the world makes me so tired some days.
i spent all afternoon stalking around thinking about how most of the inspiring, motivational things written for women have been sponsored by maxi-pad companies, and products. i watched/read a lot of internet stories about dogs and death.
i’m talking to john. john is this friend that i have that is popular on twitter. he used to be moreso before his break up with his ex-girlfriend went horribly wrong. john is a kind of nervous, anxious fellow, and twittering would be a good example for a word that i would use to describe the way his body trembles sometimes. when he wants to smoke. he smokes and sometimes reeks of cigarettes. he jumps a little like a startled rabbit.
he’s soulful. he thinks deeply and too much all the time. it can be amazing and it can be tiring and it can be hard on him and everyone else. he compliments everyone sincerely. he appreciates people sincerely. he explodes with ideas and anxiety and self hatred and excitement and creativity. i’ve seen him at his job and been in awe of the music he makes with jenny and how she changes when she’s involved in it. she comes out of her shell, sheds her shyness and sometimes almost shouts and invigorates. they play endless amounts of looping travelling music and it soothes.
i’ve known him since i started school and just a little bit before. i know him like a lot of people do through twitter. i wrote to him, met him and hung out with him on campus. he never sent me nude pics, never propositioned me, never asked me anything inappropriate.
we’ve fought. fought about the way he will describe my glasses as intimidating, which was short hand for saying that he didn’t like them is what i thought. had a long road trip where we fought most of the way there. i’m old and cranky, he’s young and exuberant. i think he can be irrational, and he thinks i can be too mean. it’s probably true.
he’s had several difficult relationships with women in the time i’ve known him. he’s certainly no calculating Lothario. every time he got into a relationship he’d tell me he was sure his girlfriend wanted to leave, why was she being so mean?
i remember when he told me about a certain lady who became too demanding of his time right away. he wanted to back off. he seemed scared when she demanded “where the fuck have you been?” told him she was going to destroy him on the internet
i told him to find someone at school. he said he had found a great lady. they were very happy for a couple of weeks. he used to ask me “what’s going to happen if we get into a fight?” then they fought. fought a lot about what i considered politics, but to them it was everything the world meant. i met her. she was beautiful and self effacing. i was happy for john. she seemed funny, she seemed bright, she seemed almost as nervous as him. i spent time with her. then they broke up.
john said they had a nice meal together at a diner and then afterwards she unexpectedly left him in the street, and just laughed and walked away, without saying anything.
i tried to encourage him to leave her alone. he did for the most part. he couldn’t let go. he said he wanted his book back, it seemed deeper than that to me.
i didn’t unfollow his ex-girlfriend. i had no idea what actually happened. i just i didn’t know. it wasn’t until the accusations against him started being rallied around the internet that i unfollowed them.
she posted his text messages. at this point i felt it was somehow wrong. to share personal messages someone had sent to you on the internet. maybe that’s just my old school style but i hated it. i followed both of the ladies who have spoken out against john without any judgement, even considering the idea that they had their right to their feelings about the way he treated them. i tagged out when one lady said she wanted to destroy him and the other i just lost interest in what she was posting. i didn’t want to have to be in the center of a huge internet controversy about someone’s personal life. or know anything about it.
but i would never consider abandoning john as a friend. he’s a real friend to me. who would show up in the middle of the night when i was feeling upset. buy me a coffee when i was feeling down. talking to me all night about my problems and just show up. and he’s never tried once to do anything inappropriate to me or near me. i’d eat him alive for it.
john is a sweet ,talented friend, a good and caring person and maybe sometimes a troubled guy. he suffers the doubts a lot of us do. he’s afraid and hyper-excited and all of the energies he puts into his tweets kind of jitters around in a nervous man, released in these smooth tones with an occasional trembling tell.
i don’t feel any less of a person or feminist for calling him my friend. i don’t feel like i should have abandoned him to join the internet sensationalism that was calling him awful, because i know him in real life. and certainly you can’t ever know what your friend is doing in their relationship with someone else. but i know what my relationship to john has been and i would defend the value of that to anyone.
I’m on the 1 train, heading further south in Manhattan. As the train wheedles its way towards 42nd street, I stare down the corridor of the car and fixate on the withered, purple legs of an aged debutant. She’s wearing taught blue Capri pants despite the fact it seems as though her skin has officially begun to detach itself from her body. In the places where it used to adhere there are now sagging purple bullseye marks the size of my fist. Her skin clings to her like a poorly fastened disguise. I’ve been staring at her legs so long, it’s only when the train stops at the Times Square station, I look up and meet her admonishing gaze. Yes it’s me lady. That deserves these punishing looks, not you for parading about with your crumbling mummy’s skin in turquoise cigarette pants. We’re looking at each other with a wordless psychic connection. This moment is more effective than a punishing hours’ worth of unrelenting insults. In this moment and this one look, I am able to communicate, “Yes I know what makes you cringe about yourself, what you feared when you left the house this morning, and I’m thinking it, and I refuse to look away.”
I can’t even see her eyes which is all the more effective. It’s these two blank panes, these tinted glasses and Farrah Faucet hair around the melting face, and the lack of eyes which might create in me a sense of a sympathetic soul, that allows me to celebrate her sad demise. I’m aware of the biting cruelty of my judgment, but at the same time it’s the inability to let go of the things which made vain gorgeous women the center of the universe and the standard by which we all wept, which makes this clownish buffoonery so entertaining.
I feel my sense of the morally pertinent and fair spiraling. I want to have pity for her, and accept bodies in all stages. It’s all so unfair isn’t it? Youth laughing at age, beautiful judging the less adept, rich laughing at poor. If we aren’t allowed to laugh at the misfortune of others we all end up sitting around telling children’s knock-knock jokes to each other, I reassure myself. This lady would laugh if she knew about my lack of a retirement account, the hovel in which I depressingly collapse each night and I sneer, at the result of her years of tanning on secluded private beaches which has turned her into a saggy, pock marked meat sack.
I think about what insecurity is as I stare at a subway ad with a fashion model. The ad says “I am beautiful and I am available to you.” And women are overcome with the sense that stability is an illusion created by the time space continuum. It’s not about if her body is better or worse than the presented model it’s a trick that makes her think only separation of time and space allowed by photograph is preventing her significant other from being face to face of the object of desire. That it’s only a matter of time before they follow after, hypnotized like Bugs Bunny after a mechanical lady rabbit. And then the woman will be forced to start all over again, to redefine her ideals… Oh it’s not about what you look like until the one you love walks off into the shallow distance like a zombie, clutched on to the flesh, the idealized flesh of the superlative that defies the logic of decency with its overwhelming aesthetic value. And why would they love the one you love, because you love them and you see them as a list of fantastic properties which redeem them above all others, which makes them worthy of dating women in fashion advertisements. A life made out of idealized frozen moments, perfectly accessorized. Fashion advertising is like a repeated horror movie which makes women want to transform themselves into women who can destroy the world with their beauty. We’re all Buffalo Bill in the basement thinking about slicing off the skin of other women to wear it as a suit, fantasizing about fucking ourselves in our final triumphant moment. Out of the guilt of what we have become and what we have forsaken, our love for these perverted values accepts into its imagery a form of self-punishment and self-loathing. We love, fashion with a sense of sado-masochism because we feel wrong and we feel good, we feel guilty and we feel superior. We are punishing ourselves for being flawed, by depicting our presentation of our glorious appearance, with the admission that we are villains, that we are crazy, that we are undeserving of physical godliness.
This life is a prize fight of imperfection, throwing blows in an effort to uncomplicated and already complicated life.
by staying in one place you can create a perfect record of the sunrise and sunset, you can make yourself a sundial. you can full experience the effects of medicine by knowing nothing has changed but your medicine, why would your feelings change, because the sun rises and sets? because you’re a sundowner? you’re a downer all right and no amount of uppers will ever fix the fact that even though you are solid in form, the entirety of your guts and gall is cumulative of emptiness. At this point time is not even on your side, and if you don’t think about giving up your youth quite soon you might end up like the rolling stones. emblems of a society too addicted to their youth to move on no matter how decrepit they become… they can’t get no satisfaction.
we apologize for the inconvenience, but some other motherfucker was supposed to work the counter today. Our counter is broken. Not our service counter but our money counter. Three of the exits have been closed due to inclement weather.
we apologize for all the screaming. there will be a penalty for screaming. people who scream will be penalized except some of them will be hastily attended to, except no one will be hastily attended to. my service window will be closed while i wait on hold to speak to a customer service rep because their website is down and i have to pay my mortgage.
we’re out of that particular thing. that food and that item, please visit our other locations, in the past, out of the country, in the deep recesses of your imagination so you can feel yourself reaching for the thing you want and purchasing it satisfactorily before you turn around, leave head away, unfulfilled, into the rain and inclement weather. three of the exits have been closed due to inclement weather. there is ice and small fires to combat the ice, and large nails embedded in the melting ice to help you gain traction.
sidewalk use is at your own risk.
“we” in our desks wearing our headsets trying to take bites of our sandwiches inbetween our scripted dialogue “apologize” to the extent that there are a set of given words that we are required to respond to your displeasure, words that in other circumstances mean that we are feeling empathetic towards your difficulty but in this situation the words really mean the opposite – the words mean we are not going to do anything so the apology is really for the inconvenience of the situation’s irreparable rift, you will be compensated wit
h a strategically worthless placebo solution, “for” because we are really more than anything anthropomorphically apologizing on the inconvenience’s behalf “the inconvenience” which could be anything between the loss of your home after the death of your father or a badly scratched netflix disk.
Hello Ms. Reiter this is your credit card company we just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. We just wanted to ask how your son is doing in school. We just wanted to know if you’re still having problems getting off during vaginal intercourse,because we’ve heard there are ways to fix that, if you can afford them, can you afford them? can we loan you some money so you can enjoy sex or so you can buy some donuts or some diet pills or donuts and dietpills or diet donuts or gastric bipass surgery. We were thinking about how the donuts at the little foodtruck outside of your school remind you of church bizzarres and stuffed animal prizes and childhood bullies and climbing up a tree as a child and facing the wind to sing a song you made up, and how all of those thoughts have been replaced by the pounding impending need to pay your bill from us which comes each month and how we fill your thoughts like a lover running through your mind over and over and over. Happy Birthday. You sure aren’t a child anymore.
oh i wish i had a moment to sit and write but everything is really moving really fast right now. and like an avalanche covering my life in debris.
tomorrow i have volunteered for a position which is a coffee hour for holocaust survivors. what’s that? what’s up with that? it has awakened many a feeling in my dear friends.
j. said he didn’t think any were alive. c. said it is a wonderful opportunity. but what are the chances that at the coffee hour what the holocaust survivors want to talk about is the holocaust?
also we had a holocaust survivor visit our classroom in highschool. so i assumed everyone has talked to one at some point. also a lady with aids. did everyone get these treats?
begged by the shelter residents to sing “i wanna dance with somebody” pushed by the senior center residents to dance with somebody. it’s like a religious call and response.
i went to the pharmacy to buy straight razors for my mistakes (they don’t sell them) and the dude called me dude before i could even ask. but who’s keepin’ track? i felt successful at some kind of ruse.
bought a copy of 4.48 psychosis today. saw it performed somewhere, by a lady i like but the production was so/so. just saying it’s a beautiful poetic play.
i’ll write to you about ireland. i’ll write to you about hills and winter chills on islands with friends and sleeping snug in hostels for my holiday.
15 long breaths out demarcates fifteen moments of breathing, and in the cold it feels good to take them in and count them then forcefully exhale, and see what you are getting done.
I have decided to switch the format of my blog and I’m going work on something serial, so you can tune in each week, starting….. I’m not really sure.
But I do know I am writing a serial fantasy on being delusional, which is going to create with great strokes the psychological state of my own faltering brain.
you guys- stop pretending like you never fail, and like failing is never good. you’re going to be wrong in life and that just happens. suck it up.
there’s something so grand about one who gracefully tends to their misgivings, misunderstandings and shortcomings.
german german whose got the german.
yeah i’m up and forgetting more than i remember. feeling like i’m in that movie with tom hanks where he befriends the volleyball. or the german version of that.
wondering if i learn all the german if i can finally make it off the island.
i saw that in a theater. and i do remember the name but i’m not saying it because i’m trying to make room for german words.
no pictures though. things are gross over here. i’ve been collecting containers from pieces of cake for a sense of accomplishment.
i ate german chocolate cake and didn’t realize until afterwards. notable only as an afterthought. my german was lost in a storm, and now i have to live on an island until german flies overhead and sees my bonfire.
meanwhile the cartoon characters who always see bugs bunny as a hotdog and bite eachother like chicken legs are chasing each other in circles around my bonfire. i guess nothing is really real is it?
sam:oh come on
Because of a death in the family and my impending graduation this story was not completed though I have drafted an outline, I was not able to complete this in time for the reading tonight. I will keep working on it here and you can see revisions as they come up as well as the conclusion.
|“The white-tailed deer is today Pennsylvania’s most striking game animal. At the same time, it is also the Commonwealth’s most complicated game problem.” — Pennsylvania Game News, Editorial, October 1947|
I know you all care about deer. So very much. When you’re driving late at night and the air is still and they wander to the side of the road and you see their sweet faces, docile, and grazing. You want to hand feed them. The spots on a tiny fawn. The way their legs flail and their quick excitement after you bump them in the night with their car? You want to own them and hand feed them and pet them and put pretty saddles on them so your six year old can ride them into the fairy kingdom. You remember when those awful hunters killed bambi’s mother, and the forest burned. You cried, oh you cried and you watched it again with your kids and they cried and you all made winter treats of apples covered with peanut butter and birdseeds to make up for the fictional injustice.
You people make me sick. Your great disdain for hunting and your neat Styrofoam packages of ground beef. You prefer to imagine your meat as a thing that comes as it is, and forget that you’re eating the meat and sucking the bones of the sluggish animals born into meat slavery. A deer in the wild has a fighting chance, a sportsman with the right spirit has a great respect for that animal. Perhaps in the city and your civilized suburban societies you don’t have to associate with the wilderness from which we all came. You’re like a kid putting grass in the box with a turtle to eat. You don’t really understand the full force of nature, or what it takes to maintain it.
Here’s the thing about deer. They kill more people than any other animal in North America. Through attacks and through car accidents and through lyme disease. And people have to hunt these deer so that their population isn’t overrun and so that they don’t starve and run into the streets and well you get it…
There is a culture to killing deer, a culture of respect and a fashion of learning to clean the meat and the animal that is not wasteful but the work is serious and difficult. If you’re going to eat meat, it stands to reason that you should have to clean the meat so that you know you really know what you have done. You want meat, then you should have to disassemble the animal and contemplate what it is and what it will become. We respect them, we admire them and we wish to posses them, and to consume their wilderness.
Imagine how people used to be imagine how they are. Does your body miss the graceful art of animal competition. Are you satisfied with the elegance of thought? There are spiritual relations in these motions- to catch capture and kill. Lord knows I’d love to be chasing them down, throwing spears, fighting with my bare hands, but realistically- I can’t compete with today’s high powered hunting rifles. Stop the arms race, figure out how to do that and I will go back to spear hunting.
I get suited up. Stores sell things to go hunting. You wear orange camo. You can’t wear regular camo. No one in their right mind would wear regular camo to hunt even on their own land. You get things to cover your face skin, everything, you cover your scent. You bring deer urine. You think you’re going to hop into this and be the victor but the truth is the animals have been being animals all along and you’ve gone, well you’ve gone soft. You can order or arrange, look up and manage and play mental games for discounts and coupons, but there’s nothing truer than the game of game hunting.
I participate in the cycle of nature. I am a person noble enough to kill what I eat, it’s an honest action. I hunt deer….
With my friends in their trucks and their beers and their flannel shirts. Our homes have had wood paneling for as long as I can remember.
“How to Field Dress a Deer”
Youtube video from user merlinagamel on youtube
What you need:
Cleaning a deer starts with an incision close to the pelvis, cutting up towards the rib cage, being careful not to puncture the intestines.
Mousilini in the courtcard. The deer is hung by its neck so that as you skin it the flesh pulls itself off of the skeleton.
You can eat anything and should eat anything and all things because otherwise it is a waste of things to not eat the things. A disrespect to the deer’s life. When you kill a deer you must use all the parts. I’ve grilled a deer’s heart, and it is tender and one of the most delicious parts of his body, so though you may think it is gross to eat the heart, I think it is blasphemy to throw it away.
The hunting ritual goes like this. Mornings, dressing, drinking, and the clouds of our breath in the cold. Rusty, Buck and Ruggy. The bag limit is usually around three or one a day but it’s good to have other guys around even if they don’t bag anything because you need the help to tie them up.
We usually take them back to my house and field dress them. My wife is more tolerant and my house is more rural and I have the strongest stomach of any. I know how to cut a deer. I’m paid by other hunters to light of stomach to do the dirty work. How to make use of his bones and parts and otherly insides. I don’t enjoy the work for it’s more morbid aspects but I am certainly skilled at field dressing a deer. I’m paid to do it by those who desire a man with a quick and merciful knife who would prefer to keep the unpleasantness of the process a mystery. So I am paid. Quite a bit. I am paid take the parts unsightly and wrap everything up in pretty brown paper with string. I am paid to smell the stench of a sectioned bowel and the cave of the rib cage once everything has been neatly disassembeled into neat piles of keep and throw away. The prettiest parts are devoured or repurposed, and then ingested. Ingested so that you may carry the strength of the deer. The worst or the indeterminite are just sloughed off. And no you can not eat it all.
Noseflesh. and all the like. I slough it all off into a pile and bury it in a grave, deeper than not deep because of the collective stench. And in the sun it decomposes and reforms. I take the bucket and add the red shade to the browning pile. But plants don’t grow there. It is not a fertile area and decaying flesh is not fertile. It is something else. Something protozoic. Something prehistoric. Something we try and prevent from happening in this modern age.
It’s pretty far behind the house and fenced in. With a lock. So strange animals don’t investigate. It’s hole with a chicken wire fence and an improvised lid. I don’t lock it because no one in their right mind would want to steal anything, but animals. Sometimes when it rains the sides overflow and it perculates with blood mud and the whole mess stinks and bubbles and then in the morning the birds, any kind of sick little bird will come and pick away at the entrail trail.
I mean it’s gross but it’s never frightening, or I am not frightened like that. Or it least it wasn’t until recently and I would describe the driest scenario with the hope of explaining the steps inbetween just to recount what had happened. Or what I had seen. it would start at the day before and how the hole had been deeper, seemed deeper and in the night the guts had risen like dough, and I felt so sure because the top of the metal shovel stuck out. and the next day there was only wood. though it seemed in the same place in the dirt the shovel blade no longer appeared at all and around it a soft cushion of guts lie. They looked pink and red and swollen and infected but regular but kind of hairy, as the discards are the discards and loose hair stuck to all the bloody sides of intenstines and odds and ends. I pushed into it, and it seemed, or just appeared to push back a little. Or maybe I imagined it but it seemed to push back. Or grab. I think it grabbed on to me. I think i felt it grab. it’s sticky and bloody and messy and the sun can do strange things. So this particular night, I decided to cover it with dirt, which was a lot of work and not something I was in the mood for at all. It was a hot day and the sun had made me sweat and there was scant enough dirt to cover the swollen pile.
When I got home I stunk and my wife would not even kiss me until I had washed, in the yard, with a hose.