i like stars because they are beyond humanity. arguably,
most things in this world have been touched/influenced/
whatever by humans. stars are
different. we can interpret
(astrology, whatever) but we do not
know. that dot shining could be completely something
else. id like to go there,
but i never will. id like to be more, but i never will. i like looking
at them because they are and we cant really
say why. sure, solar system et all,
galaxies and all that, but
really that light is coming from somewhere and
i (we) really cant say where/if it matters at all.
i am not going to
discover anything.
am not going to
break parallels. every time i look up
(when it is clear) i am humbled, and every time i
look around it is less clear.
when i look up, my life is wasted. when i look around, i accept.
nature of things/human nature, i guess, but
i want to feel like it could be something more or
can be something else. dreaming in color is nice, but
seeing in pieces is good. fill in the blank,
id like to know more.
kKoala, KW
Writen information can't teach. You can't question it. It can't defend itself when people misunderstand or misrepresent it. Written communication gives people "the false conceit of knowledge," a fake certainty that they understand something.
Chuck Palahniuk/Thamus
Monday, July 25, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
truth has a peanuty smell
sometimes, kids challenge you.
Most of the time, they're pretty straightforward. They ask for what they want. They tell you EXACTLY what they think. They teach you some moves from last friday's breakdancing class or demand your attention towards the new cheer they learned. Life, through a child's existence, is pretty simple.
but sometimes, pretty simple challenges you.
you're trying to explain kindness and respect to an eight year old. They're understanding the concept, they've made their apologies. the dramatized shit storm that just occured has passed. Then the sun comes out and they blind you by saying, "but i just dont want to be friends with her. Can you tell her that i just dont want to be friends with her?"
people are not supposed to all like each other. that's why we have innate interests. its creations way of cultural organization. i for one, do not like every make and model of person in the world. I dont like intellectuals. I don't much care for businessmen. I dont like girls that wear platform foam sandals. I rather not be arround arrogant folk, country music singers, people that complain too much, leeches. I imagine myself sitting at a picnic table, preferebly in pigtails and smoking a cookie jar cigarette trying to share the markers with my new "friends", trying to believe how important it is to make as many friends as possible here at camp. Use me, abuse me. Would you care for a light? Yes, yes i will thank you. Then there would be the leech.
"dont worry, taylor is just like this sometime. I'm sure you'll be friends by the time tomorrow comes around. Try to find someone else to play with today."
stall. the reject tries to make friends with taylor's replacement aquaintence and thus (thunder lightning strike) that bizzare love triangle. New Order. Ha.
Then there is Miss Miranda. There are some girls at camp that are slightly...off. Some are more obvious. Miranda may quietly hit some stages, among other things, pretty hard. She hit me pretty hard with this one.
She does not want to sit on the edge of the bench today, she did yesterday. The pairs of pretties at her table are asking her to move so they can sit next to each other. Twos against one...LeBon would argue that the twos are gonna win out. They do, no theory required. Miranda drops her shoulders and moves to the end of another green plastic picnic bench.
These things are never about sitting spots, or who did and who did not get the prize, or who did and who did not get the lime green water bottle. These are starting points on a psychologists wet dream. A child with honesty so blunt they could knock out a robber. Pre-genius and lacking deflection skills. A problem with a promising solution. Sometimes.
I'm tired of everyone telling me what to do! Tears. Everyone always tells me what to do. My friends at home always tell me what to do, they make my Barbie do all the bad things and i dont want to do it.
(forshadow, shit. Prepare questions.)
do you tell them that you would like to do something different?
They dont listen.
do you tell them that it bothers you?
They don't care.
Why do you play with them if they're not nice to you?
They're all i have. Tears Tears Tears.
(stop. draw blank.)
They're all i have. I want to erase her mind and put it back nice and spakling fresh. You're not supposed to know that yet Miranda. You're not supposed to know that you get thrown on a block or at a bus stop or in a school and what you get is whats there. Pick the apples with the least worms in them, the ones that have only one or two brown spots. Or worse yet, try to never think of yourself as the one in the dirt, under the farmstand table, half eaten by a robin; shriveled and wasted. I realilze that i know nothing about this child. The only thing i do know is that she asks too many goddamn questions, she complains and doesn't listen and I often find her dancing by herself on the porch of Ranch House. I look at all the other girls; they're laughing, singing sponge bob songs, playing with each others hair. The quiet ones look like oil painted portriats; even they have found each other. I look at Miranda. Would i be your friend?
See all the girls in our unit? You can be friends with any of them. How about you try sitting at that table where the girls will treat you better and not make you do things. You can be friends with anyone you want. I'm sorry that your friends at home treat you that way. You can be friends with anyone you want. How does that sound?
Nod.
Can i do anything else to make you feel better?
(everything that i'm worth has turned to dust and is now falling out of my mouth in the form of this ridiculous question)
Shrug.
Ok. Give me a hug.
Hug.
Miranda finishes lunch in two minutes; plays with her lanyard string alone on the front porch of Ranch House.
Part of me feels she's better off that way.
Most of the time, they're pretty straightforward. They ask for what they want. They tell you EXACTLY what they think. They teach you some moves from last friday's breakdancing class or demand your attention towards the new cheer they learned. Life, through a child's existence, is pretty simple.
but sometimes, pretty simple challenges you.
you're trying to explain kindness and respect to an eight year old. They're understanding the concept, they've made their apologies. the dramatized shit storm that just occured has passed. Then the sun comes out and they blind you by saying, "but i just dont want to be friends with her. Can you tell her that i just dont want to be friends with her?"
people are not supposed to all like each other. that's why we have innate interests. its creations way of cultural organization. i for one, do not like every make and model of person in the world. I dont like intellectuals. I don't much care for businessmen. I dont like girls that wear platform foam sandals. I rather not be arround arrogant folk, country music singers, people that complain too much, leeches. I imagine myself sitting at a picnic table, preferebly in pigtails and smoking a cookie jar cigarette trying to share the markers with my new "friends", trying to believe how important it is to make as many friends as possible here at camp. Use me, abuse me. Would you care for a light? Yes, yes i will thank you. Then there would be the leech.
"dont worry, taylor is just like this sometime. I'm sure you'll be friends by the time tomorrow comes around. Try to find someone else to play with today."
stall. the reject tries to make friends with taylor's replacement aquaintence and thus (thunder lightning strike) that bizzare love triangle. New Order. Ha.
Then there is Miss Miranda. There are some girls at camp that are slightly...off. Some are more obvious. Miranda may quietly hit some stages, among other things, pretty hard. She hit me pretty hard with this one.
She does not want to sit on the edge of the bench today, she did yesterday. The pairs of pretties at her table are asking her to move so they can sit next to each other. Twos against one...LeBon would argue that the twos are gonna win out. They do, no theory required. Miranda drops her shoulders and moves to the end of another green plastic picnic bench.
These things are never about sitting spots, or who did and who did not get the prize, or who did and who did not get the lime green water bottle. These are starting points on a psychologists wet dream. A child with honesty so blunt they could knock out a robber. Pre-genius and lacking deflection skills. A problem with a promising solution. Sometimes.
I'm tired of everyone telling me what to do! Tears. Everyone always tells me what to do. My friends at home always tell me what to do, they make my Barbie do all the bad things and i dont want to do it.
(forshadow, shit. Prepare questions.)
do you tell them that you would like to do something different?
They dont listen.
do you tell them that it bothers you?
They don't care.
Why do you play with them if they're not nice to you?
They're all i have. Tears Tears Tears.
(stop. draw blank.)
They're all i have. I want to erase her mind and put it back nice and spakling fresh. You're not supposed to know that yet Miranda. You're not supposed to know that you get thrown on a block or at a bus stop or in a school and what you get is whats there. Pick the apples with the least worms in them, the ones that have only one or two brown spots. Or worse yet, try to never think of yourself as the one in the dirt, under the farmstand table, half eaten by a robin; shriveled and wasted. I realilze that i know nothing about this child. The only thing i do know is that she asks too many goddamn questions, she complains and doesn't listen and I often find her dancing by herself on the porch of Ranch House. I look at all the other girls; they're laughing, singing sponge bob songs, playing with each others hair. The quiet ones look like oil painted portriats; even they have found each other. I look at Miranda. Would i be your friend?
See all the girls in our unit? You can be friends with any of them. How about you try sitting at that table where the girls will treat you better and not make you do things. You can be friends with anyone you want. I'm sorry that your friends at home treat you that way. You can be friends with anyone you want. How does that sound?
Nod.
Can i do anything else to make you feel better?
(everything that i'm worth has turned to dust and is now falling out of my mouth in the form of this ridiculous question)
Shrug.
Ok. Give me a hug.
Hug.
Miranda finishes lunch in two minutes; plays with her lanyard string alone on the front porch of Ranch House.
Part of me feels she's better off that way.
Monday, July 11, 2005
hello, this is swap and shop...
who was that woman?
that woman i just saw while walking out of the restaurant. She was sitting at a table by the door - glasses, a hat - like lois lane. She looked at me like she knew me and i said hello because i thought i recognized her, but i couldn't remember her name, so i just kept going out the door.
Now i can't even remember how i know her. I know i know her. I used to know her. Somehow she was very important to me; she helped me out in a time of trouble. She used to roll her eyes...id say something dumb and she'd roll her eyes and get me something i needed even though she didn't have to.
Maybe she works in the library, or the county recorders office, or at the newspaper. I think i may have been in love with her. No, she's too young, i was never in love with her, not in that way. It's just that i wanted something, needed something, and she was able to give it to me almost out of the goodness of her heart and now i can't even remember who she is. I'm sick. I'm old. I should just walk out into traffic and kill myself.
At home, at night, i go to sleep searching for the lost memory. Did i meet her down by the river in a canoe? or was it on a ferry in southeastern Alaska? or at the foreign correspondence club in Phnom Penh along the Mekong. She has something to do with water, with life, with mud.
I sleep poorly; turning and maybe even groaning in anguish. I do not care about the woman anymore, i am worried for myself. I feel as though there is a black hole in my brain and slowly, but surely its swallowing all the memories of my life.
I get up at 5:30 in the morning and drive to work in the dark. I feel terrible. I look like a piece of gum in the gutter. I pull into Java Joes to get some chemical help and there she is, behind the drive up window. I want to tell her i love her, but i don't because it would be too weird. All i can say is "wow" and she rolls her eyes and gets me my cup of coffee.
Scott Carrier
that woman i just saw while walking out of the restaurant. She was sitting at a table by the door - glasses, a hat - like lois lane. She looked at me like she knew me and i said hello because i thought i recognized her, but i couldn't remember her name, so i just kept going out the door.
Now i can't even remember how i know her. I know i know her. I used to know her. Somehow she was very important to me; she helped me out in a time of trouble. She used to roll her eyes...id say something dumb and she'd roll her eyes and get me something i needed even though she didn't have to.
Maybe she works in the library, or the county recorders office, or at the newspaper. I think i may have been in love with her. No, she's too young, i was never in love with her, not in that way. It's just that i wanted something, needed something, and she was able to give it to me almost out of the goodness of her heart and now i can't even remember who she is. I'm sick. I'm old. I should just walk out into traffic and kill myself.
At home, at night, i go to sleep searching for the lost memory. Did i meet her down by the river in a canoe? or was it on a ferry in southeastern Alaska? or at the foreign correspondence club in Phnom Penh along the Mekong. She has something to do with water, with life, with mud.
I sleep poorly; turning and maybe even groaning in anguish. I do not care about the woman anymore, i am worried for myself. I feel as though there is a black hole in my brain and slowly, but surely its swallowing all the memories of my life.
I get up at 5:30 in the morning and drive to work in the dark. I feel terrible. I look like a piece of gum in the gutter. I pull into Java Joes to get some chemical help and there she is, behind the drive up window. I want to tell her i love her, but i don't because it would be too weird. All i can say is "wow" and she rolls her eyes and gets me my cup of coffee.
Scott Carrier
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