1
Apple Talk / ATTN: PAYNE
« on: June 09, 2010, 09:04:07 am »
Since you're not on AIM: #3953
News:
If they treat education like a product, they can't very well bitch when you act like a consumer.
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2
Or Kill Me / And then...nothing.
« on: May 12, 2010, 06:53:06 am »
It was the end: September 21.
I came home from school to a houseful of anxiety. My mother, in her usual chair. My father, sitting nearby. I could tell something was wrong even before I heard her short, shallow gasps. She had choked on a cream cheese danish--she often had trouble swallowing food--and had gone into respiratory distress. Her lungs finally lost the fight, but her body just didn't know it yet.
I think mom knew she was going to die that day. She insisted that we call my sister, so that she could talk to her one last time with that wasted, wrecked voice. She bore all of our ministrations with her usual stoicism--or perhaps just trying to breathe took so much concentration that she couldn't complain. I remember, far into the night, discussing whether to give her more of the morphine that the hospice worker said might help. "I don't want to kill you," I said. She just looked at me.
At some point in the night she grew too weak to cough, so we took turns pounding her back. It must have hurt. In the morning, she told my dad "Happy birthday." I don't know but I think those were her last words.
Later in the day. Everyone else had left. I was sitting by her bed, holding her hand when the realization slowly penetrated her breathing had changed, transformed from the tortured rasps of a runner to something almost mechanical. It took me even longer to realize that she was no longer conscious. I knew she wasn't ever going to wake up. Just looking at her body heaving with every deep, slow, gurgling breath...I was intimately familiar with it. I'd been keeping her alive for six months. I'd known it was coming. It was almost a relief to see the end...almost.
Still later. My dad and the hospice lady had returned. I went to the bathroom. Perhaps mom had been waiting for me to leave the room, because when I came back her breathing had changed again. Quiet breaths, with long pauses in between, pauses growing longer and longer. I remember the sunlight streaming sideways into the room, touching on her beautiful white hair. I remember crying as quietly as I could. I remember my dad saying to her, "Shh. It's okay, you can go now. It's okay." Eventually there were no more breaths.
And that was the end.
I came home from school to a houseful of anxiety. My mother, in her usual chair. My father, sitting nearby. I could tell something was wrong even before I heard her short, shallow gasps. She had choked on a cream cheese danish--she often had trouble swallowing food--and had gone into respiratory distress. Her lungs finally lost the fight, but her body just didn't know it yet.
I think mom knew she was going to die that day. She insisted that we call my sister, so that she could talk to her one last time with that wasted, wrecked voice. She bore all of our ministrations with her usual stoicism--or perhaps just trying to breathe took so much concentration that she couldn't complain. I remember, far into the night, discussing whether to give her more of the morphine that the hospice worker said might help. "I don't want to kill you," I said. She just looked at me.
At some point in the night she grew too weak to cough, so we took turns pounding her back. It must have hurt. In the morning, she told my dad "Happy birthday." I don't know but I think those were her last words.
Later in the day. Everyone else had left. I was sitting by her bed, holding her hand when the realization slowly penetrated her breathing had changed, transformed from the tortured rasps of a runner to something almost mechanical. It took me even longer to realize that she was no longer conscious. I knew she wasn't ever going to wake up. Just looking at her body heaving with every deep, slow, gurgling breath...I was intimately familiar with it. I'd been keeping her alive for six months. I'd known it was coming. It was almost a relief to see the end...almost.
Still later. My dad and the hospice lady had returned. I went to the bathroom. Perhaps mom had been waiting for me to leave the room, because when I came back her breathing had changed again. Quiet breaths, with long pauses in between, pauses growing longer and longer. I remember the sunlight streaming sideways into the room, touching on her beautiful white hair. I remember crying as quietly as I could. I remember my dad saying to her, "Shh. It's okay, you can go now. It's okay." Eventually there were no more breaths.
And that was the end.
3
Apple Talk / So uh
« on: March 07, 2010, 07:43:15 am »
I guess I'm back. Why did you all change your names?!
4
Apple Talk / HELLO, MY NAME IS ROGER
« on: August 28, 2009, 05:00:12 am »
IF I HAVEN'T DECIDED TO SHUN YOU YET, HERE'S YOUR CHANCE TO SAY SOMETHING THAT I CAN GLEEFULLY MISCONSTRUE IN ORDER TO DECLARE YOU DEAD TO ME. IT MAKES ME FEEL MORALLY SUPERIOR, PLUS IT'S THE ONLY WAY I CAN ACHIEVE SEXUAL SATISFACTION WITH A WOMAN.
5
Or Kill Me / A rough draft
« on: December 04, 2008, 09:43:25 am »
As is customary for me, I went down to the desert for Thanksgiving. Usually I go hiking and spend a lot of time outside, but sadly it snowed a lot, causing the top layer of dirt to become mud, and trapping me inside a cabin with ten adults and four toddlers. So I split my time standing outside in the snow, to escape from the noise, and reading about South American religion, to distract from the noise. So I had time to think.
My big book O South American religion started, naturally, at the beginning. But the author was insistant in pointing out that while some begin with nothing, which is subsequently populated with the world by a supreme being, many do not. Some traditions don't address the question of where we came from at all. This started me wondering about the Big Bang theory, and whether the scientists who developed it would have thought up something else if they weren't so ingrained with the idea of something coming from nothing. And if that theory would have been supported by different evidence. But I quickly abandoned that, because I know shit-all about the BBT and I wasn't anywhere near a place to look it up.
Then I started thinking about nothing. The concept. The fact that, although it is completely impossible for a person to experience nothing (because the act of experiencing would create something), it's still there. The idea. It's not darkness, it's not quiet, it's not flatness, it's...nothing. The closest we can come is during sleep, when time ceases to exist, and the physical world falls away. All that's left is dreams, which, even if remembered, make no sense. It can be argued that it's because dreams are merely the product of percolating brain juices, but I prefer to think that it's because dreams occur in a completely different universe, where time and space do not exist.
Let me back up.
Many animals possess persistant spacial memory. Squirrels, for example, depend on being able to remember where they stashed their loot. Humans possess this talent in glorified truckloads. Humans remember places. They remember the names of places. And, especially, importantly, they remember places they haven't even been. Humans remember things that happened, and try to pre-remember things that will happen. Humans weave an entire world, an entire universe, all tangled up with meaning and significance, overlaid over the rocks and sticks of the planet. The very act of being conscious and observing things creates more and more layers, some shared, some unique, which all make up the tiny microcosm of the mind. A teeny, tiny bit of the universe--but a fractal bit. A subset. Limited only by scale. And what is left when you fall asleep and let go of the larger set? Just yourself. And what makes it still the same when you wake up? Your memory, stubbornly insisting that today will be like yesterday, and the day before...
My big book O South American religion started, naturally, at the beginning. But the author was insistant in pointing out that while some begin with nothing, which is subsequently populated with the world by a supreme being, many do not. Some traditions don't address the question of where we came from at all. This started me wondering about the Big Bang theory, and whether the scientists who developed it would have thought up something else if they weren't so ingrained with the idea of something coming from nothing. And if that theory would have been supported by different evidence. But I quickly abandoned that, because I know shit-all about the BBT and I wasn't anywhere near a place to look it up.
Then I started thinking about nothing. The concept. The fact that, although it is completely impossible for a person to experience nothing (because the act of experiencing would create something), it's still there. The idea. It's not darkness, it's not quiet, it's not flatness, it's...nothing. The closest we can come is during sleep, when time ceases to exist, and the physical world falls away. All that's left is dreams, which, even if remembered, make no sense. It can be argued that it's because dreams are merely the product of percolating brain juices, but I prefer to think that it's because dreams occur in a completely different universe, where time and space do not exist.
Let me back up.
Many animals possess persistant spacial memory. Squirrels, for example, depend on being able to remember where they stashed their loot. Humans possess this talent in glorified truckloads. Humans remember places. They remember the names of places. And, especially, importantly, they remember places they haven't even been. Humans remember things that happened, and try to pre-remember things that will happen. Humans weave an entire world, an entire universe, all tangled up with meaning and significance, overlaid over the rocks and sticks of the planet. The very act of being conscious and observing things creates more and more layers, some shared, some unique, which all make up the tiny microcosm of the mind. A teeny, tiny bit of the universe--but a fractal bit. A subset. Limited only by scale. And what is left when you fall asleep and let go of the larger set? Just yourself. And what makes it still the same when you wake up? Your memory, stubbornly insisting that today will be like yesterday, and the day before...
6
Discordian Recipes / I'M FUCKING SICK OF BACON
« on: November 29, 2008, 12:21:56 am »
IT'S GREAT IN MODERATION.
YOU ALL DISGUST ME.
THAT IS ALL.
YOU ALL DISGUST ME.
THAT IS ALL.
7
Discordian Recipes / Cooking the Badges way: Just Fucking Wing It
« on: September 18, 2008, 07:04:35 am »
This will hopefully be a regular thing because I like to cook and it forces me to do my dishes. The format will be: ingredients for all dishes, then instructions on how to cook everything at once cause that's how I roll.
HERE IS A DINNER FOR TWO THAT I COOKED TONIGHT AND ATE ALONE
Sauteed apples & onions
1/2 large white onion
1 apple--I used Gala because that's what I had, but any tart variety should work
horseradish
fresh ground nutmeg--I have one of those whole nutmegs/grater deals, the end product is much sharper and more aromatic than pre-ground. Also great in leek & potato soup, by the way.
I also considered putting in ginger, mustard, turmeric, cinnamon, or curry powder. Anything warm and spicy would have worked.
Rosemary Pork Chops
2 pork chops
handful of rosemary
handful of garlic cloves
Mashed potatoes
2 potatoes
milk
(not as boring as it looks)
First things first, chop those potatoes up in little chunks and throw em in some boiling water. Then slice your onion and put it in a skillet with some butter. Cook to desired degree. Slice apple, add to skillet. Throw on desired spices. Set aside. Don't overcook or the apple will get mushy! I learned this because I took too long deciding what to put on them
Chop each garlic clove in half or so, heat in a skillet with rosemary and olive oil.
Remember those potatoes? They should be boiled half to death now. Mash the crap out of them! (note to self: buy a potato masher)
Oh crap that garlic is looking a little brown. No matter! Scoop them out and put them in the potatoes. Yum.
Throw your pork chops into the hot skillet, salt and pepper til they look good. Cook til pink inside, especially if you're like me and leave the finding of a clean plate til the last minute, the residual heat will finish the job.
Yay food.
HERE IS A DINNER FOR TWO THAT I COOKED TONIGHT AND ATE ALONE
Sauteed apples & onions
1/2 large white onion
1 apple--I used Gala because that's what I had, but any tart variety should work
horseradish
fresh ground nutmeg--I have one of those whole nutmegs/grater deals, the end product is much sharper and more aromatic than pre-ground. Also great in leek & potato soup, by the way.
I also considered putting in ginger, mustard, turmeric, cinnamon, or curry powder. Anything warm and spicy would have worked.
Rosemary Pork Chops
2 pork chops
handful of rosemary
handful of garlic cloves
Mashed potatoes
2 potatoes
milk
(not as boring as it looks)
First things first, chop those potatoes up in little chunks and throw em in some boiling water. Then slice your onion and put it in a skillet with some butter. Cook to desired degree. Slice apple, add to skillet. Throw on desired spices. Set aside. Don't overcook or the apple will get mushy! I learned this because I took too long deciding what to put on them
Chop each garlic clove in half or so, heat in a skillet with rosemary and olive oil.
Remember those potatoes? They should be boiled half to death now. Mash the crap out of them! (note to self: buy a potato masher)
Oh crap that garlic is looking a little brown. No matter! Scoop them out and put them in the potatoes. Yum.
Throw your pork chops into the hot skillet, salt and pepper til they look good. Cook til pink inside, especially if you're like me and leave the finding of a clean plate til the last minute, the residual heat will finish the job.
Yay food.
8
Discordian Recipes / Corn syrup: bad or just evil?
« on: September 15, 2008, 01:43:00 am »
Anyway, I have a recipe for havregrynskage that calls for 1/4 c corn syrup. Would molasses be a good alternative? Also a little more proper, perhaps?
Then it would be more like granola cakes. Holy crap I am a genius.
Then it would be more like granola cakes. Holy crap I am a genius.
9
Principia Discussion / Introducing myself
« on: September 05, 2008, 08:48:30 pm »
HI I'm new here! 
10
Or Kill Me / YOU AND I ARE BUT JUICE pt III
« on: June 28, 2008, 10:46:28 pm »
I have said before, I am saying again: people are social creatures.
Give 100 people a moral dilemma, and most of them will resolve it in the same way. Is it cultural? Probably. But the thing is, we're all made of the same kind of meat. The juices that run through our brains might vary from person to person, but evolution has handed us a very powerful tool. We're on top of the food chain for a reason. Millions of years of history screaming at us to use that lump of fat three feet above our ass.
And yet.
And yet everyone encounters stupid people every day. People who just don't seem to think about anything. Who don't consider how something works, or the consequences of their actions, or whether they might be wrong.
The thing is, we don't really have to think any more. Modern culture has removed that necessity. It is entirely possible to fill up an entire day with noise. Radio, tv, 24 hour news, movies, iPods, blackberries, malls, fast food drive throughs.
And, worst of all, the internet.
Now, I love the internet. I can't get enough of it. It's a fountain of information and entertainment. I've talked to some pretty interesting people on the internet. But I also benefitted greatly from not having it for six months. The internet cannot replace actual face-to-face social interaction. On the internet, it's easy to find people who think similar things. It's easy to ignore the people you disagree with. It's even easier to forget that there's a thinking, feeling human being on the other end of the flame war. The internet allows the creation of tiny cesspools.
The internet made furries.
People who aren't furries automatically have a viscerally negative reaction to them. It's just wrong. As far as I know, furries didn't exist before the internet. There is no victorian furry porn. They represent, to me, a total and complete alienation from both the human race and all normal human interaction, especially sexuality. How the hell does anyone look at a fox and think, "Ooh that is sexy"? I say it is because a bunch of social retards sat in a circle and started agreeing with themselves. Social affirmation is a great feeling, even in the flat, false society of the internet. "Oh, your drawing of that fox fucking that lion was so great, do another one!" is probably the first praise any of these people have ever gotten.
Actually, the internet isn't the root cause of any of this. All it does is allow the socially awkward to remain inside and delude themselves into thinking that they have friends. It is a tool, like the flint hand-axe, but unfortunately most people don't die if they use it the wrong way. I can only foresee humans getting estranged and stranger, and so I say, as I have said before: we are fucked.
Give 100 people a moral dilemma, and most of them will resolve it in the same way. Is it cultural? Probably. But the thing is, we're all made of the same kind of meat. The juices that run through our brains might vary from person to person, but evolution has handed us a very powerful tool. We're on top of the food chain for a reason. Millions of years of history screaming at us to use that lump of fat three feet above our ass.
And yet.
And yet everyone encounters stupid people every day. People who just don't seem to think about anything. Who don't consider how something works, or the consequences of their actions, or whether they might be wrong.
The thing is, we don't really have to think any more. Modern culture has removed that necessity. It is entirely possible to fill up an entire day with noise. Radio, tv, 24 hour news, movies, iPods, blackberries, malls, fast food drive throughs.
And, worst of all, the internet.
Now, I love the internet. I can't get enough of it. It's a fountain of information and entertainment. I've talked to some pretty interesting people on the internet. But I also benefitted greatly from not having it for six months. The internet cannot replace actual face-to-face social interaction. On the internet, it's easy to find people who think similar things. It's easy to ignore the people you disagree with. It's even easier to forget that there's a thinking, feeling human being on the other end of the flame war. The internet allows the creation of tiny cesspools.
The internet made furries.
People who aren't furries automatically have a viscerally negative reaction to them. It's just wrong. As far as I know, furries didn't exist before the internet. There is no victorian furry porn. They represent, to me, a total and complete alienation from both the human race and all normal human interaction, especially sexuality. How the hell does anyone look at a fox and think, "Ooh that is sexy"? I say it is because a bunch of social retards sat in a circle and started agreeing with themselves. Social affirmation is a great feeling, even in the flat, false society of the internet. "Oh, your drawing of that fox fucking that lion was so great, do another one!" is probably the first praise any of these people have ever gotten.
Actually, the internet isn't the root cause of any of this. All it does is allow the socially awkward to remain inside and delude themselves into thinking that they have friends. It is a tool, like the flint hand-axe, but unfortunately most people don't die if they use it the wrong way. I can only foresee humans getting estranged and stranger, and so I say, as I have said before: we are fucked.
11
Or Kill Me / YOU AND I ARE BUT JUICE pt II
« on: June 09, 2008, 07:38:08 pm »
I've been listening to this song obsessively. Over and over. It's been bothering me, weighing on my like an abcess on my Id. Something about the simple progression from childish attention-seeking to pure megalomania has been getting to me. Words have been seeping in, and now they're spewing out.
Part of being human is ignoring how at the mercy you are to the rest of the world. You hop into your car, despite the danger. You go to work, hoping to have a good day. You order a meal, not wanting to know what goes on in the kitchen. But secretly, underneath it all, you know how you're just surfing on the edge of your own life, that shit can and will happen at any moment.
It manifests in the little escapes that we manufacture, in alcohol or drugs, or sex, or video games. For the smallest moment, we no longer have to submit to life, for a moment our scope is sufficiently narrow that we can honestly say, "I am master of all I see." In giving up control of the greater world, we gain that much more control over a tiny portion.
It manifests in ambition. The need for control, for power, for moral authority. For the ability to make change. For the ability to destroy.
It's all from evolution. It is thought that schizophrenics suffer from the same genes that initially gave us hominids the ability to think and create, the very genes that helped us become top of the food chain despite our physical weakness. But intelligence isn't the only thing. There is also drive, ambition. The burning need to be faster, stronger, smarter, sexier, than any and all comers. History tells me those who are the most grasping, the most driven, the most insane, are the ones divinely favored. Happiness doesn't come into it. They are holes needing filling by one thing--power.
We are genetically programmed to have hierarchy. Some people will be content with controlling the petty things in their lives, what to have for breakfast and whether to wear yellow today. And others, others will need, desperately, to tell everybody else what to have for breakfast. Those are the people who seek the positions of power, and those, sadly, are the ones who get it. The old tired adage is true.
We will always be a pile of rats clawing our way over our fellows towards the top. That, I don't think, will ever change. But what gets me every time, every god damned time is how the rats at the top are trusted by the people who think they put them there.
The ultimate power is the power to destroy.
Part of being human is ignoring how at the mercy you are to the rest of the world. You hop into your car, despite the danger. You go to work, hoping to have a good day. You order a meal, not wanting to know what goes on in the kitchen. But secretly, underneath it all, you know how you're just surfing on the edge of your own life, that shit can and will happen at any moment.
It manifests in the little escapes that we manufacture, in alcohol or drugs, or sex, or video games. For the smallest moment, we no longer have to submit to life, for a moment our scope is sufficiently narrow that we can honestly say, "I am master of all I see." In giving up control of the greater world, we gain that much more control over a tiny portion.
It manifests in ambition. The need for control, for power, for moral authority. For the ability to make change. For the ability to destroy.
It's all from evolution. It is thought that schizophrenics suffer from the same genes that initially gave us hominids the ability to think and create, the very genes that helped us become top of the food chain despite our physical weakness. But intelligence isn't the only thing. There is also drive, ambition. The burning need to be faster, stronger, smarter, sexier, than any and all comers. History tells me those who are the most grasping, the most driven, the most insane, are the ones divinely favored. Happiness doesn't come into it. They are holes needing filling by one thing--power.
We are genetically programmed to have hierarchy. Some people will be content with controlling the petty things in their lives, what to have for breakfast and whether to wear yellow today. And others, others will need, desperately, to tell everybody else what to have for breakfast. Those are the people who seek the positions of power, and those, sadly, are the ones who get it. The old tired adage is true.
We will always be a pile of rats clawing our way over our fellows towards the top. That, I don't think, will ever change. But what gets me every time, every god damned time is how the rats at the top are trusted by the people who think they put them there.
The ultimate power is the power to destroy.
12
Or Kill Me / YOU AND I ARE BUT JUICE
« on: June 06, 2008, 09:26:32 am »
The seat of the soul is the juices in your brain. I know this because science tells me so. Science tells me that imbalances in my serotonin levels can cause problems with mood. Science tells me that good diet, regular exercise, and clean living can make live a healthy, happy life. Science invented pills that are supposed to make it all better.
What science forgot to say is how seriously fucked up a person get without even realizing. What science never mentions is how a person stops being a person and turns into a machine for eating, sleeping, and shitting, when those little "imbalances" happen. That a formerly human being can crawl into a hole and die, and no one will notice. That there are animals in human form walking among us, barely living, barely aware, simply existing in a tunnel of raw suffering, surviving from day to day. Nobody notices. Nobody cares.
How many of us are really, truly happy? How do you know you're not deluding yourself into thinking you are, but deep down, you know you aren't as human as you think? That you have failed to reach that sublime level of harmony, that near unattainable state, where all is well with the world? You can't achieve that state without shoving your head up your own ass, because even if you find internal order, all you have to do is look at your fellow "human" to see that the world as a whole is fucked.
All because we have failed to master the juices in our brain.
It has never been mind over matter. Never. Everything that you think and feel, happens because of chemicals seeping in the collection of fatty tissue encased in your skull. Your logical processes are affected by the levels of hormones floating about your bloodstream. You can truly have moments of stupidity, not because you are stupid, but because you are a tenuous consciousness in a flawed vehicle.
And what happens when your body suffers little shocks, over and over? It adapts. It adjusts. You ignore the filthy hobo in the street every day, until he just stops registering on your optical nerves. You know your friends are depressed, or on drugs, or even mentally disturbed, but you just can't help them. You can barely help yourself. You take your pills in the hopes that tomorrow will be a little brighter, but really, what are you doing? Painting sunshine on a jail cell wall. Because the world is fucked.
We are fucked.
The seat of the soul is juices long gone bad.
What science forgot to say is how seriously fucked up a person get without even realizing. What science never mentions is how a person stops being a person and turns into a machine for eating, sleeping, and shitting, when those little "imbalances" happen. That a formerly human being can crawl into a hole and die, and no one will notice. That there are animals in human form walking among us, barely living, barely aware, simply existing in a tunnel of raw suffering, surviving from day to day. Nobody notices. Nobody cares.
How many of us are really, truly happy? How do you know you're not deluding yourself into thinking you are, but deep down, you know you aren't as human as you think? That you have failed to reach that sublime level of harmony, that near unattainable state, where all is well with the world? You can't achieve that state without shoving your head up your own ass, because even if you find internal order, all you have to do is look at your fellow "human" to see that the world as a whole is fucked.
All because we have failed to master the juices in our brain.
It has never been mind over matter. Never. Everything that you think and feel, happens because of chemicals seeping in the collection of fatty tissue encased in your skull. Your logical processes are affected by the levels of hormones floating about your bloodstream. You can truly have moments of stupidity, not because you are stupid, but because you are a tenuous consciousness in a flawed vehicle.
And what happens when your body suffers little shocks, over and over? It adapts. It adjusts. You ignore the filthy hobo in the street every day, until he just stops registering on your optical nerves. You know your friends are depressed, or on drugs, or even mentally disturbed, but you just can't help them. You can barely help yourself. You take your pills in the hopes that tomorrow will be a little brighter, but really, what are you doing? Painting sunshine on a jail cell wall. Because the world is fucked.
We are fucked.
The seat of the soul is juices long gone bad.
13
Or Kill Me / Iceberg
« on: December 16, 2006, 10:59:05 pm »
You're on a cruise on the Arctic Ocean. The travel agent showed you breathtaking vistas of ice and snow, northern cities lit up like Christmas, pictures of whales and albatrosses. So why not?
So far you've done all right. You've explored the bars (but gave up on the fancy drinks and settled down with your favorite beer). You've gone out with the rest of the herd into said cities, to get even more drunk, to give money to obliging pale-skinned round-hipped women. Then eventually you stumble back to lie in your own narrow bed while the world spins around you.
You've learned a lot about the ship. You hear about The Captain all the time, though you've never seen him. In fact the only crew you've ever seen is the maids and Security which acts as a sort of glorified nanny service, pouring sodden clients into their respective cabins.
Everyone's fucking everyone, but as time goes on people start to pair off, to huddle against the growing cold. The sun appears less and less in the sky as you creep farther and farther north, and everyone withdraws inside, into the brightly lit casinos and bars which make their own little aurora borealii on the dark water.
You hold back, though, somehow. You watch everyone else and you wonder just how you're supposed to enjoy yourself. You feel yourself moving with the herd, you do what everyone else is doing, but underneath it all a secret voice is asking, what's the point...?
One day you stumble onto the observation deck. A crowd of people is gathered against the railing. You wander over to see what they're looking at and see, in the distance, a mound of white.
"It's an iceberg!" an overly-tanned woman exclaims.
You stand and watch at the rail. Gradually the others grow bored with the ship's slow progress and fade away, but something makes you stay and watch. Your legs grow tired and you shift from foot to foot, but still you don't retire to the comfort of the dining room.
Hours pass. Slowly the mound grows larger, develops depth and substance. It develops character, crags and folds. You hope that The Captain will steer the ship closer to give you a chance to see it, to really give it a look. And maybe, just maybe, The Captain does just that because the mound turns into a hill, than a mountain, radiating cold light high above your head.
You stare, thrilled by this strange phenomenon. A real life iceberg. Suddenly the clouds part and the sun breaks into the sky and you see, you really see it. You see all the flaws and the dirt and the dead fish and the ice plankton and the grime that looks like dried blood. You look down, and see the part nobody remembers, that you're only looking at the tip of it, and you see all the lumps and projections of the kind that, you remember, killed the Titanic.
You draw back, afraid. The ship is so close. What is The Captain doing?! He'll kill you all if you get any closer. He must be insane, you think, forgetting your wishes of just a few hours previous.
You run, almost, back to your tiny cabin and huddle under the thin blankets. Slowly, as the dreaded grinding crash does not come, you relax, then finally fall asleep. You dream of ice and regret.
The next day you curse yourself for not really participating in the drunken revelry and throw yourself into the festivities. What's the point of refusing ignorance if there is no bliss to be had?
And somewhere, The Captain smiles.
So far you've done all right. You've explored the bars (but gave up on the fancy drinks and settled down with your favorite beer). You've gone out with the rest of the herd into said cities, to get even more drunk, to give money to obliging pale-skinned round-hipped women. Then eventually you stumble back to lie in your own narrow bed while the world spins around you.
You've learned a lot about the ship. You hear about The Captain all the time, though you've never seen him. In fact the only crew you've ever seen is the maids and Security which acts as a sort of glorified nanny service, pouring sodden clients into their respective cabins.
Everyone's fucking everyone, but as time goes on people start to pair off, to huddle against the growing cold. The sun appears less and less in the sky as you creep farther and farther north, and everyone withdraws inside, into the brightly lit casinos and bars which make their own little aurora borealii on the dark water.
You hold back, though, somehow. You watch everyone else and you wonder just how you're supposed to enjoy yourself. You feel yourself moving with the herd, you do what everyone else is doing, but underneath it all a secret voice is asking, what's the point...?
One day you stumble onto the observation deck. A crowd of people is gathered against the railing. You wander over to see what they're looking at and see, in the distance, a mound of white.
"It's an iceberg!" an overly-tanned woman exclaims.
You stand and watch at the rail. Gradually the others grow bored with the ship's slow progress and fade away, but something makes you stay and watch. Your legs grow tired and you shift from foot to foot, but still you don't retire to the comfort of the dining room.
Hours pass. Slowly the mound grows larger, develops depth and substance. It develops character, crags and folds. You hope that The Captain will steer the ship closer to give you a chance to see it, to really give it a look. And maybe, just maybe, The Captain does just that because the mound turns into a hill, than a mountain, radiating cold light high above your head.
You stare, thrilled by this strange phenomenon. A real life iceberg. Suddenly the clouds part and the sun breaks into the sky and you see, you really see it. You see all the flaws and the dirt and the dead fish and the ice plankton and the grime that looks like dried blood. You look down, and see the part nobody remembers, that you're only looking at the tip of it, and you see all the lumps and projections of the kind that, you remember, killed the Titanic.
You draw back, afraid. The ship is so close. What is The Captain doing?! He'll kill you all if you get any closer. He must be insane, you think, forgetting your wishes of just a few hours previous.
You run, almost, back to your tiny cabin and huddle under the thin blankets. Slowly, as the dreaded grinding crash does not come, you relax, then finally fall asleep. You dream of ice and regret.
The next day you curse yourself for not really participating in the drunken revelry and throw yourself into the festivities. What's the point of refusing ignorance if there is no bliss to be had?
And somewhere, The Captain smiles.
14
Or Kill Me / I've been thinking about death a lot lately
« on: November 03, 2006, 07:37:17 am »
I watched my mother die about a month ago.  She died of lung cancer, and it would be nice to say she died in her sleep but actually she lapsed into a coma from lack of oxygen.  Her last conscious hours were filled with the terror and misery of slow suffocation.  Her breath was the long slow struggle of a coffee pot at full gargle.  For 24 hours.  Finally her breaths became fainter and fainter, and then, almost imperceptibly, she didn't breathe at all.
So I've been thinking a lot about death lately.
Actually I want to die.  Sometimes I want it so bad I can taste it.  I don't want to have to wait for the inevitable, miserable end.  I don't want advanced warning.  I don't want to spend my last hours knowing I'm going to die but fighting against it anyway.  I want my death to be sudden, violent, and unexpected.
I'm not actually suicidal, though.  Sure, my life is shit, but if that were a good reason to die it'd be Earth, Population 200.  So when I drive to work I ponder what'd happen if the semi next to me blew a tire but I don't try to help it along.
...
When I arrived at work tonight I arrived at chaos.  It seems the Bigwig, the Founder himself, was coming to visit.  As I've mentioned before, I work inventory in the distribution center for a well-known contact lens distribution company (which you've probably heard of).  On a normal night I spend four hours standing around counting things.  Not the most exciting job ever, but at least I don't have to deal with The Public.  But this was not a normal night.  Tonight I arrived and was told I was going to...dust. 
Those who have been in warehouses have already let out a peal of laughter.  Dusting a warehouse is like icing a shit cake.  I was given a rag that had clearly been used to dust the warehouse the last time it happened (maybe a decade ago), and I set about smearing the grime around.
It's really a pointless job.  There's only so much you can do with full shelves.  And really, how long was this guy going to be there?  Maybe 15 minutes walkthrough.  I imagined him, a faceless Donald Trump with a pair of white gloves.  He wipes it across a shelf, frowns at the result, and announces, "You're fired.  You're all fired!" 
In the grand scheme of things, a bit of dust really doesn't matter.  But in the grand scheme of things, nothing matters really.  Everyone with eyes can see that human civilisation is going to shit.  Either God or Mother Nature or North Korea is going to bomb the everliving fuck out of us and we'll all go down in the savagery and chaos of anarchy. 
Now some of you might be getting visions of Mad Max dancing about in his head.  I say, fuck that shit.  I hate camping with the passion normally reserved for homofags and dirty hippies; no way in fuck am I going to live the rest of my life without water or electricity.  Also, I am nearly blind and would have to survive on my shitty, shitty glasses after my contacts tore to shreds on my eyes.  But I probably wouldn't survive that long, because people like me are subject to rape and pillage.  I have a vagina; ergo I am commodity. 
No, I have no illusions about the dystopian future.  When armageddon comes, I'll finally have a good excuse to kill myself.  Then I'll eat every narcotic I own and take one final, hot bath (heres to optimism).
Or motherfucking kill me. 
RBG,
had to say it.
So I've been thinking a lot about death lately.
Actually I want to die.  Sometimes I want it so bad I can taste it.  I don't want to have to wait for the inevitable, miserable end.  I don't want advanced warning.  I don't want to spend my last hours knowing I'm going to die but fighting against it anyway.  I want my death to be sudden, violent, and unexpected.
I'm not actually suicidal, though.  Sure, my life is shit, but if that were a good reason to die it'd be Earth, Population 200.  So when I drive to work I ponder what'd happen if the semi next to me blew a tire but I don't try to help it along.
...
When I arrived at work tonight I arrived at chaos.  It seems the Bigwig, the Founder himself, was coming to visit.  As I've mentioned before, I work inventory in the distribution center for a well-known contact lens distribution company (which you've probably heard of).  On a normal night I spend four hours standing around counting things.  Not the most exciting job ever, but at least I don't have to deal with The Public.  But this was not a normal night.  Tonight I arrived and was told I was going to...dust. 
Those who have been in warehouses have already let out a peal of laughter.  Dusting a warehouse is like icing a shit cake.  I was given a rag that had clearly been used to dust the warehouse the last time it happened (maybe a decade ago), and I set about smearing the grime around.
It's really a pointless job.  There's only so much you can do with full shelves.  And really, how long was this guy going to be there?  Maybe 15 minutes walkthrough.  I imagined him, a faceless Donald Trump with a pair of white gloves.  He wipes it across a shelf, frowns at the result, and announces, "You're fired.  You're all fired!" 
In the grand scheme of things, a bit of dust really doesn't matter.  But in the grand scheme of things, nothing matters really.  Everyone with eyes can see that human civilisation is going to shit.  Either God or Mother Nature or North Korea is going to bomb the everliving fuck out of us and we'll all go down in the savagery and chaos of anarchy. 
Now some of you might be getting visions of Mad Max dancing about in his head.  I say, fuck that shit.  I hate camping with the passion normally reserved for homofags and dirty hippies; no way in fuck am I going to live the rest of my life without water or electricity.  Also, I am nearly blind and would have to survive on my shitty, shitty glasses after my contacts tore to shreds on my eyes.  But I probably wouldn't survive that long, because people like me are subject to rape and pillage.  I have a vagina; ergo I am commodity. 
No, I have no illusions about the dystopian future.  When armageddon comes, I'll finally have a good excuse to kill myself.  Then I'll eat every narcotic I own and take one final, hot bath (heres to optimism).
Or motherfucking kill me. 
RBG,
had to say it.
15
Or Kill Me / I like this dude
« on: February 15, 2006, 03:45:21 am »
Cause he says such exciting things as religion inhibits rational thinking.