Print Story Not that bad.
Diary
By technician (Sat Apr 19, 2014 at 10:08:58 PM EST) (all tags)
I mean, you can't go tallying every little thing versus every other little thing. It's just not that bad. Here's what I know.


What I know is, some time ago a brother by choice, in a fever I can't know, stuck the barrel of something into his mouth and ended his life. I don't know what barrel, how he got it, what he was thinking, why he did it, how it happened.

We are unexceptional and our problems play out like leaves falling from trees in the fall, piling up and swept aside by careless wind. We are not singular, we are plural at least, more at most, grouped by cliche and neurosis and disease, by the scripts our parents followed for generations before us. We're just a mass, churning.

When I was a child I was raised without care. This has had repercussions that have rung like a bell's sine wave from one end of my life to another; my thinking is muddled by my formation like any feature on any face. We're creatures of our past and possible futures, but not slaves to those impulses. You can't fight what you can't see, but once described even the devil is nothing but an old suit and bad cologne trying to trade quantity for quality. Burroughs:

There are no honorable bargains
Involving exchange
Of qualitative merchandise
Like souls
For quantitative merchandise
Like time and money.
So piss off Satan
And don't take me for dumber than I look.

So in the end, my friend, my guardo camino, my brother by choice? His father died two nights ago with a failed heart. It had started failing long before, and he'd never spent much effort on caring for it. Then it failed, and he left a wife with two dead sons and one dead husband and no living parents in the middle of a dust bowl of west mesa slum, left her to stare at the pictures on the cheap wood paneled walls, left her to wonder, to wail, to ask: why?

Why? And we can't know. Because we aren't exceptional. We aren't the product of our works alone. We aren't the masters of our fate, not just us. No, we're a collective, all the weight of all the stars in all the universes, hot and bright in us, we're not just our stories or our conscious lives. What I know is, we're not alone.

Even when we are very much alone, we're the sum of all the universe and all that implies. All the good, all of the bad, all of the influences we don't care to realize.

What I know is we have to name our devils, and give them no more significance than anything else, give them our fragility. Give them our love. Make them just like the rest of us: unexceptional, fallible, impermanent. Then do with them as we wish. Make their needs our choice.

< bleh | survival >
Not that bad. | 3 comments (3 topical, 0 hidden) | Trackback
And still… by clock (4.00 / 2) #1 Sun Apr 20, 2014 at 12:15:44 PM EST
Goddammit. It's all still pretty fucking awful. I wish peace to all, but more to some.


I agree with clock entirely --Kellnerin

I'd offer a hug by aphrael (4.00 / 2) #2 Sun Apr 20, 2014 at 10:54:15 PM EST
but you're not the one who needs it.

:{

> Then it failed, and he left a wife with two dead sons and one dead husband and no living parents in the middle of a dust bowl of west mesa slum, left her to stare at the pictures on the cheap wood paneled walls, left her to wonder, to wail, to ask: why?

This is one of the best arguments I've ever heard for the importance of having a community of people, beyond your spouse and children, whom you love and who love you.

If television is a babysitter, the internet is a drunk librarian who won't shut up.

Not that bad by johnny (4.00 / 1) #3 Wed Apr 23, 2014 at 09:27:33 PM EST
but bad enough.

Still, I'm glad we have friends in this life, and on this Husi.

Dear Wife listened to all of Donna Tart's The Goldfinch -- about 20 CD's, I think, while driving in the car & while cooking in the kitchen. So, because I spend a lot of time doing those things with her I wound up listening to about half the book. I got pretty bored and annoyed with it about 1/3 through. But the ending picks up quite a momentum -- it was interesting listening to the last 2 chapters having only Dear Wife's summary of the preceding 250 pages (equivalent thereof) to go on -- and it concludes with a long monologue on the Buddha's idea that life is suffering (Buddha isn't mentioned, but that's what it made me think of). And the way to deal with suffering that Tart's protagonist comes up with is pretty similar to what you offer here.

Meanwhile wishing you well, and as always, thanks for your stories.

She has effectively checked out. She's an un-person of her own making. So it falls to me.--ad hoc (in the hole)

Not that bad. | 3 comments (3 topical, 0 hidden) | Trackback