[slightly edited to obscure recipients' identities and better fit the blog format]
To whom it may concern:
Should you allow the use of neonicotinoid chemicals to continue, I would have to wonder if, somewhere in the last seventy years or so, some ignorant young white boys got stung by brave and innocent honey bees that they provoked, and thereafter vowed as a clan that they would exact their revenge and then some on this species that caused them a temporary physical inconvenience. Then, of course, being the ones with all the money that they made up, they dragged everyone else with them in their rush to interspecies war. The bees stung us; what would they do next? Take on a human form and kill and replace our wives?*
I'm not much interested in picking petty fights with helpless species. Nor am I much interested in "pure" suburban lawns and sidewalks. Frankly, I find these latter rather repulsive. And I certainly don't have much use for "frankenfoods" when perfectly natural fruits and vegetables do the trick just fine. I quite enjoy a good, fresh, juicy peach or nectarine. But someone has to pollinate those plants to keep them around. Who's it gonna be? Us?
I suppose it could be us, in an indirect way. Prevent the deaths of the pollinators by banning neonicotinoid pesticides and similarly harmful chemicals. Otherwise, soon, the phrase "the birds and the bees" will become completely meaningless — perhaps in more ways than one.
Natural food for thought.
Cheshire Adams
United States of America
*Perhaps they too saw that episode of the original Outer Limits. IMDB/Hulu kindly hosts "ZZZZZ" for our education, although I wonder about the scientific accuracy of the "murder" scene.
Showing posts with label New World Order. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New World Order. Show all posts
Friday, September 26, 2014
Friday, May 16, 2014
Gentle Platonic Touch — An Article That Resonates With Me of Late. Also: Dinah.
Note: The first bit of this blog post copy/pasted from my own Facebook, with minor modifications.
By Mark Greene: The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men's Lives is a Killer
I posted this link in a private group on what turned out to be the day before my beloved Dinah was discovered, via the nosebleeds, to have a cancerous tumor and was consequently spared any suffering................on her fourteenth birthday. Always a poetic occurrence this last, as any Shakespeare lover will know.
It's possible I doted on "the Bear" some. I'm not a natural dog lover. The Bear was, and is, pretty much THE exception. Docile (not hyper), melodic (not just yappy and loud), capable of learning certain things (like how to dodge people's feet in the kitchen), so delightfully soft, and a true love for her world that shone in her deep, brown eyes. I gave her rather too many kisses, snuggles and hugs for at least my mother's taste. (Especially since I largely ignore the other dogs. Not a dog person, like I say. Please try not to hate.) I wanted to keep my head buried in her soft shoulders for good chunks of time at once, the way I had done with Linus the cat in years prior, but Dinah wasn't quite built that way. It was always a little bit physically awkward.
And I can only really speak on snuggling pets in such a manner.
I ain't ever had a girlfriend at a month and change short of 28. I'm an only child. My mother pretty routinely refuses me when I want a cuddle, hug, head scratch, and so on, usually claiming to be "irritable" or some such thing. (We'll exchange hugs many nights — some of them sincere in the moment.) I don't even attempt to approach my father for such things; he ain't interested. Lately my aunt in Chicago has hugged me with sharply decreasing frequency; I don't think we made any contact last visit, not even upon arriving or leaving. (Maybe in part because the trips/visits have become so routine?) At least my one cousin and her husband give hugs when we visit from ~350 miles apart. Will they still when we're merely on opposite sides of the same metro, meeting for a meal every week (as has been discussed)?
Pretty much all I had to turn to for snuggling (my choice form of gentle platonic touch) was Dinah. I don't feel the connection with the other dogs to snuggle them. This leaves me nearly completely............touchless.
It's not liberating. It's fucking cold and isolating.
I get by, sort of, on the "virtual touch" of ASMR videos, played with headphones on. Read the post below this one, if you haven't already, for more on that. As fine as that simulation of an actual human being around me may be, there remains a gaping void in my living. The society I call home does not like touch. I wonder how it feels to the customers I serve at my job when I manage to make the slightest contact with their hands as I hand them their change. It feels.....a LITTLE awkward, right? I have dared to make the briefest hand-to-hand contact, just to complete an ordinary business transaction. Is that okay?
Are we?
I am decidedly not. Now, minus the Bear*, more than ever.
*I realize there's a band with this name; sadly, I don't know their music.
****
Somewhere in the first night AD (after Dinah), I found the actions — but not the words, so much — to make the Bear my profile pic (linked above) on the 'Book, and also to slowly post captionless photos from different points in her life. A couple of Facebook friends "liked" the pictures as I posted them; I wonder if they understood what I was trying to convey at the time......? Anyway, I've decided to include here the pictures of the only dog I've ever loved. Now with some captions.
My angel.....gone home.....
(...not that I believe in that kind of thing, but, you know...)
Baby Bear. December 2000. When cassettes were a dominant audio format in the house of Adams. (Also, the endless election recall. But, DINAH!)
October 2001. One who knows to stop and smell the flowers. (It occurs to me, the physical photographs that I scanned might be stamped with their "developed" date, not their "taken" date.)
September 2002.
July 2004. Champion of the pillows. Also, ha ha, Ikea project on the floor...
June, 2006.
July 31, 2006. Ten minutes after this picture, I was in a car bound for the airport to England for the only time in my life so far.
That autumn, I let my own beard grow out.
September 21, 2007. So soft.......
December 5, 2007.
January 31, 2009. "Yorkie and Porky", I called them. ("Yorkie"'s name is Stella.) Later, Dinah slimmed down, and newer mini-schnauzer Teddy turned out to be the "porky" one.
July 4, 2009. Hiding from the fireworks on American Independence Day. Only this once did she ever go in the closet like this.
I love those eyes.
Flash forward a couple years, she's lucky if she can hear anything at all.
December 24, 2009. Newton and Dinah. Life is good.
February 14, 2010. PASTA NIGHT! The pasta that hasn't already been served to humans is in the white colander on the counter.
June 3, 2011. Biscuit?
June 11, 2011. Breakfast? Dinner?
January 6, 2014. In prep for selling the house, all the carpet was done away with in favor of hardwood. Soft places for dogs became mighty precious. Kinda like Dinah.
Her final photo appearance: February 22, 2014.
By Mark Greene: The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men's Lives is a Killer
I posted this link in a private group on what turned out to be the day before my beloved Dinah was discovered, via the nosebleeds, to have a cancerous tumor and was consequently spared any suffering................on her fourteenth birthday. Always a poetic occurrence this last, as any Shakespeare lover will know.
It's possible I doted on "the Bear" some. I'm not a natural dog lover. The Bear was, and is, pretty much THE exception. Docile (not hyper), melodic (not just yappy and loud), capable of learning certain things (like how to dodge people's feet in the kitchen), so delightfully soft, and a true love for her world that shone in her deep, brown eyes. I gave her rather too many kisses, snuggles and hugs for at least my mother's taste. (Especially since I largely ignore the other dogs. Not a dog person, like I say. Please try not to hate.) I wanted to keep my head buried in her soft shoulders for good chunks of time at once, the way I had done with Linus the cat in years prior, but Dinah wasn't quite built that way. It was always a little bit physically awkward.
And I can only really speak on snuggling pets in such a manner.
I ain't ever had a girlfriend at a month and change short of 28. I'm an only child. My mother pretty routinely refuses me when I want a cuddle, hug, head scratch, and so on, usually claiming to be "irritable" or some such thing. (We'll exchange hugs many nights — some of them sincere in the moment.) I don't even attempt to approach my father for such things; he ain't interested. Lately my aunt in Chicago has hugged me with sharply decreasing frequency; I don't think we made any contact last visit, not even upon arriving or leaving. (Maybe in part because the trips/visits have become so routine?) At least my one cousin and her husband give hugs when we visit from ~350 miles apart. Will they still when we're merely on opposite sides of the same metro, meeting for a meal every week (as has been discussed)?
Pretty much all I had to turn to for snuggling (my choice form of gentle platonic touch) was Dinah. I don't feel the connection with the other dogs to snuggle them. This leaves me nearly completely............touchless.
It's not liberating. It's fucking cold and isolating.
I get by, sort of, on the "virtual touch" of ASMR videos, played with headphones on. Read the post below this one, if you haven't already, for more on that. As fine as that simulation of an actual human being around me may be, there remains a gaping void in my living. The society I call home does not like touch. I wonder how it feels to the customers I serve at my job when I manage to make the slightest contact with their hands as I hand them their change. It feels.....a LITTLE awkward, right? I have dared to make the briefest hand-to-hand contact, just to complete an ordinary business transaction. Is that okay?
Are we?
I am decidedly not. Now, minus the Bear*, more than ever.
*I realize there's a band with this name; sadly, I don't know their music.
****
Somewhere in the first night AD (after Dinah), I found the actions — but not the words, so much — to make the Bear my profile pic (linked above) on the 'Book, and also to slowly post captionless photos from different points in her life. A couple of Facebook friends "liked" the pictures as I posted them; I wonder if they understood what I was trying to convey at the time......? Anyway, I've decided to include here the pictures of the only dog I've ever loved. Now with some captions.
My angel.....gone home.....
(...not that I believe in that kind of thing, but, you know...)
Baby Bear. December 2000. When cassettes were a dominant audio format in the house of Adams. (Also, the endless election recall. But, DINAH!)
October 2001. One who knows to stop and smell the flowers. (It occurs to me, the physical photographs that I scanned might be stamped with their "developed" date, not their "taken" date.)
September 2002.
July 2004. Champion of the pillows. Also, ha ha, Ikea project on the floor...
June, 2006.
July 31, 2006. Ten minutes after this picture, I was in a car bound for the airport to England for the only time in my life so far.
That autumn, I let my own beard grow out.
September 21, 2007. So soft.......
December 5, 2007.
January 31, 2009. "Yorkie and Porky", I called them. ("Yorkie"'s name is Stella.) Later, Dinah slimmed down, and newer mini-schnauzer Teddy turned out to be the "porky" one.
July 4, 2009. Hiding from the fireworks on American Independence Day. Only this once did she ever go in the closet like this.
I love those eyes.
Flash forward a couple years, she's lucky if she can hear anything at all.
December 24, 2009. Newton and Dinah. Life is good.
February 14, 2010. PASTA NIGHT! The pasta that hasn't already been served to humans is in the white colander on the counter.
June 3, 2011. Biscuit?
June 11, 2011. Breakfast? Dinner?
January 6, 2014. In prep for selling the house, all the carpet was done away with in favor of hardwood. Soft places for dogs became mighty precious. Kinda like Dinah.
Her final photo appearance: February 22, 2014.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Speak Our Consciences in a Soft, Sharp Whisper
(Previously: Speak of it Only in a Soft, Sharp Whisper (September 2012), and Speak of it in a Soft, Sharp Whisper Some More (August 2013))
Two passing thoughts on the subject of meridian, or "ASMR", before I get to the meat of what's in my mind:
• I have never been terribly keen on describing the feeling of meridian as a "tingle". "Tingle", in my mind, suggests a sort of neutrally extraneous sensation — something like the strongly minty, lingering taste in one's mouth after using a good mouthwash. Meridian, I think, is better described as a euphoric PULSE or spasm. But, I suppose a two-word, four-or-five-syllable phrase is a bit awkward in casual conversation and YouTube comments, isn't it.....
• Although the sensation is more easily triggered on my right side — that is to say, the right side of my back, usually — it tends to be more strongly felt on the left side, once the left ear has heard enough for the sensation to sort of "break through". I guess my left needs to be "primed" a moment before it kicks into full gear. If the "video" to which I've meristurbated (for those who missed it in part two, link above, this original word means "indulged in meridian") has been sufficiently effective, I'll sometimes be unable to fully lean back into my chair without the euphoria in my left mid-lower back asserting itself, a full minute or two after the video has finished. Somehow, my right prefers it quick and immediate; it's yet to linger post-trigger the way it does on the left.
Now, then...
There's a quality, or a trend, I've noticed of late in my lonely, after-hours meridian pursuits, and it rather ties in with my personal politics, which I've revealed on this blog on a number of occasions. It is this: the videos that I'm finding provide the strongest and most effective triggers, and therefore the videos I'm pursuing and "favoriting", are the ones that are crystal clear and unfiltered — breaths go directly in the ear, so strongly that I can practically smell the ASMRtist's breath. Also, I can easily hear and know when they are moving from one ear to the other; they're not just staying totally in one place while they deliver a line or two.
Summarily: The videos that best simulate an actual person being with me, the viewer/listener, are the best.
Try this one on for sighs (sic). (Embedding disabled by request: Air Light - Inaudible, unintelligible binaural whisper 3D)
Despite the Zappa-esque artistic style where different recorded bits are repeated and overdubbed throughout the piece (Zappa's "Freak Out" especially comes to mind on the grounds that I get meridian off "It Can't Happen Here", which has an up-close backup vocal in the right channel; "No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no, man you guys are gonna be SAFE, everything's COOL."), it is delightfully obvious that the recordings are done by an actual human being. (Not that some ASMRtists aren't human, mind you.) She audibly moves from directly in one ear, to more the back of the neck, closer back to the ear, then to the other ear, and so on. I smell her breath at certain junctures with P and K sounds; as poorly as our language puts names to scents, her breath is simply authentically human — not wholly foul, nor quite the aroma of a good meal freshly prepared in the kitchen — just simply human. Perhaps I remember the smell from somewhere in my past — a casual, unmemorable encounter in my far too numerous days of academia wherein I was in enough distance of a young girl speaking to catch a whiff. It's lively. And real. The combination of humanity, artistic endeavor, and, of course, super-effective meridian triggers, make this quite probably my all-time favorite "merideo" (ASMR video).
And so my political side flares up. Where are all the people in my life who would be willing to speak to me so intimately and closely? Our culture doesn't quite encourage that, does it? Occasionally, somewhat rarely, I feel meridian wholly by accident when being spoken to normally from about arm's length, as happened while I was receiving instruction on working with produce on the opening day of the discount grocery at which I'm working for about three more weeks until I move to greater Nashville. How did I manage to feel meridian in a joyous, happening atmosphere like that of a store's grand opening? I don't know. But, anomalies like that aside, nobody's exactly going out of their way to be in an intimate setting and tone with me, are they? And it's totally weird and un-American to sort of "nudge" anyone in that direction. Ideal meridian conditions do tend to lean toward the same kind of conditions that are often reserved for romantic endeavors — two people otherwise alone, in a close, quiet space. If I've ever been part of anyone's romantic endeavors, they have failed to tell me about it in all my nearly twenty-eight earth years.
I'm reminded all over again of how I'm completely alone and how our society seems to encourage that kind of thing. Get a steady job sitting at a desk all day. Drive to and from that job — the lone occupant in your vehicle. Squabble with your spouse, kids and parents at home; your connection is purely biological. Modern western culture, with all its endless flavors, passing technology and varieties, has pretty much fragmented us as people. We see too many differences between each of us for us to overcome them, and we don't make good connections anymore. At best, I get generally friendly people giving generally friendly greetings and offers on which they'll never follow through. We're just going through the motions, cogs in the machine, our teeth slowly eroding.
I wonder about the lives of the ASMRtists. The ASMRtist ranks are pretty well dominated by women — just an occasional male along the way — making videos in their own rooms or studios, with only themselves in them. What kind of families do they have? Are they romantically involved with anyone? They most all seem like they could easily sway a mate or two from the crowd, such kindly faces with sweet, soft voices. Do they often get to experience an actual live-action trigger from a human being in the same room? Will I get to meet anybody like this? ASMRtists are spread all over the globe. Air Light, who undoubtedly knows and understands the basic mechanics of meridian, is......Ukrainian, I believe....? I follow people in Russia, Deutschland, the UK, Australia, and probably some Americans, although that doesn't exactly narrow anything down. Is anyone near Nashville? Meet for a malt at Mike's some time?
I'm a lonely meridiot—
fringe and unfocused
a random poet
a runaway train
without a platform
a purple square
on a Rubik's Cube
a round peg
on an unstrung guitar
I got a
way with words
a cat
burglar
in an open desert
I adapt to survive
but can I live?
Um.......what the hell just happened to me? All right, yeah. So, I think I may attempt to produce a piece of ASMRtwork for YouTube. I may just read this series of blog posts. My microphone is horribly cheap — and naked. Listen for breaths that pierce. And hopefully trigger. (I have, in the past, gotten meridian from my own voice on "Thirst (Ambrosia)". Is this okay?)
Swell Saturday, cyber citizens,
~C.A., from Chicago~
Two passing thoughts on the subject of meridian, or "ASMR", before I get to the meat of what's in my mind:
• I have never been terribly keen on describing the feeling of meridian as a "tingle". "Tingle", in my mind, suggests a sort of neutrally extraneous sensation — something like the strongly minty, lingering taste in one's mouth after using a good mouthwash. Meridian, I think, is better described as a euphoric PULSE or spasm. But, I suppose a two-word, four-or-five-syllable phrase is a bit awkward in casual conversation and YouTube comments, isn't it.....
• Although the sensation is more easily triggered on my right side — that is to say, the right side of my back, usually — it tends to be more strongly felt on the left side, once the left ear has heard enough for the sensation to sort of "break through". I guess my left needs to be "primed" a moment before it kicks into full gear. If the "video" to which I've meristurbated (for those who missed it in part two, link above, this original word means "indulged in meridian") has been sufficiently effective, I'll sometimes be unable to fully lean back into my chair without the euphoria in my left mid-lower back asserting itself, a full minute or two after the video has finished. Somehow, my right prefers it quick and immediate; it's yet to linger post-trigger the way it does on the left.
Now, then...
There's a quality, or a trend, I've noticed of late in my lonely, after-hours meridian pursuits, and it rather ties in with my personal politics, which I've revealed on this blog on a number of occasions. It is this: the videos that I'm finding provide the strongest and most effective triggers, and therefore the videos I'm pursuing and "favoriting", are the ones that are crystal clear and unfiltered — breaths go directly in the ear, so strongly that I can practically smell the ASMRtist's breath. Also, I can easily hear and know when they are moving from one ear to the other; they're not just staying totally in one place while they deliver a line or two.
Summarily: The videos that best simulate an actual person being with me, the viewer/listener, are the best.
Try this one on for sighs (sic). (Embedding disabled by request: Air Light - Inaudible, unintelligible binaural whisper 3D)
Despite the Zappa-esque artistic style where different recorded bits are repeated and overdubbed throughout the piece (Zappa's "Freak Out" especially comes to mind on the grounds that I get meridian off "It Can't Happen Here", which has an up-close backup vocal in the right channel; "No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no, man you guys are gonna be SAFE, everything's COOL."), it is delightfully obvious that the recordings are done by an actual human being. (Not that some ASMRtists aren't human, mind you.) She audibly moves from directly in one ear, to more the back of the neck, closer back to the ear, then to the other ear, and so on. I smell her breath at certain junctures with P and K sounds; as poorly as our language puts names to scents, her breath is simply authentically human — not wholly foul, nor quite the aroma of a good meal freshly prepared in the kitchen — just simply human. Perhaps I remember the smell from somewhere in my past — a casual, unmemorable encounter in my far too numerous days of academia wherein I was in enough distance of a young girl speaking to catch a whiff. It's lively. And real. The combination of humanity, artistic endeavor, and, of course, super-effective meridian triggers, make this quite probably my all-time favorite "merideo" (ASMR video).
And so my political side flares up. Where are all the people in my life who would be willing to speak to me so intimately and closely? Our culture doesn't quite encourage that, does it? Occasionally, somewhat rarely, I feel meridian wholly by accident when being spoken to normally from about arm's length, as happened while I was receiving instruction on working with produce on the opening day of the discount grocery at which I'm working for about three more weeks until I move to greater Nashville. How did I manage to feel meridian in a joyous, happening atmosphere like that of a store's grand opening? I don't know. But, anomalies like that aside, nobody's exactly going out of their way to be in an intimate setting and tone with me, are they? And it's totally weird and un-American to sort of "nudge" anyone in that direction. Ideal meridian conditions do tend to lean toward the same kind of conditions that are often reserved for romantic endeavors — two people otherwise alone, in a close, quiet space. If I've ever been part of anyone's romantic endeavors, they have failed to tell me about it in all my nearly twenty-eight earth years.
I'm reminded all over again of how I'm completely alone and how our society seems to encourage that kind of thing. Get a steady job sitting at a desk all day. Drive to and from that job — the lone occupant in your vehicle. Squabble with your spouse, kids and parents at home; your connection is purely biological. Modern western culture, with all its endless flavors, passing technology and varieties, has pretty much fragmented us as people. We see too many differences between each of us for us to overcome them, and we don't make good connections anymore. At best, I get generally friendly people giving generally friendly greetings and offers on which they'll never follow through. We're just going through the motions, cogs in the machine, our teeth slowly eroding.
I wonder about the lives of the ASMRtists. The ASMRtist ranks are pretty well dominated by women — just an occasional male along the way — making videos in their own rooms or studios, with only themselves in them. What kind of families do they have? Are they romantically involved with anyone? They most all seem like they could easily sway a mate or two from the crowd, such kindly faces with sweet, soft voices. Do they often get to experience an actual live-action trigger from a human being in the same room? Will I get to meet anybody like this? ASMRtists are spread all over the globe. Air Light, who undoubtedly knows and understands the basic mechanics of meridian, is......Ukrainian, I believe....? I follow people in Russia, Deutschland, the UK, Australia, and probably some Americans, although that doesn't exactly narrow anything down. Is anyone near Nashville? Meet for a malt at Mike's some time?
I'm a lonely meridiot—
fringe and unfocused
a random poet
a runaway train
without a platform
a purple square
on a Rubik's Cube
a round peg
on an unstrung guitar
I got a
way with words
a cat
burglar
in an open desert
I adapt to survive
but can I live?
Um.......what the hell just happened to me? All right, yeah. So, I think I may attempt to produce a piece of ASMRtwork for YouTube. I may just read this series of blog posts. My microphone is horribly cheap — and naked. Listen for breaths that pierce. And hopefully trigger. (I have, in the past, gotten meridian from my own voice on "Thirst (Ambrosia)". Is this okay?)
Swell Saturday, cyber citizens,
~C.A., from Chicago~
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Silliest Ffourth, or The Decoration of "Independence"
I have been in an absolutely wretched mood of late. I turned 27 Earth-years old about a week ago — the age at which Jimi, Janis, Jim, and many other icons, musical and otherwise, fled this existential plane. I have a useless bachelors' degree that took eight years to achieve — or just under 26 years, if you count all the schooling and growing up before college — no hope of employment in a dead-end town, the finest writing skills that ever failed to gain a following beyond a very small circle of cyberfriends,* a splitting headache from the onslaught of familial aggravation and yelling in a small house with greater acoustics than ever thanks to the replacement of carpet by hardwood, and, after my mother told me that I'm "debt-free", I got a thing in the mail that informed me that my bi-monthly health insurance payment is hopping up to $286 and change. For my reader (-s?) outside the US, that's right; my mere existence, let alone its continuation, apparently requires me to forever cough up dough in increments, because if something horrendous happens to me, I will not be allowed to just die and escape the madness, no matter how limited my contributions are to endless menial errands and half a gigabyte of scribbled lines. I'm unallowed, and I'm feeling mighty unappreciated. I don't even get a word of criticism most of the time, save from my mother who complains that I keep making fun of her; people "unfriend" me without so much as "goodbye", or they ignore me. One person in Portland seems to appreciate me quite well, but suffice it to say that the idea of going to them has perished. And I may not be far behind.
Be it personally or (inter)nationally, I gotta say, independence is bullshit. On the national scale, we in the US have run ourselves into the ground and will soon be buried six feet deep there. Everything is outsourced to....other countries. (Including pop stars from Britain, I might add.) That's not independence. Employing our own people to produce our own goods on our own soil would be closer to independence. No doubt we'd still be making treaties and starting unnecessary wars with other countries, but it would be a start.
As for the personal level, I'm not even sure where to begin. We make a big enough deal about it. I hear it from my parents; I have to be independent! They won't support me forever! Nobody will support me! I have to support myself! Nobody will hire me! I have to support myself! Nobody will host me! I have to support myself! What, do I build a house out of wood and mud, with my bare hands? Do I grow my vegetables in the roof of that house? Where do I build that house? The whole country's divided up into other people's properties. I'll be shot and/or arrested.
With the possible exception of some radical guys in Montana — or so I've heard — nobody is really independent. At the very least, we have to deal with others to get the goods, materials, and decorations we need and want. And even before we get to an age where we can do that based on our own decisions, who among us can claim that they raised themselves as children, without anyone around to teach them what things are, reach the snacks off the top shelf for them, prevent them from stuffing that mud and those creatures in their face, et cetera, et cetera? Hell, our being born in the first place is dependent on at least one other person! We don't just pop out of thin air; we pop out of another human! And, thanks to our grotesquely fucked-up evolution, even she can't conjure you alone. At least one other person needs to help with a normal, natural delivery, which I understand is superhumanly painful for her. And how about that increasing number of cesarean births? How many people does it take to surgically remove someone from their own umbilical cord? Not to mention that the mother didn't impregnate herself. Unless she broke into a sperm bank at night. But even then, she didn't build that sperm bank alone. I should think it very implicit and inherent in our biology that we are inexorably dependent on each other.
So why this crushing "independence" mindset? Outmoded macho bullshit, mixed with the greed of those special few who never outgrew that bit of childhood where the kindergarten teacher tried so hard to get you and the other kids to "Share". Those stupid, uncooperative brats ruined everything for the whole class. The whole working class.
We depend on each other. Some in certain ways, some in others, some unfortunate souls on life support completely and terminally. If the family or hospital goes cold and pulls the plug, they're gone. We're humans, and physical care is not enough for us. We need emotional support — love. We need to know that our existence has value, even if it's merely local. And by "value", I don't mean financial. If money is your primary concern, may I say this: It's humanity, stupid!
That seems such a perfect ending, right there. But I got to thinking about something I read recently on the Good Men Project, an intriguing site whose publisher somehow came to follow me on Twitter and still does. Apparently I've reached a point in my feeling of loneliness that I'm reading mating/dating articles. Anyway, one of them said something akin to "you're not looking for a partner; you're looking for a caretaker." Yes. Yes I am. And she should be too. We take care of each other. That's what we're supposed to do.
I bid you an American Fantasy Day full of happy festivity, delicious food, and well-guided love. Make it happen.
*Lucy in Cyberspace's official followers remain at three after some five years and change. I still have no idea who Daniel is, which could be the tiniest spark of encouragement. Daniel, looks like you're near Chapel Hill. You don't happen to know Rockin' Ammonia Karaoke, do you? Also, Hi Mond_licht! Long time no interact with. And Type, great to have you. Otherwise, I get a very occasional comment from the likes of Momo and Beccabear. And Tucker, I think. Love you folks to bits.
Be it personally or (inter)nationally, I gotta say, independence is bullshit. On the national scale, we in the US have run ourselves into the ground and will soon be buried six feet deep there. Everything is outsourced to....other countries. (Including pop stars from Britain, I might add.) That's not independence. Employing our own people to produce our own goods on our own soil would be closer to independence. No doubt we'd still be making treaties and starting unnecessary wars with other countries, but it would be a start.
As for the personal level, I'm not even sure where to begin. We make a big enough deal about it. I hear it from my parents; I have to be independent! They won't support me forever! Nobody will support me! I have to support myself! Nobody will hire me! I have to support myself! Nobody will host me! I have to support myself! What, do I build a house out of wood and mud, with my bare hands? Do I grow my vegetables in the roof of that house? Where do I build that house? The whole country's divided up into other people's properties. I'll be shot and/or arrested.
With the possible exception of some radical guys in Montana — or so I've heard — nobody is really independent. At the very least, we have to deal with others to get the goods, materials, and decorations we need and want. And even before we get to an age where we can do that based on our own decisions, who among us can claim that they raised themselves as children, without anyone around to teach them what things are, reach the snacks off the top shelf for them, prevent them from stuffing that mud and those creatures in their face, et cetera, et cetera? Hell, our being born in the first place is dependent on at least one other person! We don't just pop out of thin air; we pop out of another human! And, thanks to our grotesquely fucked-up evolution, even she can't conjure you alone. At least one other person needs to help with a normal, natural delivery, which I understand is superhumanly painful for her. And how about that increasing number of cesarean births? How many people does it take to surgically remove someone from their own umbilical cord? Not to mention that the mother didn't impregnate herself. Unless she broke into a sperm bank at night. But even then, she didn't build that sperm bank alone. I should think it very implicit and inherent in our biology that we are inexorably dependent on each other.
So why this crushing "independence" mindset? Outmoded macho bullshit, mixed with the greed of those special few who never outgrew that bit of childhood where the kindergarten teacher tried so hard to get you and the other kids to "Share". Those stupid, uncooperative brats ruined everything for the whole class. The whole working class.
We depend on each other. Some in certain ways, some in others, some unfortunate souls on life support completely and terminally. If the family or hospital goes cold and pulls the plug, they're gone. We're humans, and physical care is not enough for us. We need emotional support — love. We need to know that our existence has value, even if it's merely local. And by "value", I don't mean financial. If money is your primary concern, may I say this: It's humanity, stupid!
That seems such a perfect ending, right there. But I got to thinking about something I read recently on the Good Men Project, an intriguing site whose publisher somehow came to follow me on Twitter and still does. Apparently I've reached a point in my feeling of loneliness that I'm reading mating/dating articles. Anyway, one of them said something akin to "you're not looking for a partner; you're looking for a caretaker." Yes. Yes I am. And she should be too. We take care of each other. That's what we're supposed to do.
I bid you an American Fantasy Day full of happy festivity, delicious food, and well-guided love. Make it happen.
*Lucy in Cyberspace's official followers remain at three after some five years and change. I still have no idea who Daniel is, which could be the tiniest spark of encouragement. Daniel, looks like you're near Chapel Hill. You don't happen to know Rockin' Ammonia Karaoke, do you? Also, Hi Mond_licht! Long time no interact with. And Type, great to have you. Otherwise, I get a very occasional comment from the likes of Momo and Beccabear. And Tucker, I think. Love you folks to bits.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Spring in Suburbia
Kids screaming in the street. The constant roar of lawn mowers, one asynchronous homeowner after the other. Dogs barking endlessly at all the mowing. Father barking endlessly at the dogs, trying to tell them to shut up, while the non-English-speaking dogs probably think he's joining in the chorus with them. And me, lying in bed, feeling my brain rattling against every bit of my skull's interior in a quest for a way out. Soon, I'll be coerced into contributing to that noise pollution with the family's own mower. And my mother will come home and add her disharmonic vocal to the mix. But for now, my father takes a moment to lull me back to sleep with his lecture about why I should get up and mow the lawn.
Lawn mowing is a microcosm of suburban life as a whole. Its only fruit, apart from the snot that the newly scattered pollen will elicit from our sinuses, is that the lawn looks nice in the eyes of horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. For maybe a week until the grass has grown back. And then it has to be done again. To please the horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. Theoretically.
Pure bright, even-height green. The whole premises, wherever there isn't a house, tree, mailbox, or bit of concrete. No fruits. No vegetables. No flowers. No organisms that resemble flowers but are apparently weeds. And if it's not the day of the week when the garbage collectors come by, get that bloody trash can outta here. (But if it is that day of the week, consequences will be dire if the can isn't out.) If it isn't an indistinct, crew-cut blade that lives only for itself and eventually dies in vain, it's not allowed. Sound familiar?
So, as I've said many times before, I don't belong here. And I remain in talks to hopefully belong somewhere new. But while I'm jobless, I am being given looping domestic things to do. Pointless yardwork. Moving trash forth and back every week. Cleaning up and fixing my demented father's "projects" and digital screw-ups. Assisting my demented father with getting to his outside errands and participating in the grocery shopping. And I get food, shelter and internet at no further cost than the $275 bi-monthly health insurance payment. So there's that. Plus this. At least for a little while longer.
Lawn mowing is a microcosm of suburban life as a whole. Its only fruit, apart from the snot that the newly scattered pollen will elicit from our sinuses, is that the lawn looks nice in the eyes of horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. For maybe a week until the grass has grown back. And then it has to be done again. To please the horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. Theoretically.
Pure bright, even-height green. The whole premises, wherever there isn't a house, tree, mailbox, or bit of concrete. No fruits. No vegetables. No flowers. No organisms that resemble flowers but are apparently weeds. And if it's not the day of the week when the garbage collectors come by, get that bloody trash can outta here. (But if it is that day of the week, consequences will be dire if the can isn't out.) If it isn't an indistinct, crew-cut blade that lives only for itself and eventually dies in vain, it's not allowed. Sound familiar?
So, as I've said many times before, I don't belong here. And I remain in talks to hopefully belong somewhere new. But while I'm jobless, I am being given looping domestic things to do. Pointless yardwork. Moving trash forth and back every week. Cleaning up and fixing my demented father's "projects" and digital screw-ups. Assisting my demented father with getting to his outside errands and participating in the grocery shopping. And I get food, shelter and internet at no further cost than the $275 bi-monthly health insurance payment. So there's that. Plus this. At least for a little while longer.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Some things that appeared on my "news feed" on Facebook this past day:
• Two celebrity deaths: One a polarizing political figure from the UK, the other a popular entertainer from before my time. I feel no personal connection to either. There seemed genuine sadness for the Disney representative; reaction to the former prime minister was rather more interesting. One person produced a picture of Mags and the Gipper and proclaimed that "these two are responsible for the world being as it is today" (paraphrased). Looking at this world, that would seem to be more of a dyslogy than a eulogy. (Does English have a proper word that can go where I made that one up? "On-grave dance"?) One person simply delivered the news gleefully and sing-song-ily. And at least one other person had a shared status scorning the celebration of certain deaths. Speaking of which:
• An article link proclaiming that the Westboro Baptist Church will picket the funeral of Roger Ebert. I don't know if my international audience gets to hear much about the Westboro Baptist Church, so lest you don't, the Kansas-based hate group is known for outright stirring up anger by showing up at various funerals (e.g. those of soldiers) and other events and spewing anti-gay and other vile sentiments. What they could possibly have against the central Illinois native film critic, frankly, I don't want to know. I didn't read the article.
• Monsanto with its chemicals and genetically modified food will destroy us all, and we are powerless to prevent it or circumvent it by, say, growing our own food and banding together.
• Exxon turned an Arkansas neighborhood into an oil lake and doesn't want anyone to know.
• Palestine, or Hamas, or somebody, is still firing rockets into Israel.
• People ought to be who they are and not let anyone drag them down.
• "Remove the North Korean supreme leader!"
• Of the two people that mentioned their marital engagements this past day, one has learned that their aunt has terminal cancer and is estimated to have about two months left.
• The usual assortment of memes, Doctor Who references that have ever gradually come into focus for this writer who has never seen a single episode, an overwhelming number of YouTube song "videos", and words of presumed wisdom imposed over pictures of natural beauty which I'll probably never see in person.
• And, last but not least, my cousin's announcement that the child within her will be "evicted" (her word choice) midnight on Thursday if he makes no effort to emerge on his own before then.
This last just seemed somehow poetic to me. In fact, I do faintly recall a poem, somewhere in my childhood, expressing the sentiment of an unborn child who doesn't want to leave the warm, safe womb. Silverstein, maybe? I'll have to dig out those books when I have a moment.
There's a theory that the world was always this mad and that it's just more apparent and magnified in the digital age. There's also a theory that the digital age is accelerating the madness. (Though they didn't show up so much this past day, women's rights, LGBT rights, and all kinds of "occupy"-style sentiments are also ongoing conflicts and staples of my news feed. Oh, and can't forget climate change, threatening to flood the planet and bust its orbit.) I know I've mentioned drawbacks of the digital age before: we're antisocial, and we're angry and judgemental. Catharses are intensifying, and it's getting uglier out there all the time. At least we can count on the Cubs rendering themselves unrecognizable and losing.
And so I'm thinking about that "cousin once removed" who evidently doesn't want to be removed. I'm hoping he will be able to know and keep peace of mind. He does have one thing going for him: an awesome pair of parents (with awesome taste in housepets)!
****
Meanwhile, I'm pretty much wasting away in the flatlands. Later this morning, I'm going to another probably fruitless meeting in the state employment office. Then, after that, I'm going to a friend's house to watch cartoons. I might also check out a local "singer-songwriter collective" in the evening.
I got a debit card recently. This has me thinking now about setting up a Paypal and including a "donations" button on here. Maybe somebody would use it. Or, I can try selling an "album" on Bandcamp. Though I'd like to record (and finish writing) a few more things before I attempt that. (Covers don't fly on Bandcamp.)
And I may have an opportunity to record soon. I won't be going to meet my cousin-once-removed, but my mother will. I'll have about a week's reprieve from being in the bathroom when my mother gets home and, when I get out to greet her, the first thing she disdainfully intones is "Gee, do you do anything else besides sit in the bathroom?!" And if I can get Dad out of the house for a while, I have only the dogs waiting to bark to contend with. With all the carpet now gone in favor of hardwood, the house acoustics are rather too good.
How 'bout it? Is it worth the bother? Anyone willing to support me?
• Two celebrity deaths: One a polarizing political figure from the UK, the other a popular entertainer from before my time. I feel no personal connection to either. There seemed genuine sadness for the Disney representative; reaction to the former prime minister was rather more interesting. One person produced a picture of Mags and the Gipper and proclaimed that "these two are responsible for the world being as it is today" (paraphrased). Looking at this world, that would seem to be more of a dyslogy than a eulogy. (Does English have a proper word that can go where I made that one up? "On-grave dance"?) One person simply delivered the news gleefully and sing-song-ily. And at least one other person had a shared status scorning the celebration of certain deaths. Speaking of which:
• An article link proclaiming that the Westboro Baptist Church will picket the funeral of Roger Ebert. I don't know if my international audience gets to hear much about the Westboro Baptist Church, so lest you don't, the Kansas-based hate group is known for outright stirring up anger by showing up at various funerals (e.g. those of soldiers) and other events and spewing anti-gay and other vile sentiments. What they could possibly have against the central Illinois native film critic, frankly, I don't want to know. I didn't read the article.
• Monsanto with its chemicals and genetically modified food will destroy us all, and we are powerless to prevent it or circumvent it by, say, growing our own food and banding together.
• Exxon turned an Arkansas neighborhood into an oil lake and doesn't want anyone to know.
• Palestine, or Hamas, or somebody, is still firing rockets into Israel.
• People ought to be who they are and not let anyone drag them down.
• "Remove the North Korean supreme leader!"
• Of the two people that mentioned their marital engagements this past day, one has learned that their aunt has terminal cancer and is estimated to have about two months left.
• The usual assortment of memes, Doctor Who references that have ever gradually come into focus for this writer who has never seen a single episode, an overwhelming number of YouTube song "videos", and words of presumed wisdom imposed over pictures of natural beauty which I'll probably never see in person.
• And, last but not least, my cousin's announcement that the child within her will be "evicted" (her word choice) midnight on Thursday if he makes no effort to emerge on his own before then.
This last just seemed somehow poetic to me. In fact, I do faintly recall a poem, somewhere in my childhood, expressing the sentiment of an unborn child who doesn't want to leave the warm, safe womb. Silverstein, maybe? I'll have to dig out those books when I have a moment.
There's a theory that the world was always this mad and that it's just more apparent and magnified in the digital age. There's also a theory that the digital age is accelerating the madness. (Though they didn't show up so much this past day, women's rights, LGBT rights, and all kinds of "occupy"-style sentiments are also ongoing conflicts and staples of my news feed. Oh, and can't forget climate change, threatening to flood the planet and bust its orbit.) I know I've mentioned drawbacks of the digital age before: we're antisocial, and we're angry and judgemental. Catharses are intensifying, and it's getting uglier out there all the time. At least we can count on the Cubs rendering themselves unrecognizable and losing.
And so I'm thinking about that "cousin once removed" who evidently doesn't want to be removed. I'm hoping he will be able to know and keep peace of mind. He does have one thing going for him: an awesome pair of parents (with awesome taste in housepets)!
****
Meanwhile, I'm pretty much wasting away in the flatlands. Later this morning, I'm going to another probably fruitless meeting in the state employment office. Then, after that, I'm going to a friend's house to watch cartoons. I might also check out a local "singer-songwriter collective" in the evening.
I got a debit card recently. This has me thinking now about setting up a Paypal and including a "donations" button on here. Maybe somebody would use it. Or, I can try selling an "album" on Bandcamp. Though I'd like to record (and finish writing) a few more things before I attempt that. (Covers don't fly on Bandcamp.)
And I may have an opportunity to record soon. I won't be going to meet my cousin-once-removed, but my mother will. I'll have about a week's reprieve from being in the bathroom when my mother gets home and, when I get out to greet her, the first thing she disdainfully intones is "Gee, do you do anything else besides sit in the bathroom?!" And if I can get Dad out of the house for a while, I have only the dogs waiting to bark to contend with. With all the carpet now gone in favor of hardwood, the house acoustics are rather too good.
How 'bout it? Is it worth the bother? Anyone willing to support me?
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Wake
In case anyone missed it — perhaps your corner of the world wasn't so abuzz about it — we had yet another mass public fatal shooting here in the States this past Friday. This time it was in a very well-off, primarily white, far suburban elementary school. Hence, this time, people may actually talk seriously about guns and the people who obtain and use them. They might, they may, they could...will they?
So we've been having the inevitable few days in the wake where we ask in stupefaction, WHY? And my mind has certainly not been at rest. I've been quietly unraveling some thoughts the past day or two. Somewhere early yesterday morning, when I was about ready to go to sleep for the day and unprepared to write a full blog post, I quickly jotted down a note in the form of a Tweet: (something profound about the lonely outcast gunman stereotype and the increasing lack of sociability in today's world). And I think I'm ready to at least begin to expound on that.
Most of the "lone gunmen" we hear about are young white men. The common stereotype is that they were previously, as people, very quiet and kept to themselves. They've seemed pleasant in the past, maybe even intelligent. Many of them, from what I've read so far, have some family turbulence in their personal history and have struck out on their own. This last seems to apply to both Friday's Connecticut shooter and the one at the Oregon mall earlier this month. A certain number of them also may have a history of depression — understandable for people prematurely separated from their parents (also for intelligent people, it seems). So, to briefly summarize, for your average perpetrator of a mass murder-suicide, we have a reasonably nice, reasonably intelligent, young white guy who has known social isolation and depression and, therefore, thoughts of a very dark nature.
....holy shit. That's me.
....well, almost, anyway.
Reasonably nice: check. Don't you agree?
Reasonably intelligent: check. At least many people and supposedly indiscriminate tests have assured me of this over the years.
Young white guy: check. I don't much identify with any of those qualities, but, at twenty-six earth years, with my genitalia and sexual desires, and a neat comparison of my skin tone to that of others I've known and how those people identify, I guess this is right.
Now, to social isolation. I have perhaps exaggerated in the past about myself being socially isolated. I've lived with my parents all my life. Although they argue more or less constantly, they've never divorced or in some other way fully split. Aside from the occasional trip taken by one or two of us, we've always been together, "put[ting] the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'", as my mother once put it. The three of us. Just over a hundred miles from the nearest reasonably close family. Mom with two fairly good friends that come over once in a while, or, more frequently, take her out for an evening. Dad with no friends or apparent desire for them at all. And me with my own picoscopic social life. And up to three small dogs at a time, which is absolutely not my thing (except this one). And zero cats.
So, social near-isolation, with bizarre tastes and not much ability to connect or identify with anyone in this college town in the cornfields. Fragment of a check mark.
On to depression. I'm not on any antidepressants now. But I most assuredly was for a time during my eight-year college tenure. I went through five different varieties of antidepressant from roughly 2008 — when I announced I wanted to drop from school and the family panicked — to 2012. The first one didn't do anything. The second one made me more depressed. The third one, I shall come back for. The fourth one lifted my mood but did nothing for my apparent lack of will to progress. ("Now I can wear a smile as I swirl down the john!", I semi-joked.) The fifth one at least got me through what I needed to get through, before my insurance ran out. I finally graduated shortly after that. I'm done with college now, and I feel fine, except that I'm still here in the tiny home of arguing and gracelessness. But, as I'm sure I've said a number of times now, I'm working on that.
Thoughts of a very dark nature. These are absolutely existent, surfacing in my brain on occasion. A few of them have even made their way onto this blog. Like here. And perhaps here. And maybe in a few other places in this archive. I seemed to hit a fever pitch of sorts in 2011. Depending on your interpretation, "Society's Waste", written that year, could raise a red flag in your mind.
The thoughts and fantasies are there, certainly. As a milder example, when the yorkie's annoying me, I sometimes fantasize yet about clocking her a heavy one and throwing her in the trash can. And I'll also admit to some sexual fantasies that completely betray the feminist notions I've put forth on here. I will honestly say that I've never fantasized about shooting up a school or any place crowded with so-called strangers. (Even if I did, I know and live with nobody who keeps firearms, at least that I know of.) But the dark and perhaps violent fantasies are there, in limited quantities. Now the question is, do I ever act out those fantasies in the flesh?
About that third antidepressant I said I'd come back to: It was while I was on that that my mother came home one day in her usual bossy, grating manner, and I punched her face. I didn't draw blood or break anything, but I did elicit a certain amount of panicked yelling and calls for me to immediately leave the house. In a panicked stupor, I hopped a train to my aunt's house early the next morning for the week to follow. I never touched that third antidepressant again.
It was also rather a while after I came back from that week at my aunt's before my mother and I spoke to each other again. Eventually we got to talking enough to move me on to the fourth antidepressant.
There was also, at some point later that I don't remember exactly, an instance where I was washing dishes, and "Bossy Boots" (a name she's been known to bestow upon one of the dogs vocalizing that they want a biscuit) was going at a hundred miles an hour, and I just took the knife I was washing, held it, and stared silently and menacingly. My memory of that moment is dim, but I believe she eventually went away for the moment, and I simply turned back and resumed washing. Nothing major happened, that I can tell, but the occurrence could be noteworthy, lest one day I somehow do lash out at a crowd of unsuspecting people, which I doubt.
I want and love peace, and love, and I cherish those things when I have them. I think this is true of many people. But in this cold, crazy world, I suspect that those primal, carnal, animal instincts that dwell within us get more difficult to contain as, with this global age, the world slings ever-increasing shit everybody's way. Certain people don't seem to know how to release stress and feelings, and the onslaught erodes at their outer human façade, unleashing the beast within.
I've revealed all of this information about me simply to provide an idea of where I'm coming from. And about now, my destination here shall begin to pierce the horizon.
There's been plenty of talk since Friday's massacre in Connecticut about gun control. Some people want a total absence of guns among civilians; some people apparently want to fight fire with fire and arm all the teachers. Some people want restrictions on the types of guns that civilians can obtain — presumably no military-style automatic assault rifles. (Why does an elementary schoolteacher need something like that, anyway?) And some people want background checks on potential gun owners. I say, given the American mindset, start with the background checks. If someone has a history of depression or other mental illness and has seemed withdrawn, it's probably wise to deny them gun ownership. It may not always help — the Newtown killer took his mother's guns — but it's perhaps a start. Maybe also minimize the damage with some of those aforementioned restrictions on types of arms. Of course, if we do that, someone may be tasked with taking the banned guns from people who will be quick to use those very guns on anyone who would take them away, and that could get nasty.
Indeed, this is not at all easy. But I do have one other proposition I'd like to make, and it takes on a rather broader scope of life than simply guns and gun control/rights. My mother made a remark during a telephone conversation over the weekend that "something is wrong with the basic mentality in this country" (paraphrased from memory). I'm not convinced she knows what it is, but I think she has the right idea.
I'm thinking of the quiet/loner aspect of the typical mass shooter. Humans are a social species; loneliness and "lonerism" are not at all healthful for an individual, and they are certainly not healthful for a people, or a country. Yet the general mentality in this country seems to be one of mandatory, aggressive self-sufficiency, often forsaking others just to get one's own self ahead in the socioeconomic ranks. Helping our fellow humans here seems frowned upon and apparently, in some cases, illegal. (I think I've mentioned this before.)
And it seems that contemporary technology is making it worse. We can use our devices, mobile or otherwise, to ignore and dismiss the people we're physically with while we discover via the internet things we don't like about other people whom, before the discoveries, we considered friends. For a lot of us, I think, cyberspace is replacing real, human friends. The more rapidly technology develops, the faster our descent. Even without technology, it seems that at least my own family, probably many others, never gather outside of certain major holidays, thanks to our jobs and whatever other obligations we feel cement us where we are. We, as a people, are becoming more withdrawn and forgetting who we are. We're lost and lonely, and we'll remain as such until we decide to stand up and guide each other.
Please: If just for an hour or two a day, twice a week, something like that — turn everything off — television, cell phones, computer, etc. — get together with family, friends, barflies, whoever's around, and just spend time talking. Maybe play a game together. Maybe exchange uncouth jokes or random anecdotes from your week. Maybe have a meaningful discussion about how things are and how they need to be.
Remember also to teach your children to help, to love, and to accept and be accepted as friends and human beings. Teach them attentiveness, togetherness, and positivity. And while you're at it, turn them on to arts: painting, writing, playing music on instruments, dancing, perhaps sports can qualify. The children may come to rely on those as a means of catharsis. I know I've benefited from setting myself loose on the writing board — even if it is virtual.
And, if you can help it, stay near a big city, where people and resources are available. And try not to move too far from other family.
I can't say that togetherness is the perfect solution for mass shootings, or for everything. But I think it can be a terrific start.
Peace and love be with all of you. Happiness will surely follow.
~C.A.~
So we've been having the inevitable few days in the wake where we ask in stupefaction, WHY? And my mind has certainly not been at rest. I've been quietly unraveling some thoughts the past day or two. Somewhere early yesterday morning, when I was about ready to go to sleep for the day and unprepared to write a full blog post, I quickly jotted down a note in the form of a Tweet: (something profound about the lonely outcast gunman stereotype and the increasing lack of sociability in today's world). And I think I'm ready to at least begin to expound on that.
Most of the "lone gunmen" we hear about are young white men. The common stereotype is that they were previously, as people, very quiet and kept to themselves. They've seemed pleasant in the past, maybe even intelligent. Many of them, from what I've read so far, have some family turbulence in their personal history and have struck out on their own. This last seems to apply to both Friday's Connecticut shooter and the one at the Oregon mall earlier this month. A certain number of them also may have a history of depression — understandable for people prematurely separated from their parents (also for intelligent people, it seems). So, to briefly summarize, for your average perpetrator of a mass murder-suicide, we have a reasonably nice, reasonably intelligent, young white guy who has known social isolation and depression and, therefore, thoughts of a very dark nature.
....holy shit. That's me.
....well, almost, anyway.
Reasonably nice: check. Don't you agree?
Reasonably intelligent: check. At least many people and supposedly indiscriminate tests have assured me of this over the years.
Young white guy: check. I don't much identify with any of those qualities, but, at twenty-six earth years, with my genitalia and sexual desires, and a neat comparison of my skin tone to that of others I've known and how those people identify, I guess this is right.
Now, to social isolation. I have perhaps exaggerated in the past about myself being socially isolated. I've lived with my parents all my life. Although they argue more or less constantly, they've never divorced or in some other way fully split. Aside from the occasional trip taken by one or two of us, we've always been together, "put[ting] the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'", as my mother once put it. The three of us. Just over a hundred miles from the nearest reasonably close family. Mom with two fairly good friends that come over once in a while, or, more frequently, take her out for an evening. Dad with no friends or apparent desire for them at all. And me with my own picoscopic social life. And up to three small dogs at a time, which is absolutely not my thing (except this one). And zero cats.
So, social near-isolation, with bizarre tastes and not much ability to connect or identify with anyone in this college town in the cornfields. Fragment of a check mark.
On to depression. I'm not on any antidepressants now. But I most assuredly was for a time during my eight-year college tenure. I went through five different varieties of antidepressant from roughly 2008 — when I announced I wanted to drop from school and the family panicked — to 2012. The first one didn't do anything. The second one made me more depressed. The third one, I shall come back for. The fourth one lifted my mood but did nothing for my apparent lack of will to progress. ("Now I can wear a smile as I swirl down the john!", I semi-joked.) The fifth one at least got me through what I needed to get through, before my insurance ran out. I finally graduated shortly after that. I'm done with college now, and I feel fine, except that I'm still here in the tiny home of arguing and gracelessness. But, as I'm sure I've said a number of times now, I'm working on that.
Thoughts of a very dark nature. These are absolutely existent, surfacing in my brain on occasion. A few of them have even made their way onto this blog. Like here. And perhaps here. And maybe in a few other places in this archive. I seemed to hit a fever pitch of sorts in 2011. Depending on your interpretation, "Society's Waste", written that year, could raise a red flag in your mind.
The thoughts and fantasies are there, certainly. As a milder example, when the yorkie's annoying me, I sometimes fantasize yet about clocking her a heavy one and throwing her in the trash can. And I'll also admit to some sexual fantasies that completely betray the feminist notions I've put forth on here. I will honestly say that I've never fantasized about shooting up a school or any place crowded with so-called strangers. (Even if I did, I know and live with nobody who keeps firearms, at least that I know of.) But the dark and perhaps violent fantasies are there, in limited quantities. Now the question is, do I ever act out those fantasies in the flesh?
About that third antidepressant I said I'd come back to: It was while I was on that that my mother came home one day in her usual bossy, grating manner, and I punched her face. I didn't draw blood or break anything, but I did elicit a certain amount of panicked yelling and calls for me to immediately leave the house. In a panicked stupor, I hopped a train to my aunt's house early the next morning for the week to follow. I never touched that third antidepressant again.
It was also rather a while after I came back from that week at my aunt's before my mother and I spoke to each other again. Eventually we got to talking enough to move me on to the fourth antidepressant.
There was also, at some point later that I don't remember exactly, an instance where I was washing dishes, and "Bossy Boots" (a name she's been known to bestow upon one of the dogs vocalizing that they want a biscuit) was going at a hundred miles an hour, and I just took the knife I was washing, held it, and stared silently and menacingly. My memory of that moment is dim, but I believe she eventually went away for the moment, and I simply turned back and resumed washing. Nothing major happened, that I can tell, but the occurrence could be noteworthy, lest one day I somehow do lash out at a crowd of unsuspecting people, which I doubt.
I want and love peace, and love, and I cherish those things when I have them. I think this is true of many people. But in this cold, crazy world, I suspect that those primal, carnal, animal instincts that dwell within us get more difficult to contain as, with this global age, the world slings ever-increasing shit everybody's way. Certain people don't seem to know how to release stress and feelings, and the onslaught erodes at their outer human façade, unleashing the beast within.
I've revealed all of this information about me simply to provide an idea of where I'm coming from. And about now, my destination here shall begin to pierce the horizon.
There's been plenty of talk since Friday's massacre in Connecticut about gun control. Some people want a total absence of guns among civilians; some people apparently want to fight fire with fire and arm all the teachers. Some people want restrictions on the types of guns that civilians can obtain — presumably no military-style automatic assault rifles. (Why does an elementary schoolteacher need something like that, anyway?) And some people want background checks on potential gun owners. I say, given the American mindset, start with the background checks. If someone has a history of depression or other mental illness and has seemed withdrawn, it's probably wise to deny them gun ownership. It may not always help — the Newtown killer took his mother's guns — but it's perhaps a start. Maybe also minimize the damage with some of those aforementioned restrictions on types of arms. Of course, if we do that, someone may be tasked with taking the banned guns from people who will be quick to use those very guns on anyone who would take them away, and that could get nasty.
Indeed, this is not at all easy. But I do have one other proposition I'd like to make, and it takes on a rather broader scope of life than simply guns and gun control/rights. My mother made a remark during a telephone conversation over the weekend that "something is wrong with the basic mentality in this country" (paraphrased from memory). I'm not convinced she knows what it is, but I think she has the right idea.
I'm thinking of the quiet/loner aspect of the typical mass shooter. Humans are a social species; loneliness and "lonerism" are not at all healthful for an individual, and they are certainly not healthful for a people, or a country. Yet the general mentality in this country seems to be one of mandatory, aggressive self-sufficiency, often forsaking others just to get one's own self ahead in the socioeconomic ranks. Helping our fellow humans here seems frowned upon and apparently, in some cases, illegal. (I think I've mentioned this before.)
And it seems that contemporary technology is making it worse. We can use our devices, mobile or otherwise, to ignore and dismiss the people we're physically with while we discover via the internet things we don't like about other people whom, before the discoveries, we considered friends. For a lot of us, I think, cyberspace is replacing real, human friends. The more rapidly technology develops, the faster our descent. Even without technology, it seems that at least my own family, probably many others, never gather outside of certain major holidays, thanks to our jobs and whatever other obligations we feel cement us where we are. We, as a people, are becoming more withdrawn and forgetting who we are. We're lost and lonely, and we'll remain as such until we decide to stand up and guide each other.
Please: If just for an hour or two a day, twice a week, something like that — turn everything off — television, cell phones, computer, etc. — get together with family, friends, barflies, whoever's around, and just spend time talking. Maybe play a game together. Maybe exchange uncouth jokes or random anecdotes from your week. Maybe have a meaningful discussion about how things are and how they need to be.
Remember also to teach your children to help, to love, and to accept and be accepted as friends and human beings. Teach them attentiveness, togetherness, and positivity. And while you're at it, turn them on to arts: painting, writing, playing music on instruments, dancing, perhaps sports can qualify. The children may come to rely on those as a means of catharsis. I know I've benefited from setting myself loose on the writing board — even if it is virtual.
And, if you can help it, stay near a big city, where people and resources are available. And try not to move too far from other family.
I can't say that togetherness is the perfect solution for mass shootings, or for everything. But I think it can be a terrific start.
Peace and love be with all of you. Happiness will surely follow.
~C.A.~
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Looking through my archive here as I put some new tags on posts, I realize I have a curious lot of rather dopey "emo" posts here — you know, the kind of vague, moping posts that gave rise to the "annoying Facebook girl" meme. On one hand, I want to clean that stuff up (delete it); on the other, I rather like the idea of having an unfiltered record of my ups and downs.
That's one thing that amuses me: that signals of desperation actually by-and-large repel our fellow human beings. That's certainly how it appears in this Western culture, at least. Usually, when someone actually answers a call for civilized help, it makes the news. In other words, the norm is to ignore people who need, or, okay, claim to need, a helping hand. In fact, I seem to recall a few news articles where people were arrested for helping the homeless or similar.
Truth is, we're not the least bit above primal Darwinism. The financially/socially/physically?/etc. fittest survive, unconcerned about the unfit; the unfit could all perish, and the fittest would not miss a beat. Heck, the gop [see post below] running for president now is rather known for saying that he's "not concerned about the very poor". We have a Darwinian people gripping this country, denying, among many, many other things, the teachings of Darwin.
We're wonderfully contradictory. Maybe we're in a transitional phase of humanity; maybe humanity is eternally a Darwinian entity with mere flashes of what I will call post-Darwinism.
Either way, for the time being, those post-Darwinist flashes are out there somewhere. And I want to find those flashes.
That's one thing that amuses me: that signals of desperation actually by-and-large repel our fellow human beings. That's certainly how it appears in this Western culture, at least. Usually, when someone actually answers a call for civilized help, it makes the news. In other words, the norm is to ignore people who need, or, okay, claim to need, a helping hand. In fact, I seem to recall a few news articles where people were arrested for helping the homeless or similar.
Truth is, we're not the least bit above primal Darwinism. The financially/socially/physically?/etc. fittest survive, unconcerned about the unfit; the unfit could all perish, and the fittest would not miss a beat. Heck, the gop [see post below] running for president now is rather known for saying that he's "not concerned about the very poor". We have a Darwinian people gripping this country, denying, among many, many other things, the teachings of Darwin.
We're wonderfully contradictory. Maybe we're in a transitional phase of humanity; maybe humanity is eternally a Darwinian entity with mere flashes of what I will call post-Darwinism.
Either way, for the time being, those post-Darwinist flashes are out there somewhere. And I want to find those flashes.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Lolling Out Loud
Those of you who've interacted with me online a lot may have noticed that I never use the term "lol". I'll say "ha ha", "heh", "hee hee", or any one of a number of such things, but I just don't dig "lol". I guess I'm a big fan of particular expressiveness; I find "lol" to not be terribly descriptive. And it certainly doesn't convey the feeling of actually laughing out loud very well. Especially since many people use it in nearly everything they post. And frankly, I ain't laughing at everything they post. It's rather lost any kind of meaning for me. Heck, a couple people even put some variation of "lmao" in nine out of ten statuses/tweets/etc.. I wonder, "What, isn't there a strong enough duct tape that can keep your ass attached while you laugh? You've lost it so many times now."
I also get rather turned off by so many discussions I encounter where about a third of the transmissions, including the last consecutive four, are just "lol". Maybe my sense of humor is just different from that of most people, but I am seldom laughing that much in one conversation. I tend to picture these "lol-ers" as just sitting there, sort of pretending to be amused — maybe making just a fraction of a chuckle with their breath, maybe two very short exhales through the nose, but very little show of emotion at all. And that's about how "lol" comes across to me — emotionless filler.
I rather hope that I don't find myself putting emotionless filler out there. Or that society should somehow compel me to. I kind of feel like I'd be holding my hands in the air and surrendering if I used "lol". Come to think of it... lol rather looks like a guy with his hands in the air.
And I probably should say, I don't completely distance myself from cyber-acronyms and similar initials. I'll use FTW on occasion, as well as a couple others that escape me just now. But LOL just doesn't do it for me. Nor do OMG or ROFLMAO. And I'll usually use an emoticon in place of "WTF": ¿-⌠ (Tilt your head like you would for :-), and you'll see it. Hopefully.)
I also get rather turned off by so many discussions I encounter where about a third of the transmissions, including the last consecutive four, are just "lol". Maybe my sense of humor is just different from that of most people, but I am seldom laughing that much in one conversation. I tend to picture these "lol-ers" as just sitting there, sort of pretending to be amused — maybe making just a fraction of a chuckle with their breath, maybe two very short exhales through the nose, but very little show of emotion at all. And that's about how "lol" comes across to me — emotionless filler.
I rather hope that I don't find myself putting emotionless filler out there. Or that society should somehow compel me to. I kind of feel like I'd be holding my hands in the air and surrendering if I used "lol". Come to think of it... lol rather looks like a guy with his hands in the air.
And I probably should say, I don't completely distance myself from cyber-acronyms and similar initials. I'll use FTW on occasion, as well as a couple others that escape me just now. But LOL just doesn't do it for me. Nor do OMG or ROFLMAO. And I'll usually use an emoticon in place of "WTF": ¿-⌠ (Tilt your head like you would for :-), and you'll see it. Hopefully.)
Monday, May 7, 2012
For the Benefit of Any Readers Not in My Books of Faces
After eight arduous years, I'm finally graduating from UIUC. The official name of the degree is "Bachelor of the Arts in Creative Writing, Mathematics & Technology". In other words, jack of all trades and master of none. So, on I go from one interminable life phase to the next: Twenty years of schoolin', to Lookin' for a day shift. (Or a night shift; that would seem to coincide with my natural hours more nicely.) If anyone has some job suggestions, feel free to lay 'em on me. I think I want to work with people face to face. And travel.
Peace and love,
Cheshire Adams
Peace and love,
Cheshire Adams
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Here's a good summary of what's wrong with our country (and perhaps beyond): "tl;dr". It stands for "too long; didn't read", and it is sufficiently common lingo in cyberspace. I feel like finding some of these people's contributions to the web and commenting "tii;nwr" — "too ill-informed; not worth reading". You know why our country's in the john? Large numbers of people who can't be bothered to pay attention.
Smart peace and harmony to us all.
Smart peace and harmony to us all.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Honey I Shrunk the Attention Span
Here's a thought about the belief of the shortened attention span of the average person today....
I remember reading somewhere that the average person today receives more "new information" in one day than, for instance, people of 1830 received in their entire lifetimes. I say that maybe, just maybe, there's a link here. All kinds of crud are being rapid-fired right into our brains with no way of stopping it. Our brains are now devoted to all this crud, leaving little, if any, space for extended indulgences in speeches, novels, plays, etc. If there's any hope for getting a point across to the masses, the point will basically need to be made in a short, digestible manner. Hour and half-hour commercial-broken increments on TV, three-to-five-minute pop songs, brief blog posts.....these are the things that will successfully get a point across to masses who are, by and large, involuntarily unable to handle any more. This may also explain my, and others', aversion to writing long professional or academic papers and similar works; clear and well-supported arguments though these things may contain, who's going to read it and be able to care?
Hour and half-hour segmented increments on TV, fairly short pop songs, brief blog posts, and maybe a meandering verbal conversation. The way of the future — the way of now.
I remember reading somewhere that the average person today receives more "new information" in one day than, for instance, people of 1830 received in their entire lifetimes. I say that maybe, just maybe, there's a link here. All kinds of crud are being rapid-fired right into our brains with no way of stopping it. Our brains are now devoted to all this crud, leaving little, if any, space for extended indulgences in speeches, novels, plays, etc. If there's any hope for getting a point across to the masses, the point will basically need to be made in a short, digestible manner. Hour and half-hour commercial-broken increments on TV, three-to-five-minute pop songs, brief blog posts.....these are the things that will successfully get a point across to masses who are, by and large, involuntarily unable to handle any more. This may also explain my, and others', aversion to writing long professional or academic papers and similar works; clear and well-supported arguments though these things may contain, who's going to read it and be able to care?
Hour and half-hour segmented increments on TV, fairly short pop songs, brief blog posts, and maybe a meandering verbal conversation. The way of the future — the way of now.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Found this in a drawer
Let me know if you can't read the sticker on the back, 'cause that's the reason I post this here.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
#&¢% Censorship
We seem to have gotten to the point where it's become standard to give television shows names with expletives in them ("Who the Bleep Did I Marry", "Bleep My Dad Says"). I don't know about anyone else, but I see absolutely no point in making the censored words so blatantly obvious with bleeps, be they in audio form or visual (the latter called "grawlix", according to Dribbleglass). We're in the digital age, and, in short, I propose this:
We got standard-def and high-def versions of the channels on our systems; perhaps we should have censored and uncensored versions of the channels as well. The TV service can put an option in the guide for a "censored only" list to please the Christians. We got an HD-only list option on our system, we should be able to do a censored-only list. The puritan-descendants can use that list...put a lock on for the kids...and the rest of us can kick back and enjoy the shows as they were meant to be.
'Cause let's face it: some of these shows have characters speaking in sentences that are nearly completely made of obscenities, and we hear an occasionally interrupted beep. What's the point of airing these things in the first place? Viewers of these things know what they're watching and are perfectly comfortable with all the violence, sex and general dysfunction. What difference will a handful of (frequently used) four-letter words and their variations make?
Those are the [words] that'll infect your soul, curve your spine, and keep the country from winning the war.
—George Carlin
We got standard-def and high-def versions of the channels on our systems; perhaps we should have censored and uncensored versions of the channels as well. The TV service can put an option in the guide for a "censored only" list to please the Christians. We got an HD-only list option on our system, we should be able to do a censored-only list. The puritan-descendants can use that list...put a lock on for the kids...and the rest of us can kick back and enjoy the shows as they were meant to be.
'Cause let's face it: some of these shows have characters speaking in sentences that are nearly completely made of obscenities, and we hear an occasionally interrupted beep. What's the point of airing these things in the first place? Viewers of these things know what they're watching and are perfectly comfortable with all the violence, sex and general dysfunction. What difference will a handful of (frequently used) four-letter words and their variations make?
Those are the [words] that'll infect your soul, curve your spine, and keep the country from winning the war.
—George Carlin
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Relation or coincidence?
I took the train home yesterday, and I sleeplessly looked out the window most of the trip. I couldn't help but notice that, in a few of the small towns along the railroad and US 45, there's a little blue building next to the tracks. It looks the same in all those towns.....namely, it looks abandoned. I had to wonder if these small towns used to have passenger train stations and, therefore, nice little relatively local trains that stopped there. I'm a fan of public transit, and it seems a pity to not give small-townies the option thereof. I think if I were stuck in one of those small towns, I'd go ins—well, I'm already insane, but—I'd require a straitjacket, yeah. Kind of run-down looking pits of boredom, they seem.
These are the kinds of things you see on public transit.....pitiful small towns, and what seems to be a full square mile of a (one) Wal-Mart outside of Bourbonnais. (See it in Street View on Illinois 50 at "Indian Oaks", just north of the Interstate interchange.)
These are the kinds of things you see on public transit.....pitiful small towns, and what seems to be a full square mile of a (one) Wal-Mart outside of Bourbonnais. (See it in Street View on Illinois 50 at "Indian Oaks", just north of the Interstate interchange.)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Bump: I wonder if, just maybe...
....the story of Noah's Ark refers to an event that's yet to come....
I had a wicked dream about this last sleep....probably influenced by the peculiar amount of snow that the northern hemisphere has seen this winter (and is still seeing). It came on the heels of other dreams involving a stolen car, hopelessly drunken acquaintances (actually nobody to whom I can attach a name I know, but they were acquaintances in the dream), and finally my own being held hostage by a psychotic police state. And I don't mean imprisoned, I mean being in a large house and part of a group of people whose numbers were ever falling.
So I got to thinking once again about the possibility of global warming inducing massive floods to "clean up" the wholly messed-up world we're on. And I don't know if anyone reads this blog regularly, but I do wish that somebody would comment and let me know what they think.
I had a wicked dream about this last sleep....probably influenced by the peculiar amount of snow that the northern hemisphere has seen this winter (and is still seeing). It came on the heels of other dreams involving a stolen car, hopelessly drunken acquaintances (actually nobody to whom I can attach a name I know, but they were acquaintances in the dream), and finally my own being held hostage by a psychotic police state. And I don't mean imprisoned, I mean being in a large house and part of a group of people whose numbers were ever falling.
So I got to thinking once again about the possibility of global warming inducing massive floods to "clean up" the wholly messed-up world we're on. And I don't know if anyone reads this blog regularly, but I do wish that somebody would comment and let me know what they think.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
What the HELL are those new parking machines on the streets of Chicago? Only quarters, dollar coins, and credit cards? What's wrong with dimes and nickels? Or dollar bills, for that matter? Can't these things make change? And what's wrong with individual meters? Was the perk of finding a meter with time on it from the previous car too much of a strain on the economy? (Hey, it's possible...) I suppose I could Google it, but I'm not going to....
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