Personal

“Groan silently; make no mourning for the dead”

I stayed up late, knocking out a quarter or so before one a.m. I kept my TV on with the volume lowered to just above a whisper. I do this whenever there is a major storm brewing outside my window—natural or political. It’s almost reminiscent to the 2004 election. A part of me wanted to deny the truth that had set into my heart early on in the day. John Kerry wasn’t the most likable or charismatic candidate, but standing next to Al Gore the man was a marching band. And standing next John Kerry, Hillary Clinton was an orchestra on the rise of a crescendo. Obama? Don’t get me started on Obama. I love the guy. A great speaker, well-learned. Standing him next to any of the listed candidates is unfair.

I turned off the TV before any results spilled in. Hillary Clinton was losing, had lost. I knew it the moment I woke up in the morning. A sudden dread had cast itself upon me. I read all the polls. Read all the blogs. Read tweets and interviews and political insights. Everyone—well, nearly everyone—all agreed, Hillary could take this election in a landslide.

Sleep reminded me to check my phone at 4:20 a.m. to see what I had already knew. The country had elected Donald Trump as its next leader. And while it seemed like a nightmare in the making, there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing anyone could do about it.

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image source

As expected, the social media backlash was astounding. Names were called. People broke down on their Twitters (I was one of them). We called out Jill Stein and Gary Johnson as spoilers (which they were, but not enough to actually affect this election). People exclaimed that the Electoral College is an outdated system (an argument I’ve made several times in the past even when the vote was in my favor). Hillary, like Al Gore, won the popular vote while failing to secure the electoral one.

And now we play the blame-game, seeking out who is most at fault. The under educated? The Alt-right? Republicans for allowing this charade get out of hand?

I’m comfortable blaming the Alt-right for now. And maybe the Democrats. And the far-left liberals. Who knows?

Joke as I may about moving to New Zealand and starting a new life there, I will not abandon my country. And neither should you. This election was our Brexit. It is our monster and we must tame it before it continues to poison our waters. This isn’t just a Democrat problem, it’s everyone’s problem. And no, this country isn’t doomed. It may be in shambles, and it may get worse, but it isn’t over. It isn’t dead. It’s united by division. It’s our separate opinions that make us strong. Forgetting that will only make us weak.

So grieve, yes. Cry, sure. But don’t you dare give up. Don’t you dare stop keeping tabs on those who are in office. And don’t you dare forget to vote in two years during the mid-term election.

And for those of you whining and protesting about how the system is broke, letting your vote go to waste by not casting it like so many did last night—I have this to say to you: Grow the fuck up.

Books

Book Memory # 1: On The Justice of Roosting Chickens

Ten years ago, I picked up On the Justice of Roosting Chickens by Ward Churchill because I was twenty, felt disenfranchised and was a budding conspiracy theorist and forbidden literature was to me what Nutella is to hipsters with toast. I never felt we deserved the atrocities that befell our nation on 11 September 2001, but I wasn’t convinced we were entirely innocent either. Ward Churchill’s book may have convinced me otherwise had it not been for the fact that I can think for myself and realized how militant this anti-militant man could act. Still, I respected him and I loved his book (for the most part), though I never read the essay that spawned it. I never saw him as an anti-American or a traitor.

I don’t know what happened to me. Maybe I became more of a moderate Liberal that I originally anticipated. I stood against for the war in Iraq because we went in based on a lie. I didn’t like George W. Bush or his favoring the rich, but he wasn’t a war criminal like most of my liberal friends stated. And while he did leave the country divided and tarnished our country’s image throughout the world over, I didn’t want him impeached, not really, because lying is what presidents and politicians do—see presidents since Nixon.

Today, I sat in the living room and looked up from the book I’m reading—The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins (a book I’m still reading due to my book ADD, see last post)—and saw Churchill’s book and wondered whatever happened the controversial professor of American Indian Studies. And I remember how much he piqued my attention because he wasn’t a crazed conspiracy theorist. He didn’t write about how 9/11 was an inside job like so many deluded people believe to this day, but an act of retaliation from the bullying that American has been known for since the begin. And I chuckled because I’ve grown up so much since I was twenty—I guess ten years will do that to a person. Five years before learning about Ward Churchill or Al-Qaeda or caring about American politics and the only thing presidents were good for was getting blow jobs from interns, I thought I was an anarchist. I’m not sure if you can believe this, but fifteen years ago I stood as an aspiring anarchist Catholic teen with an interest for the occult.

Isn’t it great that I left the fantasies behind?

You can pick up a copy of On the Justice of Roosting Chickens: Reflections on the Consequences of U.S. Imperial Arrogance and Criminality by Ward Churchill at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Doldrums

“If we shadows have offended”

Conspiracy theorists are a lot alike religious nut jobs in the sense they’re fucking annoying. Nothing pleases these people, nothing real anyway. Any evidence thrown their way is automatically tossed aside and chalked up to lizard people meddling in to blind us from the truth. Meanwhile, the truth is biting them in the ass and they can’t explain the itch. Instead, it’s the government pulling the strings. And not the government government, but a secret, shadow government sitting beneath the earth in a DC comic book hideout plotting the end of our world.

I think Alan Moore says it best (and I’m borrowing this image from The Polymath’s Dilemma) when he said:

Exhibit A: Alan fuckin' Moore
Exhibit A: Alan fuckin’ Moore

When did logic and reason cease being enough for people that we had to create myths and monsters to explain the ugly and beauty of this world? And when did we start believing every fucking thing that we read on the Internet? That’s their main argument: “The evidence is all over there Internet!

This blog stems from a Facebook post (I know, I know) a friend made where the denies that a couple of student-aged terrorists could pull off the Boston Marathon bombings. You know, because there’s no such thing as brainwashing children. There’s also no such thing as a child soldier or a terrorist camps.

But explain this to me, conspiracy theorists: Why Russian? If the government was setting us up, why not North Korean? Because while Russian and the USA are seemingly at odds, the big bad of the day isn’t Russia. It’s not even Al Qaeda anymore. It’s North Korea.

For all you “Awake” people our there, I know you’re gonna say something in the sense of “Nuh uh!” or state that I’m too brainwashed to understand because I watch mainstream media. But whatever. You can be “awake” all you want. The truth is, you’re just so scared of the truth that you have to bury it deeply and live in a fantasy. And to debunk your mainstream media myth, I don’t watch it.

Doldrums

“I Believe”

We have these books in the department, a nonfiction series entitled You Wouldn’t Want toThe titles vary from being sick or living during a certain points in history. I can’t help but to think that, somewhere along the line, the company will publish one called You Wouldn’t Want to be a Homosexual in 21st Century United States (a companion title will include being a woman in the United States). How is this still a discussion? It’s like victimizing the rapist, why, in this modern time, do we still do it?

Exhibit A
Exhibit A

Today, I showed my support for Marriage Equality by changing my Facebook profile pic (which is usually a picture of my son) to that equal sign surrounded by red (see Exhibit A). Several of my friends did the same. Now, are we, in away, delusional, that the Supreme Court will file through every Facebook account and take us into consideration? Not anymore than a football player takes into account of all the adoring fans watching from their living rooms wearing their jerseys. So why the image? Why not? It’s there. It’s not hurting anyone anymore than the girl wearing a cross necklace showing her support for Christianity. Or anymore harm than the beatnik wearing the Meat is Murder t-shirt. Nothing comes from it–necklace girl doesn’t convert people just by wearing a necklace and reading Meat is Murder on a tee doesn’t automatically make you a vegan. It just shows support. Nothing more and nothing less.

What grills me is that when I take a stance against prayer or religion as being a bunch of malarkey, I’m automatically lectured that it’s a source of comfort. Well, bitch, this is a source of comfort for me. To know that my friends (not all of them, sadly) are supporting the right for all Americans to live a happy life is comforting.

Change of Subject

Exhibit B
Exhibit B

In other news, I got a monkey (see Exhibit B). Obviously, he isn’t real. I’ve named him Pippin for now (it’s still undecided if the name will stick), and I’m working on his voice. I’m thinking lisp, but if we’re to use him for puppet shows at work, maybe I’ll give him a more endearing voice.

I might even appear with him at the poetry reading this Thursday. That’s also undecided.

Doldrums

Enter Title Here

There have been times where I’m convinced that my mind is anything but well. I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard the rule of thumb–if you have to ask, then you’re not crazy. Still, there are times when I find myself thinking crazy things. Instead of acting on every whim, I write them down and think of consequences that might ensue. I play god and have my creations enact them.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be if I turned out different. I believe we all wonder that at times. If I had more confidence in sixth grade, would I have asked the Little Red-haired Girl out? In the eighth grade, would I have been honest about my feelings for my best friend? I’m not a believer of fate or a grand design, but things happen for reasons, in the end. They aren’t predestined, far from it. It’s just that there are things that have to happen on the path of life in order to come to the most happiest conclusions. If the course of time were changed, I can only imagine I wouldn’t be here writing this and I wouldn’t have a son. At least, not the current son. I don’t even want to think of that.

Observation

I think we’re coming to the end point of our evolutionary chain. We’re raising our children, at least in these United States, wrong. Working at the library proves this. Monica sent me an image that the Squid brought home. It’s science experiment season, so I’ve seen the image at work.

I won’t post the image because I’m far too lazy. But here’s the gist:

QUESTION
HYPOTHESISMATEIRALS (sic)
PROCEEDURE (sic)
RESULTS
CONCLUSION

Don’t question my spelling, I’m just quoting. The foundations of our education are cracked. More so after the Republican messiah sledgehammered the shit out of it during his eight years with his asinine education plan. When our teachers misspell words, there’s something wrong. And this isn’t the first time that I’ve encountered something like this. Years ago, in a note sent home, a teacher reported to my brother that my nephew was in trouble for speaking “fowl” language in the classroom. “Were you clucking like a chicken?” I asked. And don’t even get me started on the ect. debacle.

I blame the Internet for the birth of complacency–learning without learning. Why bother learning something when you can just Google that shit? “I need a book on candles because I need to know whether colored candles burn faster than white ones.” Are you serious? You want a book on this?

To add insult to educational injury, I’ve witness several parents sitting on computers for hours doing their children’s homework, while said children are playing video games. You’re just raising children who, when entering the working world, will sit for hours doing absolutely nothing while people who actually need a job are not receiving them (I speak from experience here, I’ll talk about the pest later).

I need a cigarette. I need coffee. I need all the drugs the cartel has. I need to move to Europe. Or Canada. No, kids, Canada isn’t in Europe.

Doldrums

“Don’t go fucking yourself in the foot”

“Some people don’t deserve to live.”

Caveat: This post contains racist slurs I do not endorse. It talks about rape. It does not follow any linear format.

Somewhere around five or six, ballpark figure. Young. A child. Not the sort of person to shy away from a stranger, which is something both rewarding and deadly. She grabs a Junie B. Jones book, the one with the monster under her bed. She tells me that she’s not sure if she’s read this one already, but peruses it anyway.

“Monsters aren’t even real,” she tells me. “Are they?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think they are.”

Monsters, my dear, are real. They just wear better disguises in real life.

A different girl, miles away. Is raped by someone close to her. Or she’s raped by four football players, and they’ll brag about it the next day. Her days are lived in fear. She’s not sure who thinks her a slut and who a victim. Her name and reputation are dragged through the mud.

Tell me whatcha gonna do now,
Tell me what when there ain’t nowhere to run
When judgment comes for you, when judgement comes for you?

Someone posts that America has died after Obama was reelected. Teenagers post “nigger,” “monkey,” and hopes that our president dies. They make threats. Has the civil rights movement been in vain? Is this what post-racist America looks like? A Tumblr user wishes we can return to an age of innocence. Things were better in the days of Mayberry. Conservative era. When wives were in the kitchen fixing supper for their husbands and kids. When colored people had their own water fountain. Where separated-but-equal was a grand philosophy. When religion reigned, birthed from the fear of Communism. S/he asks me how religion is being forced down our throats. Is it the crosses at Arlington Cemetery? No. It’s the fact that you rather restrict my friends from getting married because it offends you, because it goes against what YOU believe. It’s restricting women right over their own bodies. It’s telling people that rape is a gift of god in disguise as a violet crime.

The truth is, there were no towns like Mayberry because the way things were never was. Mayberry? No, more like Maycomb where an Atticus Finch hoped for a better future for his children, but an angry mob wants to lynch the nigger. That’s the “innocence” you want to return to? No, thank you.

The monsters stop living beneath our beds, within our closets. They gave up on the dark, and adopted the light. They became politicians. They became hometown heroes. They became our neighbors. The reflection in the mirror.

Razor blades are tools of self harm. A household item’s darker side. But it’s the not the victim that should resort to pain in order to forget; it’s the monsters that should turn to pain to remember their crimes.