all hail the green lord
Sometimes I don’t know what to tell you about my life because sometimes I forget how to tell stories, and I get trapped thinking that writing=stories. But hahahaha it doesn’t, joke’s on my writer’s block. Here’s to beautiful moments without plots. Here’s to rambling thoughts without clever punchlines. Here’s to every beautiful sentence ever written, just for the hell of it.
Whenever I want to write, but don’t know where to start, I write letters. Lots of great stuff comes out in letters that I would edit to tatters in any other form. But in letters I just let it all be, and sometimes I even say articulate things that I am happy/surprised to read again later. Even though (especially because?) I don’t obsess over just how I say them.
I’m always trying to figure out how to tell you about my life. About why I live it the way that I do. About the little cogs that squeak and turn in my head. But ever since I quit trying to force everything into a neat little plot, I’ve been uncertain–where to start? Here. A peice of a recent letter. Yeah, that’s the spot.
“It is so weird to hear people talking as if they don’t have enough money when they earn at least twice (or like, 55,000 times) as much as you…this situation has grown more and more bizarre for me in the last year or so. My whole perception of money has changed drastically through my decision to more or less live without it. At the moment my only expenses are the oil and garlic I buy about once a week (which adds up to about 3 euros). Then sometimes Mars and I rent a video for 1,50, which always seems like this big splurge. Or I buy a couple of beers (65 cents each and I get 25 cents back when I return the can). Of course there is the 40 euro/month rent, but I haven’t been able to pay that in months because I haven’t been particularly inspired to write for money. Need to do that soon though, so I can pay the rent, and we can pay the last trash bill. At the moment my sole income is bottle return. I mean, the thought of having 100 euros a month is like this this huge crazy amount. If I had 100 euros a month I’d be RICH. Hahahaha.
The thing about having no money is that you need to put your energy into taking care of some things (food/heat/housing/etc) in some non-traditional ways, and if you work a full time job, you are simply too tired at the end of the day for that shit. It can be an either/or. Like if I worked all the time I wouldn’t have time to chop wood, and then I would have to just buy it already chopped which doesn’t make any sense at all because why would I work doing something else to pay for something I could do myself if I didn’t work?
I suppose that is one of the biggest paradoxes of capitalism. All these middle men built it. Middle men and women who end up equalling alienation from the things that keep us alive and warm and fed. With dumpster diving there is still a middle man, but there has to be some way to transition to growing my own food, and I refuse to work within the system. The system doesn’t offer me any other way to transition out of it because it doesn’t want me to and so says I’m not allowed and provides no options, and so what other choice is there but to make it happen by using the loopholes?
I have been thinking about this a lot lately because I am so tired of hearing people say that stealing or dumpster diving are parasitic (although of course, I don’t mind being called parasitic so much because parasites are an important part of nature and if humans think their “civilization” works any differently then they are sadly mistaken) and “just using the labor of others.” The thing is I don’t want any of those people to be laboring. I don’t want them making dvds and plastic and diapers and straws and working in retail stores and writing advertisements and all that shit. I want them all to quit and to help me plant my garden and for all those things to not even exist. I want to already know how to feed myself and build a house and I want there to be clean, drinkable water in the streams and the rivers and I want there to be clean air and healthy plants and animals everywhere, but those things have been stolen from us, and I’ll be damned if I don’t have the right to steal them back and to force the system to support me while I seek out that knowledge again, while I jack-hammer room for my vision of a beautiful world somewhere in the pavement. If I had to work to support myself while I did this, I wouldn’t have time to do it at all. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
once upon a dumpster
In the Dumpster Grammies, I think I have a good running chance for Most Bizarre Find. I like to imagine that a supersticious employee places the plastic foot there every night to keep the trash theives and evil spirits away.
Then again, maybe the dumpster gods just wanted to console me for the 30-foot fence the food dumpsters were locked up behind. *Shakes fist at fence. Takes picture of foot. Rides home triumphant anyway.*
little known fact: the dumpster gods also had a son
Jesus Christ: thorny-crowned statuette, personal savior, and modern solution for trash removal. (If he wasn’t already rolling in his grave…)
why did the chicken cross the road?
There is a fury in the air, a fervor, energy seeping back into us all, one by one. Awake, alert, dressed, outside, and all before ten a.m. A bike ride to the grocery store for seitan-making and cake-baking supplies. Four kilos of flour, washed and sitting in the marinade. A lesson in splitting wood (not to be confused with chopping wood), people bustling around to cut and saw and measure and build and plant, others drinking coffee in the sun.
I had been thinking about it for a while, probably years. “Just cut it all off!” The words would creep into my mind and and shout before running back to hide in the shadows.
Except for that bob in fourth grade and that time when I was, well, a baby, I’ve always had long hair. Really, really long hair. At first it was just the way it was–too uninterested and lazy to do anything else, I just let it grow. Then, puberty, and I swear I must have had some self-confidence sometime, but it was quickly deflated, by the usual people, for the usual reasons. My hair became something to hide behind. “At least if my hair is pretty, people won’t notice that I’m not,” I thought. I wish it had never mattered to me at all, but that’s the thing with confidence deficeits, you seek out any kind of approval you can get your hands on, and some of it always ends up being superficial.
Fast forward ten more icky years of that. I moved to Germany, and–too poor for a salon and getting braver, just a little bit, each day–I bought some scissors, and I cut my hair myself for the first time in the bathroom. Snip snip snip! It felt good, strangely liberating, like taking off part of a mask. And the next time I cut it, I cut shorter, then shorter still. When I show friends pictures of me from three years ago, of me with long hair, they don’t even recognize me.
The whisper had been growing louder for days: “Cut it all off! Just do it!” So loud that I finally said something out loud. So I sat outside of the Kinowagen, and Scissors cut the front Real Short.
Now I have short hair. Short hair. You can see my face. There is nothing to hide behind anymore. I feel naked, exposed, panicked. “All because of a haircut?” I ask myself. “This is ridiculous,” I tell myself again, for the thousandth time in the last fifteen minutes. “It’s too soon!” my panic screams at me from the pit of my stomach.
I’d always imagined that just chopping off all my hair would be the perfect way to examine whatever confidence problems still cling to my consciousness, to fuck with gender norms, to really look myself in the face. Why I constantly insist on putting myself in uncomfortable situations in order to “learn something,” the me in the shock periods of my self-inflicted experiments will never understand. But it does seem to work, I can tell you that. My first thought when I looked in the mirror was, “I look like a boy!” “That’s the point, dumbass,” some other part of my brain retorted. “The only reason you care is because you’re too vain,” some other cerebral unit scoffed, “too hung up in mainstream standards of beauty.” “Your lover might not find you attractive anymore,” some crumb of the 17-year-old me whispered nervously. “Slide,” said Marla Singer’s voice in my head. Why Marla, seeing as I’m sitting at the top of the sliding board already, I think I will.
where there’s always music in the air and the birds sing a pretty song
We no longer have the internet in our wagon, which means that now when I want to visit happy shiny internet land, I have to walk a few minutes and sit in a painfully white, painfully windowless room at the university. Is it day? Is it night? Is it sunny? Is it raining? Who knows! We’ve got theses to write and emails to check! I shudder, remembering the days when the pressure of classes and grades kept me in rooms like this, writing for 48 hours straight, popping Ritalin, chugging coffee, having nervous breakdowns…
(This just in! Attending college is hazardous to your health. May lead to emotional instability, drug dependence, and the zombie-like symptoms of systematic brainwashing.)
When I leave the computer lab reality hits me like a brick wall–strangely, a transition more surreal and jarring than that to screen and internet–and I squint so that reality can only get in a little at a time. It’s a few steps outside of the building before I’m human again, not just words and pictures on an LED screen. And I wonder, will there be a day when I don’t make it back out? And I think to myself, thank cod we don’t have the internet at our house anymore.
Digging up the front garden last week, Karlsson says to me, “You know, if you live in a stone house (that’s what we call the places that aren’t wagons), you don’t notice the changes in the weather so much. All my co-workers keep complaining about how cold it is. I mentioned that it had gotten a lot warmer in the last week, asked them if they had noticed, but they hadn’t. At least in a wagon you’re closer to that, closer to nature.”
I nodded. From my bed (desk, couch) I can hear the wind, the rain on the roof, and the birds sing- ing in the bushes outside. I wake up, I get dressed, and I go outside. There’s no ignoring the weather. If it’s sunny we drink coffee and tea outside and pray it’s rea- lly spring this time. When it rains we curse the clouds and look longingly out windows. When it’s cold there are fires to light and no dial set perm- anently to “pleasant:” just you, some logs, the woodstove, and the chill of the season.
On the nights when you’re sick, it’s minus 10 outside, and you don’t fucking feel like chopping wood and lighting a fire, maybe you long, just for a second, for that dial. But then your friends help you out and you light the fire anyway and you sit in your warm cozy wagon trying to convince yourself that summer really will come again, reminding your- self of all the good things, how much you normally like chopping wood, how much you like being outside all the time, how much you like getting by on almost no money, and you think, keep your dial! To hell with convenience! All that hundreds of years of conven- ience have gotten us are melting ice caps, dying penguins, a viral-monoculture, and a Starbucks on every third corner. Give me the birds and the rain, the woodstove burns and dirty fingernails, the cold mornings, the wood, and the dirt.
still not whistling dixie
All hail ye mighty dumpster! Cornucopia of produce, filler of the so-called “bottomless salad bowl” we keep in our kitchen, and generous giver of bread and sugar-filled baked goods! Provider of sustenance, clothing, typewriters, furniture, and stereos! We salute you! (A moment of silence please…)
Maybe it’s just spring madness setting in–the madness being that “spring cleaning,” for many, translates into “throwing completey functional and often expensive things away”–but this morning I found one of my housemates actually SCRUBBING THE KITCHEN FLOOR and me, I’ve been on reconnaissance missions almost every night, scouting out new dumpsters, taking old dumpsters by surprise, and generally practicing my ninja-like skill of moving through enemy territory in complete silence.
“What’s that, the hundredth time you went dumpster diving this week?” Garfield yelled to me across the wagonplatz when I came home with another bike trailer full of scrap wood for the wood stove. That’s right, you can even dumpster heat…
The night before, restless and having just finished reading Evasion again in search of passages about the mythical dumpster gods, I grabbed my backpack and went on a mission. I had been scouting a nearby grocery store that we never really took advantage of and that I had been scouting out entry points to for several days. I had tried the “over the wall in the front by the road” only to be greeted by a police car circling the block. “Tonight is not the night,” I thought to myself, walking briskly back the way I’d come. Then Scissors told me you could get in just as easily from the back, away from the prying eyes of patrol cars and late-night pedestrians.
It was almost too easy. I got in, looked around leisurely, invited a few vegetables into my backpack, and walked home through the park. The booty wasn’t much compared with the usual swag, but gee did that avocado taste good on my toast this morning. That afternoon I had perused the inside produce section, smiling to myself and thinking, “Soon, you will all be mine!” and practicing my evil villian laugh. The produce at that particular store always looks like plastic furniture store food, but by the time it gets to me, it looks edible again. The only place I’ve ever found tomatoes and avocados ripened to perfection at the grocery store has been in the dumpsters out back.
Dumpster diving always makes me wish I could whistle. Riding home with a bag full of free food, that “it’s a beautiful morning” feeling creeps up through my limbs, makes me want to shout, do cartwheels, write tribute songs. That night the return trip led me to a sperrmüll (ie, usebale trash: furniture and cookware and clothing and the like) spot outside of an ugly student apartment building I’d never noticed before, and I thought, “One thing is certain: the dumpster gods will always reward the wanderer.”
On top of a sopping wet mattress I found a little white lamp. I took it home wtih me, wanting to whistle more than ever–we’d been looking for another lamp–and not only did it work despite having been rained on, but the people who’d thrown it away had left a perfectly good lightbulb inside. It doesn’t take much more to convince me that the majority of the population is completey insane…
So tonight, by the light of my new little lamp, dumpstered wood crackling in the stove beside me, my stomach happily full of salad and avocados and garlic bread, I raise my wine glass (found in the trash across the street last week) to you, sweet guardians of vagabonds and wanders, mysterious keepers of the trash!
land of the free, home of the food disparagement laws
There are some fucked up laws out there, tell you what. There are the obviously fucked up: The Patriot Act, laws in Bavaria making any unregistered “meeting” of more than two people an “illegal gathering,” and every law that morphs innocent ole dumpster diving into the ill-boding refrain of “trespassing” and “robbery.” Then there are the bizarre: Old laws still on the books from who knows when, made ridiculous in absense of their original context, fit only for chain emails and poorly designed websites. (Who am I kidding? How many laws are there that don’t lean toward the ridiculous?) In Indiana, for example, there is still a law on the books stating that “Citizens are not allowed to attend a movie house or theater nor ride in a public streetcar within at least four hours after eating garlic.” And in the West Virginia law books you can still find a dusty old statute declaring that “No children may attend school with their breath smelling of ‘wild onions.’”
Even more paradoxical then, especially in light of clear evidence of anti-garlic sentiment, are America’s food disparagement laws–a law (available in thirteen state colors!) that allows corporations, farmers, and evil villians to take anyone who publically “disparages” their products to court. Though once in court the food disparagement laws tend to bow before the almighty American right to Freedom of Speech (hahahaha, you still believe that one?), who has the time for a multi-million dollar lawsuit? Oprah Winfrey, that’s who.
Once upon a time in the decade of flannel shirts and grunge records the Texas Beef Group took Oprah to court for saying that she would never eat another hamburger again. It went something like this:
It’s April, 1996, mad cow disease is in every headline, and Oprah–hype mongerer that she is–does a segment entitled “Dangerous Foods.” Her guests are Howard Lyman–a farmer and animal welfare activist–and Dr. Gary Weber–a representative of the National Cattle Association. They were talking mad cow when Lyman mentioned a process fairly common in the beef industry called rendering. Rendering–for those of you who missed Oprah that day–is a nice word for “grounding up dead cows, cooking them, and feeding them back to the rest of the beef herd.”
“A hundred thousand cows per year in the United States are fine at night, dead in the morning,” Lyman said. “The majority of those cows are rounded up, ground up, fed back to other cows. If only one of them has mad cow disease, (this) has the potential to affect thousands. Remember today, (in) the United States, 14 percent of all cows by volume are ground up, turned into feed, and fed back to other animals.”
Oprah, like a lot of people hearing about the inner workings of the meat industry for the first time, looked a bit shocked. “But cows are herbivores,” she said, “they shouldn’t be eating other cows.”
“That’s exactly right,” Lyman went on, “and what we should be doing is exactly what nature says, we should have them eating grass–not other cows. We’ve not only turned them into carnivores, we’ve turned them into cannibals.” Howard knows this because Howard was a farmer himself. He also knows this because the USDA keeps statistics to keep track of exactly how much rendering is happening in the beef industry. When Howard told Oprah that his statements were backed by both experience and public record, she looked even more shocked. “It has just stopped me cold from eating another burger,” she said.
Those ten words–a reaction that most people could understand given the context (SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!!!!)–ended up costing Oprah, as of June 1999, over a million in legal fees. The beef industry was scared. I imagine them, a small group of white, overweight Texans sitting in your stereotypical board room with furrowed brows. “We can still write the Peta people off as lunies, but what if the rest of the country finds out about what we’ve been doing?” I imagine that it was about then that they had a nice, long collective shudder and called their lawyers.
So one fine day theTexas Beef Group took Oprah to court using the food disparagement laws and claimed that her statement had led to $12 million in losses–can you smell the rancid, rotting piles of unsold steaks in little non-biodegradbale styrofoam trays spilling out of dumpsters across America?–and that she needed to pay up. People were eating less beef. Mad cow was all over the news. But Oprah–a woman capable of turning The Graps of Wrath into a bestseller overnight–she has some wide-reaching media power and that makes her dangerous. No wonder the beef industry was scared. If consumers started basing their purchases on fact instead of advertisements picturing happy cows in green pastures, well, the beef industry would be screwed.
Lucky for us all the mad cow epidemic passed into the history books and the court ruled in Oprah’s favor. Afterall, the court said, “Lyman’s opinions, though strongly stated, were based on truthful, established fact.”
In the early nineties a similar farce played itself out in the apple industry. Then the offender was CBS’s “60 Minutes,” where a report revealing the carginogenic effects of alar, a chemical then-commonly used by apple farmers. The report was followed by a brief slump in the apple industry as many familes and schools took apples off their menus. The apple industry took CBS to court and lost because, guess what!, alar is carinogenic and has since been banned. The apple market eventually stabilized, replacing alar with some other poison that, until now, remains FDA-approved.
So what is the point, you ask? Why bother having these laws at all? They’re clearly unconstitutional. “But, no!,” scream supporters from their rooftops, these laws protect farmers from destructive rumor-mongering! I’d be willing to consider it as plausible, if there had ever been a court case involving the food disparagement laws that was convincingly concerned with “helping the farmers” and not “keeping disturbing facts about *insert food industry name here* out of the media.” There is a reason these laws are often nick-named the “veggie-hate laws.”
Not only that, but the food disparagement laws have created what people in the industry call a “media chill” on food criticism. People worried about law suits either avoid the subject entirely or water down their message. The New York Times, who reported about the incident at the time, were highly critical of the law’s potential for overt censorship.
“Last year,” The Times reported, “editors at Renaissance Books in Los Angeles called J. Robert Hatherill, a research scientist at the University of California at Santa Barbara, to tell him they had cut long passages from the manuscript of his book ‘Eat to Beat Cancer.’ Gone was information on growth hormones administered to dairy cows, Professor Hatherill said, as well as facts from a study showing the amounts of lead found in over-the-counter calcium supplements.
‘The book is a very watered-down version of what I intended,’ he said.
Renaissance, through a spokesman, declined to comment.
And a year ago, Vital Health Publishing of Bloomingdale, Ill., canceled a book, ‘Against the Grain: Biotechnology and the Corporate Takeover of Your Food,’ after the manuscript had been sent to the printers. The publisher had received a letter from a lawyer at the Monsanto Company who said he believed the manuscript, which he had not seen, included false statements that would disparage a herbicide called Roundup, made by Monsanto.
Marc Lappe, a toxicologist and co-author of the book, said the manuscript had already been approved by the publisher’s lawyer. But Monsanto’s letter changed the lawyer’s mind, Mr. Lappe said, because of concerns that the publisher could be sued under the food libel laws in other states. Lawmakers in Illinois have defeated efforts to enact a similar law. ”
Why admit we want people to shut up and get in line when we can financially pressure them into censoring themselves? Welcome to America. Land of the free, home of the brave, etc.
You can read the New York Times article yourself here and the full text of each participating state’s food disparagement law here.
If you’d like to take action, I would recommend skipping the letter writing and the petition signing and inform yourself about all the foods in your grocery basket, and all the processes that go into getting them to you, so you don’t have to wait for another food disparagement suit to find out that there are chemicals and poisons in our groceries and that soylent green is still people. The internet is rife with information that has yet to be banned in court. Better hurry.
dumpster diver arrested in belgium
From indymedia on March 5th (I’ve translated the article into English below):
Dumpster-diver in Belgien inhaftiert
In der Nacht von 25.2.2009 auf den 26.2.2009 wurde ein Aktivist der Waldbesetzung Lappersfort in Brugge Belgien beim Containern vehaftet. Aus mehreren Gruenden gab ebenjener Aktivist seine Identitaet nicht preis und spricht auch nicht mit Polizei und Staatsanwaltschaft.
Am Donnerstag den 26.2. wurde er unter den Anklagepunkten Einbruch und Diebstahl ins Gefaengnis Bruegge ueberstellt. Anzumerken hier ist, das der Supermarkt dessen Eigentum die Container sind keine Anzeige erstattet, somit wird nur vom Staat Belgien Anklage erhoben.
Am Samstag den 28.2. wollte eine Anwaeltin mit dem Inhaftierten sprechen, diese wurde allerdings zurueckgewiesen da “der Gefangene nicht kooperativ handelte” (konkret bedeutet das, er verweigerte aus Leder produzierte und somit nicht vegane Schuhe zu tragen). Am folgenen Sonntag fand eine Soli-Laerm Aktion vor dem Gefaengnis Brugge statt. Alle 10 teilnehmenden Aktivist_innen wurden innerhalb von 20 Minuten festgenommen da diese ebenfalls verweigerten sich auszuweisen und in die Polizeidirektion Brugge gebracht wo Fingerabdruecke und Fotos genommen wurden. Nach 3,5 Stunden waren alle 10 wieder frei.
Am Montag den 2.3. wurde dem Verhafteten erstmals erlaubt mit seinem Anwalt (der Anwalt wurde gewechselt) zu sprechen.
Am 3.3. wurde der Inhaftierte einem Richter vorgefuehrt. Zeitgleich fand vor dem Gerichtsgebaeude erneut eine Laermaktion statt. Ergebnis dieser Vorfuehrung war, dass engegen aller Vermutungen ein Prozess gemacht wird und der Aktivist noch bis zu seinem Prozess inhaftiert bleiben muss. Als grund fuer dieses Urteil wird Verdunklungsgefqhr angegeben, ausserdem ist die Polizei immer noch auf der Suche nach anderen Personen die sich ebenfalls am “Tatort” befunden haben. Gegen dieses Urteil wurde Einspruch erhoben. Der Aktivist wird am Mittwoch den 18.3. ins Gefaengnis Gent ueberstellt und am darauffolgenden Freitag oder Montag (haengt vom Richter ab) erneut einem Richter vorgefuehrt. Am Nachmittag desselben tages fand erneut eine Laermaktion vor dem Gefaengnis Brugge statt, es gab keine Verhaftungen.
Am 4.3. fand in Brugge eine Solidemo vom Bahnhof zum Gefaengnis statt. Der aus ca 80 Menschen bestehende Demozug war ausserst lautstark und bestand aus Personen jeden Alters und verschiedener Hintergruende. Die Demo verlief friedlich, es gab keine Verhaftungen.
Dumpster diver arrested in Belgium
On the night of Thursday, February 25th, an activist from the Lappersfort forest-squat project was arrested in Brugge, Belgium. The activist did not reveal his identity and would not talk to the police or public attorney.
On Thursday the 26th, he was transfered to the Bruegge prison with charges of trespassing and theft. Of note here: the supermarket who own the dumpster are not filing charges, only the country of Belgium.
On Saturday, February 28th a lawyer wanted to speak with the prisoner, but was denied, as the prisoner “is not cooperating.” (Concretely, this meant that the prisoner was refusing to wear the prison’s non-vegan leather shoes.) The next Sunday activists held a soli-noise-demo outside of the Bruegge prison. All 10 participating activists were arrested within 20 minutes and because they also refused to identify themselves, were brought to the police station in Bruegge to be fingerprinted and photographed. They were all released after three and a half hours. On Monday, March 2 the prisoner was finally allowed to speak to his lawyer (changed since the first visit attempt).
On March 3 the prisoner was taken before a judge. At the same time another noise demo took place in the court. The result of this was that, against all speculations, a trail was scheduled and the prisoner must remain in prison until his trial. The reason for this verdict is alledged to be a danger of a suppression of evidence and because the police are still searching for a second person alledged to have also been present at the crime scene. An appeal is being filed against this decision. The activist was transfered to the Gent prison on Wednesday, March 18, and, depending on the judge, will go to trail on the following Friday or Monday. On the same afternoon another noise-demo took place outside the prison, this time with no arrests.
On March 4 a solidarity demo took place between the train station and the prison. The demo consisted of approx. 80 people of various ages and backgrounds. The demo was peaceful, and there were no arrests.
Here’s thinking of you, Belgium dumpster man. To think you could land in jail for days just because you wanted to eat some trash. Really, it’s these little laws and loopholes in laws that scare me. You know, those little stuff that usually gets ignored, until the police get pissed that you’re squatting a forest and try to get you locked up on whatever grounds they can come up with. Democracy sure is great, ain’t it?
the cries and the wails of the valley below
Here it is, back from the dead, yet another little diddy by Tara from the never-finished These Are Our Weapons project. Enjoy.
It’s amazing, once you start thinking about it, how many things we actually repress. Most of it has to do with language, things you can’t say, won’t say, etc. Then there are the cries of grief you can’t even explain, unutterable wails of despair that rise up in your throat only to be choked down again until you’re literally choking on unexpelled air, because we’re not supposed to be so emotional. There are sobs that turn into muffled shrieks as little gasps escape when you finally have to suck in a breath or implode. And all because dorm walls are too thin, and crying isn’t something we want to impose on others.
There are suppressed cries of shock, little gasps that could turn into full out yells and deep moans, if only our parents weren’t listening from the next room when we’re doing something we’re not supposed to. There are stories, endless stories, occasions when you want to break down and start pouring out how one time when you were little you stole a couple Skittles from the glass dish in the babysitter’s dining room and got yelled at and you couldn’t understand what you had done that was so wrong, what reached the level of putting your shoes on the couch in the untouchable front “living” room in the eyes of the woman who had control of your life for 4 hours of every day.
There are times when we want to rant endlessly about ex-first loves and how they were really assholes and treated us like shit but had just such a way of touching this certain spot, and there was that time when they went and got our laundry and an extra pillow and brought it upstairs and stood looking at us while we brushed our teeth as if we were just amazing, brushing our teeth like that, when brushing our teeth is normally such an unattractive activity.
We never get over those ex-first loves, because we don’t talk about it. We never get a really good cry over it to the point where we really get it all out, where we’re really done crying. We always get to the point where we say, well, ok, have to go eat dinner now so I better stop crying because it’s a little silly to be crying this much at 5:14 on a Monday evening anyway, and the sobs get put away, the air gets pushed back down into our lungs, and we move on. Or so it seems. The sobs never really leave. They’re still down in our throats, still completely unutterable, and every time we get a little push a little too close to the area where we store all those unused gasps of air, we get a little closer to the edge where we just lose it all and everything, every last unoxidated fermented breath we’ve been saving up for years and years just spills loose and gets vomited all over the floor in sounds so impossible they hurt.
That’s what we’re all waiting for. That final moment of release, like when you finally throw up after hours of nausea and regret and unpleasant hangover sensations. When you’re finally empty. This is why we’re so unstable. We’ve deemed it unattractive to puke, and we’re all carrying around untold years worth of bile. No pill is ever going to fix all that, no therapist can ever extract all the ugly sores, because the therapists want to make it go away. And the answer isn’t to make it go away but to embrace it, to fully fuck every last painful moment until you climax and it’s done. Not gone away, but sated, finally having gotten the attention it deserved. The air should be filled with noises.We shouldn’t have to hyperventilate.