I want to pet this dog
“He couldn’t get up in the morning
Because in the late hour
He kept his eyes fixed
On the glowing screen.”
Postcard by Ivan Semyonov, 1959
now, at last, we can become true friends!
[The little boy], free at last from his mother’s grip, scuttled off down the urban sidewalk.
“Grah! Damnit!” growled an old man in a long, wool coat, whose hands were violently choking the tall, iron bars that separated the street from the sewers.
“Hey, Mr.! What’s wrong?”
“My… wife’s ring… fell down into the sewers. And I am going to get it back! I swear to God I’ll blow down these very bars like the biggest and baddest wolf, if I have to!”
“But hey, Mr.! You can’t do that! It’s not scientifically possible.”
“Scientifically possible? Scientifically — …
Yes OK but do you know what IS scientifically possible? That the inside of my very skull is filled to the brim with infinitely reproducing little bits of life no bigger than the very tip-toppest point of a pen, and all these tiny little lives rubbed together create this Mr. you see before you, with his own mind and thoughts, just as deep and shadowy as yours, a whole new living thing separate from those little lives that make myself up. The biggest thing that separates us from those little lives is something that they’re entirely responsible for, Gobblessem, our brains. Our big, beautiful brains that feel as surely, no, surer, than they think. Of course, some of those pen-point things must think, I mean some of them make livers and others make onions… But most cells, my son, just follow the same pattern as all the rest. Like sheep.
What would you do, my boy, if you were the cell of an onion when for all the world what you really wanted was to be a cell on the beak of a bird that scratched you, once, long ago in the onion patch?
You wouldn’t want, my boy, is my point. Perhaps God took want away from cells because their role on this Earth is the most Sisyphean…
The miraculous scientific possibility, though, my boy, is that all those thoughtless lives put together thinking ones, like yours and mine! Lives with wants! A cell would kill for such a thing if it knew to.
Let us honor the miracle of science by worshiping our feelings! Onward, then!”
The old man gathered up all his breath, and when his lungs popped the top two buttons off his coat, he blew down the iron bars and he was free to enter the sewers.
OK so I think the main story is gonna be about two suburb-born brothers, the only real difference between the two is slightly different experiences in the putative stages… One is lucky, typically in the right place at the right time to learn various lessons, the other one not so much for no just reason. He (the less experienced one) becomes reclusive and nihilistic, his morals are formed internally, through at best the glow of the TV or computer screen, and to put it as heroically as possible he becomes the most rebellious of all men, a modern day monster hunter.
However, the other’s morals are firmly grounded in the well-being of other people. He is certainly swept away by the idea that hurting others is wrong, and grows up living a fulfilling life in activism for various causes he can believe in, from Earthships in other countries to US politics and journalism.
They both see a problem with the world, and somehow work together to fix it.
for those not in the know, night witches were russian lady bombers who bombed the shit out of german lines in WW2. Thing is though, they had the oldest, noisiest, crappest planes in the entire world. The engines used to conk out halfway through their missions, so they had to climb out on the wings mid flight to restart the props. to stop germans from hearing them coming and starting up their anti aircraft guns, they’d climb up to a certain height, coast down to german positions, drop their bombs, restart their engines in midair, and get the fuck out of dodge.
their leader flew over 200 missions and was never captured.
another reason my writing is worth reading
Because as opposed to the writing of essentially the rest of the internet, I know that I need to work for your readership. Presuming that you are between the age of 18 to 40, our current generation (the one we share) has been particularly crippled (amongst other things) by this falsehood we were injected with a young age that we all possess a perfection somewhere within us, that every one of us is naturally good at something, as if that’s natural law. That no matter what, our voices are worth hearing. This Mr. Rogers (may he rest in peace) philosophy contrarily gives confidence to weakness and ignorance. Maybe a stunted individual have I met, people who can grow but won’t. It is absolutely infuriating.
It’s this deliberate stasis of personal character that funds everything wrong with our society. Folks don’t consider the possibility of chopping wood from their own backyard when Safeway sells it in front of their automatic sliding glass doors. Growing their own food, keeping their own livestock, building their own stuff, never considered by 90% of the nation. Can-do-itiveness has been on the decline in this country with the rise of corporatism.
When corporations have the power to supply every town in this country with a megastore chain, supply questions of all kinds are answered with seemingly reasonable cash prices. Suddenly, a family is more bought than built. An identity is put together at the mall. A tender expression of some sort from a husband to his wife is delivered by a $5 novelty card written by a committee. He read it, in the fluorescent, humming aisle. He thought, “well, that’s essentially it.”
But blaming the biggest corporations is easy. We are the ones rewarding them for bringing the exploited world’s resources here, for the wars for oil and their crimes against the environment, by buying our phones, cars, bottled drinks, only to begin the inventory of the Walmart catalogue.
Blood trickles around the grip corporations have on the exploited Earth, and like a rubber ball squozen to near-bursting, all that air which naturally resided toward the sphere’s center is unevenly displaced. We get over-inflated.
I’ve been meaning to do a creative writing exercise for a while, because I believe I am a good writer, and I intend to prove it with this flurry of English. I know I am a good writer because my words are read from beginning to end, and I know syntax. Receive this ineffable writing tip:
Don’t be afraid to use space.
Open space makes your document look shorter.
People are more inclined to read shorter writing. You’re still with me.
This is proven by the ratio of short things read to long things: infinity to 1.
Infinity is a legitimate variable here because some people die having never read anything long.
Of course, some people die having never read anything. Can you imagine illiteracy? It surrounds us. Some people will never be able to pass the written portion of a driver’s license test, or differentiate between their medicine and the wrong one, or learn from a book.
It is also true that some people are actively illiterate. Books and reading are condemned by certain people. The Adirondacks, some African fringe guerrilla groups, people living on general fringes of societies, and also the education of women, which is hardly fringe at all. In some of our own US public schools, women’s education is second priority.
And here I am, without references. These are universal truths, and I invite your skepticism, and welcome your research and your proof.
But even so, I have exposed some other passions in my heart. I want to prove to you that my writing has fight. I care about things. I get disgusted. And so should you. Are you really going to tell me that you don’t give a damn whether or not your neighbors can read?
Good writing has some drama. Good writing has emotion sewn in the words. I want you to read me. I want you to like it. My craving for this is desperate, yes, I need this, or this will not be able to go on.
This gives me hope. I started this picturing the conclusion to be fatalistic; cold, cool, alluring because it would touch on the ennui that dwells within us all, hidden or not. But instead, here I am leveling with you in the most honest way an entertainer could level, telling you I need you, and that together, we could win this fight, this fight against all things worth fighting.
To the best of my knowledge, I have no true audience, yet. You may be a skeptical reader, more analytic than absorbed, but I hope that someday, with future writings, you will learn. Learn to love me.
Is the writer and his audience (me and you) similar to a manipulative, yet transparently desperate, husband and his disenfranchised wife, she being imprisoned by law and routine?
I’ll be a good husband, dear reader. Self-improvement is one of my tenets. Passion and excitement, I think, are necessary to a good life. Look into the mirror I hold up to my mind, and love it, damn you, please.
i just messed up both of my power saws, so here are some glamour shots of the goddamned Silver Bastard itself.