Latest Posts by mistahsojourner - Page 3
This is not any sort of earth-shaking revelation but it was apparent to me today that I am capable of expressing myself very lucidly if I try just a little. It’s important for me to not try too hard. Trying too hard will fuck things up. You gotta dance with it a little. You make it smooth. You steer it gently and you make it do what it does. That’s how expression works for me.
I got into a discussion with the parents about the way the world works, about U.S. foreign policy, about a better world. It wasn’t very long before I got fucking pissed off about their attitude. I’m not going to give you a blow-by-blow breakdown of this discussion but the gist of what I kept hearing from them was people can and have tried running the world a different way but those different ways have always failed. The way things get run in this country is not perfect but it’s a hell of a lot worse in every other place on earth you care to name.
Is that what getting older does to us? We just shrug our shoulders and say, “Well, things will never be perfect but we have it a lot better than those brown people over there who don’t speak English and who get followed around by flies.”
I am not at all convinced that this is a generational phenomenon.
This is totally a propaganda thing. We don’t get educated about the way power works. Maybe we go to college and we get a professor who assigns some Zinn or Chomsky and then we forget all that when we go to work to make some asshole a bunch of money. I think maybe something like that is what happens.
My desire is to become better at writing. Why? My sense is that it could lead me to a more fulfilling life. My standard answer to the question, “Why write?” has been that I find it satisfying but it’s more than that. As a human being, my desire is to lead a fulfilling life. In fact, that might be the thing that I want more than anything you care to name. I don’t think it will lead me to anything like financial security though. Financial security is elusive. There is tension there. This world is a bitch to live in like that. Everything is so god damn expensive. This shimmering dream of a world that might really be a nightmare has us all running ragged for a collection of dead Presidents that is just big enough to make it through another day.
This is gonna sound like bullshit but I also connect my writing to the struggle for justice. Writing is a vehicle for conveying truth. Words can bridge the gap between human beings who are profoundly alienated by the endless chasing of nickels and dimes. People who work jobs that leave them bleary-eyed and bored and angry need to know they aren’t alone. Maybe I can reach out and touch a few who are on the same frequency. Maybe I’m not even qualified to do that but I figure that I’ve got to try. Why the fuck not?
I get the sense that I’ve got to challenge myself. I gotta try and write something that takes some effort. I was thinking an essay of some kind. I’ve got to give it some thought. I don’t know that I can pull it off and maybe I can’t. I might learn something from trying.
If this reads like inspiration porn, I apologize. I hate that shit.
I don’t like hearing Trump.
I don’t like looking at the fat orange fucker either.
I want to write an essay.
What about? I don’t know. I think I can do it though. It is going to take some trying and some discipline from me though.
If I could exist as some kinda layabout, I would do that. I’d shave when I want to. I’d sleep when I want to. In fact, I’ve kinda done this. I’ve spent a great deal of time jobless. You get a ton of time to yourself. Thing is though, it’s pretty much a living hell. Even if you have a place to go if you absolutely cannot pay your bills, it’s awful. You don’t feel like you have a reason to be living. You don’t feel like you deserve to live. Fuck. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. I did that off and on for about 6 years.
I fucking need space.
I could have spent all that time that I had writing but I had even less focus than I do now.
Leaned forward. Heartbeat thump. thump. thump. Action. Controller in hand. Rocket League. Maybe this clipped style isn’t as cool as I think it is. Maybe it just sounds weird or contrived or not real.
I’m watching the game all so closely. Supposedly there are levels to meditation. Maybe I’m experiencing what a monk feels when he is about to really go somewhere. Chill. Chill. Focus.
I ask myself what I need to do? What is my job in this situation? Clear the ball. Challenge. Aim there. I see the shots lining up for me before they even line up. Never saw any of that before. Couldn’t slow down enough to actually see it.
I become aware of the pop punk blaring in my headphones as I play. Off With Their Heads. The song is Clear the Air. For the first time, I actually hear the lyrics.
I never feel happy, I never feel safe I can't let myself ever stay in one place I look in the mirror and I see the face Of a failure who will never be significant The face that you see from the morning to night Is the mask that I put on to hide what's inside I don't take it off until you fall asleep I don't want you to see what lives inside of me
That reads like angsty teenage journal shit but man, I can sorta believe a real person would write that. Sorta. I thought about the way I would deliver those lyrics. How I would read them, sing them, really sell them. Make you believe them.
This is me just slowing down and noticing things. We’re most alive when we notice things. Did you ever notice that?
It’s so cheesy
cheesy like the orange fingers
on a dateless wonder
but if I call you brother
I mean it
desperately
like a cardboard sign SOS
spotted on a freeway off-ramp.
In the night
when the breeze is gentle
can I tell ya how terribly strange
this all is to me?
can I tell ya how scared I was
trippin’ on shrooms and that it was your
voice that brought me back?
Will ya come to me in the midnight hour
with the knots you can’t untie? Will ya?
This song. So god damn much. My god.
Maybe I should have more swagger, more attitude.
Boy, you just high.
There is this .gif of Margot Robbie looping over and over mashed up with Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. I keep stealing glances at it. It’s cool. Kinda hot too. In that Hollywood Kinda Way. In that bullshit kinda way. That way that don’t actually exist. Sugar for the soul. Too much sugar puts holes in your soul.
I should fake confidence more. Sell that shit. Just for fun. Only reason.
Boy, you are so high.
Maybe I am.
I ain’t so bad at this. Fuck. I sound cool, right?
I’m not cool. I got no fucking clue what I’m doing. I might be going to hell. I don’t think I ever grew the fuck up. I don’t got people. I ain’t ever had that moment where I thought,”These are my people.” I say I love the world and the people I’m on this trip with but god damn it, who do I really love? Who do I choose to love? Like really? Sincerely?
I’m sorry about all the bullshit I’ve written in this space. I’m sorry for every time that I did not honestly bear witness.
Yeah. I’m a bit on the high side. That isn’t an excuse though. I stand by every word.
Sometimes the sun shines
and somehow I’m okay with that
The wind tickles me like it does
and I really can’t protest
even if I got no clue
what the sweat and the tears
were for.
Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now
I’m stuck at the precise moment
where I realize
she ain’t comin’ back
when it hits me that it’s gonna be one of those days
where somebody gonna tell you Job had it harder
and that does as much for you
as thoughts and prayers do
when they’re pickin’ up the shell casings
after somebody got done with one of those lives.
Stuck at the exact moment
I realize that maybe what I did
is re-write a shitty U2 song.
Please leave a detailed message after the tone
and maybe I’ll call you back.
Therapy
Second therapy session today.
I don’t really give a fuck what anyone says. You are only going to be so comfortable telling a stranger that you’re paying about your life.
It’s a weird thing to say, “This is the type of childhood that I had, this is what school was like for me and this is where I ended up as a result.”
I get asked the question, “You like to write yet you work in IT. How does that happen?”
Yeah man. It just kinda fucking happened and I don’t know how to get paid to do anything else.
A Conclusion
I’ve come to a conclusion. A lot of the conclusions I come to are tentative but this one is definitive.
Two days off are not enough to recover from five days on.
It just doesn’t happen, man.
It doesn’t matter if you hate your job or not.
It just ain’t enough time to breathe and remember that you’re a human being. It’s not enough time to be still know and know that He is God if that’s what you’re into.
We’ve all been traumatized by the society we find ourselves in. Some of us get traumatized more than others but most all of us have had pain heaped upon us by a society that is profoundly fucked up.
If ya get a chance to talk to people. Like, really talk. This shit is gonna come up.
I like when it accounts who aren't bots like my posts. It re-assures me there is life out there.
Stuff that’s hard to take
The suburbs and what came from them
the fact the world was made before I had any say in it
the truth
especially when I know it’s bullshit and I can’t get a refund on it
when my words are bullshit
when I don’t feel ‘em
when I phone this shit in
and when just having written just ain’t enough
the stuff I can’t catch with my syllables
but I want or need to catch
See, that’s all this is.
What you’re watching (if you’re still watching, who has time?) is me trying to do that
Wondering if it’s too early to leave the office
Sunday afternoons
You gotta know why you're doing something, don't you?
Thing with dreams is
sometimes they are just too shiny
and they blind you.
Dreams burned into your brain
by people who finished school
and always work late
and you can never tell the difference
between yours
and theirs.
That kills.
Mid-July
On a summer night in mid-July
the asphalt cools from the day’s baking
and a man recovers from a day that ends in y.
Legs crossed on the floor like when he was a kid
Window is ajar and the breeze is sweet mercy.
Mercy hard to come by
even in mid-July
if you live long enough.
Money
from my blood, my sweat, my crazy
deposited in the bank account
of somebody in another ZIP code
in the months I used to just chill back in the day.
Back in the day is what feels okay
Back in the day to make ‘em spend their pay
to make ‘em feel like they used to
before things got sinister and weird
and too damn expensive
and not worth it
back when it was all in front of ‘em
and lookin’ like a shiny kingdom of love and sugar
Got stuck at work way too long and it fried my fucking brain.
On a summer night in mid-July
the asphalt cools from the day’s baking
and a man recovers from a day that ends in y.
Legs crossed on the floor like when he was a kid
Window is ajar and the breeze is sweet mercy.
Mercy hard to come by
even in mid-July
if you live long enough.
This game got one mode
That mode is crazy
Bitter-tastin' cheat code
and that's all you see
and to see like that
is a felony
didn't even want to play
but I gotta pay
to pray
to make it today
cuz daddy need a new jet
to set around the world
to proclaim....
And this is a work in progress, folks.
I'm sitting at work and reading Noam Chomsky.
This is the most Chomsky I've ever read.
It's possible I am going to become an insufferable asshole for awhile. Strike that. I'm not becoming an asshole. What I'm doing is becoming more aware. I've been reading a lot more recently and I'm gaining insight into the way the world actually functions. It's cliche as all fuck to say but in all my schooling, I never really learned much of anything. They don't teach you about the illusion.
I'm convinced that one of the trippiest things ever is living in the U.S. and believing everything we tell ourselves about how great we are. THAT is a hell of a trip to be on. That is a trip that I was sort of on in my younger days. It's hard to judge now how sincerely or deeply I believed it. See, I think I always had my doubts. Doubt is good. Doubt is a sign that you're still sane. Shit, I even doubt where I am now. I could be totally wrong. Maybe I just picked up a new illusion.
I'm becoming quite convinced that one of the most vital aspects of the human project is disentangle oneself from illusions. These include the illusions of society and the illusions a person has about themselves.
God damn it. It’s just too hot these days. Everything will melt into nothing some day. Some of us will be left alive while we watch the rich and the powerful launch themselves into space to escape this rock.
Or maybe not. Who knows? As the great Yogi Berra said, “It’s hard to make predictions, especially about the future.”
My brain is fuzzy. My brain is like a huge bag of cotton balls. I just want to go into a dim room and drift off into dreamland. Maybe I’ll see you there. I’m making my peace with this day. I’m ready to say goodbye to it. Just let it go wherever days go to die. This day was unremarkable. It did not offend me but I sure as hell will not leave flowers on its grave. Of course, Monday will pull a Lazarus and come forth again. Jesus is too righteous to take bribes.
I’ve failed at a lot of things. That’s not me beating up on myself. That’s just a simple statement of fact. I haven’t really tried sincerely at a lot of things. I’ve half-assed a lot of things.
Debating is for nerds. I can’t do it.
I feel like I’m barely not a normie. That’s a weird place to find yourself. The weirdos weird me out way too fucking much and the normies just fucking bore me.
Actually, most everyone bores me. Married folk. Single folk. Serial killer groupies. Lana Del Rey fans. Trekkies. Gamers. BDSM freaks.
WHAT THE HELL YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT, MAN? YOU DON’T TALK TO ANYBODY.
Just vibin’, man. Relax. Just playing with these here words. That’s all I’m doing. It’s like that guy who sits alone in his apartment and strums his guitar.
It really was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but that reflection I did on Alex Vitale’s The End of Policing was satisfying to me to write. It was scribbled out at work during downtime with a black ballpoint pen on a legal pad that I had swiped at one point to write work related notes on. There was a time where I used to hand write pretty much everything. There was just something about the feeling of moving a pen on the page. There was something about looking at the words I had formed with my own hand and smelling the ink from the pen on the page. That’s part of the writing process that I definitely miss. For some writing, I’m definitely going to return to the pen and paper.
Sometimes inspiration does hit you. That can be a beautiful thing. It really can be. It arguably hit me at least twice last night. Inspiration can be like love. Love. Sweet love. Dirty love. Dangerous love. Sometimes it can take you to places that you really didn’t plan on going. Sometimes it can take you fucking nowhere at all.
Dad bod and the mind of a philosopher king.
It’s.. hey. I don’t really think I’m a king. It’s me being braggadocious.
Before
C’mon, brother. I see you there. I see you every day. This is gonna sound weird. What the fuck is up with you? Look, I know these times broke your brain when they started. They did that cold thing to me. Deep chill. That feeling you get deep inside you when every heart you got in every dimension breaks at the same god damn time. I think we’re in a crucial time, man. I felt it when the madness started. I always asked myself if I’d be able to hack it when the time came. Torches. Flags. You taught me to fight my own way. You told me I had my own way. Yo, I think maybe I can hack it.
Look, man. I’m not compromised. You can still trust me. I just see things a little differently.
Whatever, man. Fine. Let’s fight. No. I fucking mean it, asshole. Don’t even think of going easy on me like you used to. Try to kill me. I’ll try to stop you.
I’m talking crazy? You’re the one that thinks I’m working for them. I saw something in you, man. No. Look at me. Look at me. Fucking look at me or I am gonna kick your ass.
See, you don’t believe it. If you really thought you couldn’t trust me, you’d have me tied in knots and begging for it to stop.
You think I’m on another level. Thing is, I’m on an even higher level than you think. Brother, I saw something in you. I saw it and I knew that’s what I wanted to be. That’s all I’m doing.
Got nothing? Fine. You know you can always come find me. Love you.
Further thoughts on Alex Vitale's The End of Policing
A few summers back, some cops got killed in Dallas. That summer had hate in the air. The Trumpian demon was waiting in the wings. I remember seeing a friend of a friend on Facebook express anger that the people who protect us were under attack. The idea that the police protect us is an idea almost nobody questions. If we're not questioning it, we're high on something.
Alex Vitale in The End of Policing tells us a bit about the origin of what we know as the police. Sir Robert Peel who started the London Metropolitan Police developed his ideas while he was managing the British colonial occupation of Ireland. That is crucially important to know. The origins of one of the most influential police agencies was in oppression. Peel took what he learned about social control on a foreign shore home with him. This illustrates one of the many troubles with the monster that is imperialism. Let's apply that to the U.S. What we learn about keeping a population down in Fallujah, Iraq comes home and is used in places like Ferguson, Baltimore and Bedford-Stuyvesant. That is the ugly truth of it. It's the truth that we cannot ignore. The U.S. is a society of savage inequality. The police are there as managers of that inequality. They are there to impose the order of the haves on the have-nots. This is true regardless of how many videos go viral with a cop lip synching to a Taylor Swift song or how many photos are shown on the evening news of an officer hugging a black child. I see blatant propaganda like that and it makes me want to fucking puke.
I reflect on the propaganda of my youth and it's enough to make my brain nearly self-destruct. I remember D.A.R.E. A clean-cut, white-skinned officer of the law with a gun visited my school every week. He led the class in an anti-drug cheer. He told us that people who used drugs were losers. I sure as fuck did not want to be a loser so I resolved never to use drugs. I did not touch a drug until I was almost halfway into my 30s. I suppose it is a tough thing to broach with kids but do you know what was absent from Officer Friendly's lectures about drugs? The sociological reasons that fuel pathological drug use. Guess what, children? When the factory that paid a decent wage closed, a bunch of people found solace from their misery in heroin or meth or something else. The shit was bad but it took away the pain. We did not get told about any of that. We got told to choose baseball or ballet instead of a joint and that was the end of it. Do people fuck up their lives? Sure they do, but you cannot overestimate the importance of individual acts or "moral failings." It seems that the political will to address the pain that causes people to fall into drug abuse simply does not exist. What does exist in ample supply is the impulse to throw cops at the problem and to build massive prisons to warehouse the people who have been left behind by the system.
So, what the hell do we do? The bitch of it all for me is realizing that we simply cannot just manage inequality. That's a bitch to realize because managing inequality is all that the people with power wish to do. We've got to address inequality. That means public housing, education, healthcare. It means the transformation of our society. Something has to give. I truly fear for this country. I believe inequality will grow worse under the regime of Donald Trump and policing will grow more heavy-handed.
I’m slipping a little. I feel laziness starting to grip me. I ain’t been as conscientious with this endeavor. I missed two days this week. I did not write a single word. Whatever. Like many a baby boomer says, it is what it is. I’m gonna pick up. I’m gonna continue. I’m gonna live on. I will survive. Aight. I’m gonna put on that song. The Cake version.
I sit in this room that was my bedroom back in the day. I grew up in this room. I came to be in this room. I prayed in this room. I had my first orgasm in this room at the age of 16. I dreamed in this room. I woke up on summer days that were full of nothing but possibilities in this motherfucking room. I sat in the dark and listened to Art Bell in this room. I don’t have my own space anymore. I haven’t since some time in November, I think. I miss it. I’ve always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I don’t really have a space right now where I can just be. That’s traumatic, man. It really is. I express this and nobody really seems to give a fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Part of me thinks this shit is about on the same level as some angsty, hormonal teenager who is failing English and is brilliant but lazy according to themselves and who writes on a blog with a background that is as black as their nail polish.
I need to challenge myself. I’m not quite sure how though.
I finished reading two books this week. For a man that has been struggling with his attention span for years or at least feels like he has, that is an accomplishment. I finished the The Great Derangement by Matt Taibbi and The End of Policing by Alex Vitale.
Taibbi is just an excellent writer with a good eye and a keen social conscience. He’s a minor hero of mine. I will pretty much read anything he writes.
The End of Policing made me think a lot. I can’t say that it challenged me too much but it made me think about the why of a lot of things. In recent years, I’ve become really concerned about the militarization of police forces and the violence that more often than not victimizes the poor and people of color. It keeps me up at night. It makes me angry. It makes me want to give the finger to every cop I see. Blue Lives Matter flags make me fighting mad. I really cannot watch cop shows any longer because they play like insidious propaganda to me. The book is a bit dry but it’s quite readable. It is written by an activist academic who traces a lot of the problems heavy handed policing is thrown at to cruel austerity measures. If you’re reading this, you should read that book. I kinda wish everybody in this rotting empire would. Maybe some time soon I will write about some of the things I actually learned from the book.