—Sue Perry, from Scar Jewelry. (via the-final-sentence)
a public campaign must enforce such common sense as, “If you see something, say something,” and all of the things I decided to care about are picking up and leaving or threatening to leave, on account of rejection, or due to depression or is it empathy, or just the passing of time. And just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it feels good and maybe it’s not normal to feel good, or to know what normal feels like, or to know what feeling good makes me, although it feels like a First World Problem, which I think means a blessing disguised as a Selfie. The meanings of things disappear under layers of words meant to dissect them, the things and their meanings are deemed irrelevant or for other people to worry about, because if me and my generation have learned anything, it’s that saying something if you see something creates chaos, makes the thought of something a thing, or is it empathy, just the passing of time. And if a positive attitude ripples as such only doesn’t touch a thing, did the tree fall in the forest after all? Falling asleep at night we all know it did. It’s the thud that jerks you awake, it’s the twitch that wakes your mate, it’s the fetus dream you’ll have, it’s the bloated bellied boy that steps onto the dirt and catches a vacuum-sealed pouch of peanut butter and eats it in the outhouse without telling a soul it fell from the sky. And maybe you see things that should not be said: like, that maybe folks with nut allergies should be killed.
The grimmest landscapes grow the most beautiful horizons, and I’m not sure if that’s mine or if the desert where I came from told me so or if I read it on the Internet yesterday. My generation is a First World Problem. A resourceful generation with a pending scarcity of resources whose obsession with themselves is perhaps just a form of control over the one thing they can control: the self and the way the self’s collarbones jut out behind a new necklace. Guilt born of the belief that the First World weak should be killed is unique to the First World and its own brand of barbarism, honed and shrouded in layers of pragmatism meant to self-dissect.
How does it serve us to know that no one will get what they want, will only end up dead and mostly without a legacy? It’s less a leg we can all stand upon, but is at least a group of facts we collectively cannot stand. Even if the only free food on airplanes happens to be the one food that could murder a portion of the plane-flying population with its dust. Even if our genetically modified infants eat only heirloom grains. Even if we are all miraculously okay after all. The strangest things take place. So the marble that hits another marble in the next act could look something like this: More wheel, less deal. Room at the table for a new brand of discerning idealist. A meditative pace for the lemonade makers and their drinkers. A new shape, TBA.
The New Yorker!!
O good gods of stasis and sugar,
I am asking you to make me a quiet thing.
—Stevie Edwards, from “I Think I Know Her House Within the Winter Snow Too Well” (via the-final-sentence)
“If you won the lottery and decided to get a servant, what would you have them do?”
“Shave my face. And maybe do my laundry.”
“I’d have mine wash my hair. And pick all of the weird mushy blueberries out of the carton when I buy them.”
“I could do those things for you.”
“I can shave your face.”
“Okay. And put my shoes on for me?”
“Okay. And fan me with a palm frond?”
“That’s too many things.”
“I’ll get you a palm frond.”
“Why am I putting my own shoes on right now?”
“Because we’re poor.”
“You don’t even have any blueberries for me to pick through.”
“I’ll still wash your hair.”