHERE I FINALLY MENTION SOME WRITING PROJECTS OF MINE!! YAY!
Which leads me to…yes, my piddles in this area, writing-wise. Gotcha!! I wove a pretty web, I offered some sweet blasphemy and oh, viola…here we arrive at some stark PR for my products. Oh my!
Being a writer chick, I invented a character. It’s kinda what I do on occasion. She drives around in an old Caddy, seeking whom she may devour. I didn’t give her a name, other than ‘devil’. She’s a black woman riding the roads of America, offering deals. I was writing along in Alice in Oregonlandia and went, as you do, hey…what if the devil shows up.
What if the devil shows up.
And, sometimes, my mind-worms poop out some useful smeary images. One of those 50’s monstrosity cars with fins that get about three miles per gallon because gas was cheap back then. Flames painted on the black doors. An engine that can heard miles away, one of those big powerful V-8 take on all comers engines. And a woman at the wheel, a powerful woman, a woman to be feared, a woman of sadness and fierce laughter, the devil. With dark skin , a body that’s hers and hers alone, a confidence that her road trip isn’t gonna end any time soon. She suggests sins, doesn’t tell you to actively commit them. She knows you and maybe even loves you a little, but still wants to turn you inside out to watch you strangle in your own guts.
She also turns up in my third book, Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice. Which I’ve let ‘rest’ for a week, as other writing urges hooked me like a fly fisherman hooks one of those trout in a river in Montana. Must write this now! I’m mulling ideas for that third book, deciding just who and what Mr. Blue, Bong Bong and Mr. Peepers are. [If you have no idea who those characters are, it’s okay. I forgive you. Go in peace.] I’m inventing the mythology and reality of this world Alice, and her mother, Nancy, exist in. What happens if there’s devils within devils within devils? What happens if. It’s what writers do, after all. I’m not thinking Overall Literary Theme. I thinking, what if the devil is trying to fix her mistakes? What will Alice do when she finds out what Lysette is? What does Aaron know? I am thinking in terms of what comes next, not Man’s Inhumanity to Man.
The devil, after all, is in the details.
PART SEVEN: BWHA HA HA
Bwha ha ha.
The devil always has a good day. She likes to keep busy and she’s a multi-tasker, as women have been since the time they lived out in the open scavenging lion kills. God will snap His fingers and the devil might very well not even notice. She’s bent over whispering into a susceptible ear to some sexually confused young Christian man to look up three-way twink and bear porn [if you have no idea what this is, boy, are you gonna have some fun with Google today] over on porn hub [a real site, in case you thought I made that up, my innocent sweeties]…whispering in that ear to go for it, baby. God will be saying, hey, I’m ending the game. The devil will look up, from whispering sweet nothings into various ears. You do that, baby, if you think that’s best.
And God will swell up and stomp back to heaven, with a hearty string of expletives for his Ex and the devil will smile. It’s always a good day for the devil.
I’m going to lower the lights a bit and muse in the land of somewhat serious.
PART ONE: Mad Obstacle Course
I have a friend. Who is painfully idealistic. Who believes the world will magically become smart about, oh, everything, and clean itself up and that people will learn lessons. And not repeat history as hard and fast as they can. Who, right now, thrums with enough anger and grief over everything he sees, reads, and experiences to fuel a Smith’s ten-CD greatest hits collection. The bitter muddy waters of the world right now have turned the inner fishin’ hole that exists in his head into a stinking drying up slick, full of those mutated creatures caused by leaking nuclear waste and farm chemicals that get into the ground water. I fear for him, that he has no armor against the monsters and indifferent nobodies that foul the planet he loves so dearly. Why can’t they see? Why can’t they understand? Why can’t they know what’s going on? The cries of those battering themselves against the giant light bulb; those human moths dying, dying as they try to deliver their earnest sermons of save the earth, people matter, be kind to one another…
Now, this person does try. Casey [I’ll make up a name to protect myself first of all] attends local town meetings and interacts with others of his ilk, trying to get something started or get something said. That takes guts, in Velveeta Twitler land. Casey is artistic in a place where the arts are regarded as something invented by Satan for lazy slackers who are commie fags on welfare stealing the hard-earned tax money of True Paytriots to get free abortions, free marijuana and free phones. The neighbors threaten Casey because he’s not of their political party. Over which he has gone to the local sheriff, just in case. Just in case. A more harmless, gentle soul than Casey I’ve yet to meet. Who wants the best for those around him and tries to find his way in the stinking darkness and mad obstacle course called life.
PART TWO: Dead Christmas Trees
Now, I won’t delve further into the clinical case of this friend. It’s unfair and Casey isn’t here to defend…it’s just my few hard words, arriving from a place of dead Christmas trees shoved into a garbage cans. Where no light shines because I cannot lift my head and find the sun anymore. I am finding other idealists, who believe so gently and completely in democracy and human decency and human intelligence…equally bruised, dripping blood from their beat up souls [I know, how precious is that image???], exhausted by the utter indifference or laughing mockery they encounter, instead of applause and head nods and agreement that ‘something needs to be done’. They tread water that has already viciously drowned them several years ago. Ghosts whispering against the bulldozing of the universe.
Part Three: Just A Cycle
Some say our current times are just a cycle. We go though periods of great darkness, great and utter stupidity, a meanness toward others, a savage hatred of those outside our tribes, little groups and tiny clans. And then something lets go. That great dark time dissipates and reason comes back to the world. Light returns. People surge forward like mighty tides and get shit done. Great books are written, new ideas seep out and infect societies, good ideas, bad ideas, ideas ideas ideas; they swirl slowly in the human collection, stretching the collective minds. We will not be like that again, the new guardians scream as they examine an age just passed.
We will stand watch against such things. We will not kill over a religion, over a skin color, over a bit of land, over an ideal. We will accept all into the brotherhood of man, no exceptions this time. Except that one group, that one…they’re still suspect.
And the balance comes back, perhaps, for a bit.
Until it all tips again and it all starts over, the darkness happy as a toxic clam and the new guardians elderly bewildered broken bits wondering how it all came to this. Why did people not see? Why did people not study their history and see? Why did people ignore? Why did people not figure out in time? Why? Why? Why?
And then the light creeping back, the balance, the fiery cries of ‘Different this time!’, the great novels written by important new voices, the energy of new invention, the linking of hands across aisles. I don’t understand how they let that happen! I would never do such things! I would stand up and say something! I would…oh.
Part Four: Shoes and Vases
Patterns of destruction and creation. A great myth being told over and over with new characters. A new Cinderella slipping a foot into whatever slipper needs to be worn at certain time and place. Until the one time the darkness cannot be beaten back with a bit of light because there is nothing left of us. That, too, is part of our human mythology, our human destroy and rebuild mantras. The shoe falls apart. [To stick with the Cinderella riff, tee hee tee ha]
The clay wears out and cannot be reformed into the lumpy vase where a generation or two will stick their sad flowers, the flowers dying slowly, the vase leaking, the clay trying to return to dust so it can rest. Yes, I’ve reduced human endeavor into a child’s art project, dragged home in the bottom of a backpack, to be set on a shelf or not even looked at or broken before it can be saved from the interior of that child’s bag. And then just thrown away as the child shrugs or weeps– ‘fix it, fix it!’.
We try and try again. That is our best human quality. And the best instinct of idealists. They keep making those lumpy vases. And do not understand how much easier it is to crush those little vases than to construct them…which is rather simplistic. But the world, now, is rather simplistic and it’s not fashionable to be too much of a smartie pants. Smart people are viewed in much the same way people view rattlesnakes– something highly poisonous that will kill you without a second thought. We don’t need no book learnin’– could very well be the actual battle cry of Velveeta Twitler’s entire campaign. I jest, a bit, because if I don’t, I’ll smash my lumpy little vase and then shove it up the nearest endangered pygmy rabbit’s ass to show those libtards a thing or two. Snowflakes, lol!
Now, I started off with ‘Casey’ so I should end there, as well. Casey will swim toward the land of his familiars and huddle in the dim cool caves of those just like him. He has to, he’s on survival mode right now. That balance swinging back will probably not swing back in his lifetime…At least there’s chocolate. And coffee. And butterflies. Always Be Positive, because otherwise, people won’t like your social media posts.