well there's plenty of cutesy names to call one's children but his was 'unlovable trash' He remembered it from the time he was in the crib They held him there for longer than most parents held their kids in cribs. Though only dad called him so because he constantly claimed he wasn't his
unlovable trash
he had the wrong skin tone was too pale with curly orange hair and freckles
but mom always pretended she didn't hear the words unlovable trash she would act as if they were never uttered
and growing up he thought unlovable trash was a good thing thought it was how you show love to your loved ones
"Mom, you’re unlovable trash."
she was so happy to hear it she burst into tears and went into the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of wine and drank it all by herself. What an unlovable trash she was
Unfortunately by the time he could pronounce the lovely words father was no longer in his life but father too was an unlovable trash
he could count the major events in his life on a mangled hand's fingers But this was one of them. The day she took him to church. So that's what girlfriends are for.
But he didn't like the church didn't like the songs didn't like the preacher and the preaching
the man spoke of hell. But he didn't know shit about hell. No baby, hell's not a place where you go, it's a place where you stay. Namely, a body and a mind that has no major passions no drive towards improvement no dreams no goals no desire to get out and connect with the world no love to share no stories to tell or disposition to listen no reasons to live or carry on
In other words, me, motherfucker. I am hell.
He broke up with his girlfriend the next day. Her crying didn't affect him
Some daughters love their fathers a bit too much and their mothers not enough
This father was a cop, the type that deals with the nasty cases and he often came home drunk. Alcohol did help, he said and drank some more on the couch and sometimes drank until he passed out
she was thirteen, his daughter and would constantly nag him with questions about work. He didn't wanna talk about work, about the gruesome details of it and all that, but edgy teenagers will be edgy teenagers She insisted and he kept drinking and eventually passed out on his side
She was excited took his gun from the holster and started studying it with passion turning it on all sides, smelling it, holding it close to the face and
BANG!
the bullet got her lower jaw it was a bloody mess and she was in pain and gagging on blood and shards of bone and teeth But...
to call for help right now would be wrong. The whole world would accuse daddy and he had no fault. And mommy would reopen the case and have no problem gaining custody of her Fuck! This was bad! This was so bad!
And it was getting worse, she felt it. Felt close to fainting. Father was still on the couch. Passed out drunk.
She had to take matters into her own hands. Shambled into the kitchen and grabbed the cutting board from the table and dipped a finger in her bloody mouth and wrote with it on the cutting board
MY FAULT DADDY INOCENT (with a single 'N')
She went outside holding the cutting board and knocked on the neighbor's door.
Not too many horizons when you live in a small home with small windows and thick blinders and only face the smoky ceiling as you sit sprawled on the bed, bottle in hand, more empty than full, cigarette between fingers, more ashes than light. Work starts only the day after tomorrow so there is nothing to do now just like there won't be much to do then
He's not alone in this, this young man He thinks now of past lovers and it's like God delivers a gift all of a sudden
There's a knock on the door he stands dizzy about to vomit and finds his way to the door opens
Well. Hell. It's been... What, a year already? The woman holds a child in her arms and tells him it's his. The same whore who ran away with the little money he had about a year ago, just after they've done it and got wasted on the same bed he rose from.
Thank you, God It's, you know, just what the hell I needed.
The day she realized she hated her brother was the day she went into his room
until then she loved him, everyone loved him He was the family's artist, the prodigy and he was damn good and had some career ahead of him
"A rare talent," the teachers said
And sure the teachers were right but they didn't know about the prodigy's secret stash of lewd drawings featuring his little sister and even his mother
they were skillfully laid across A4 pages divided in panels and some even had speech bubbles and what was written in those speech bubbles made her burst out of the cursed room and run into hers screaming "Sick fuck sick fuck sick fuck fuck!"
Sadly enough there are philosophers in this world who have no questions to answer and nothing to theorize about All the thought provoking practices have apparently been consumed, have been done into extinction, devoured and digested and shat It is over Humanity has no mysteries left for the mysteries have no humanity and are therefore heartless and soulless and a waste of time
There is nothing left to discover The world is a big play but all the characters and all the scenes and all the settings and the interactions have been discovered as to ultimately rob us of the sense of journey
Now it's like we just exist here Perhaps to worship those who existed before us and discovered all things for us To stand in their shadow and bask in the knowing that we will never create a new poem or a new novel anymore than we will design a never before seen color
Only that which I have never seen before might qualify as new, and only to me, for the concept of new can never be universal
And the more new things I see, the less new things I see and the less value they bear Old people will agree to this And the rest, they will grow old one day Tomorrow When the senses will wear out and the ear will know that music is made out by the same vibration and the eye will know that all the colors are the same colors mixed differently
Ultimately the mind will understand that all ideas are the same idea told differently and heard differently and passed along differently
And the idea says that happiness starts with being and ends with thinking
or perhaps this is only how I think of it or how you hear it
Hey, look here's a boy who has no problem spending twelve hours all alone in a room with no human interaction whatsoever Oh, look he even enjoys it he wouldn't have it any other way Goddammit, we're an office here but if we were a jail... I think he'll be the kind of prisoner who throws his bucket of slops in the guard's face when the guard comes to free him from solitary confinement, you know, so he can spend more time in solitary confinement.
You're right. I wish we formed a jail here instead of an office and look upon this boy
Yeah, I hear you, bro I always wanted to be a prison wall Ever since I was built That's an entertained wall one who forms a prison there's really something to see there
I wish I was a bedroom wall D' you think the walls that form his bedroom are entertained? Better than us from the office?
This guy? You kidding? He probably does in bedroom the same thing he's doing here in the office Just sitting there, an absolute silence about him
How can he be so content about it?
Perhaps he doesn't know any better You know what I'd like? To be a wall of his mind.
I cannot recall the best advice I got from my father but the best advice I got from a man that’s not my father is to make friends with loneliness
If you and loneliness are enemies you’ll be lonely
but once you and loneliness are friends you’ll be solitary
The difference between loneliness and solitude is the difference between the naive kid who thinks one’s happiness depends upon others and the wise sage who knows that one’s happiness depends only on one’s self and one’s self alone.
Daydreaming as a profession 