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Reich 4.0

A Robot of God

Writin. Can a lady write when she’s not unhappy? Scratch that.

Can a lady write when she’s not driven? Can a lady write when she’s just looking for meaning? Do you want to read the words of a lady just looking for meaning?

Why does writing make me happy? (And why is that such a hard statement to type?)

Happiness, happiness, happiness. Happiness. This is me daring the gods to strike me down with depression.

Damn – interruption by the bf. Lost my flow.

This is me blocking out all the emotional, mental, spiritual debris of a day, a week, a life. This is me just joining the flow of life. I think.

This is me communing with God: communal consciousness of all things, even the fat man banging on the neighbours’ house and talking to their self-important child. (Meeting their child and being brushed off – that’s when I realized they think they’re better than me, sort of. I imagine that a stay at home Mom has some insecurities about her status and needs to prop it up with communicating to her kids that the families of architects are more valuable than people who rent garden suites in Vancouver, especially when your house does not yet reflect the architectural greatness of your mate.

It’s strange that the mate has always been friendly to me while he never says hi to my partner. Why is the woman less than friendly to the woman and the man less than friendly to the man?

The architect likes Hitchcock. He told me this when we first moved in: his wife was off somewhere – staying with family – while they lifted their little house and added another story. He was sticking around, watching movies that his wife didn’t like.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang! The fat man told me about a bike trip he took when he was eighteen. “Those were the days.” He wants to relive them with his son.

I wish he’d get on it. Leo Babuta may recommend getting up with the birds. Hell, every life and success coach out there recommends getting up with the birds. I fucking hate getting up with the birds! Scratch that.

I like getting up with the birds but I also like staying up til 3 or 4 am. I LOVE the silence: the knowledge that no one else is up and around and that those that are, are irregulars like me. Even if you are not sleeping, your body dips into sleep patterns throughout the night. This gives me access not only to my subconscious thoughts but to the subconscious thoughts of people sleeping all around me. I am a reporter, analyzing your dreams as you sleep.

Hey, I can tell you something: I am afraid to pick a goal. I am afraid to say that I want to be popular. I am afraid to say that I want to just write for a living: write my own words and thoughts, and have people agree with me, or at least, want to hear my words and thoughts. I am actually afraid to admit that I want anything…

A long time ago, I learned that if you like something, you should tell no one. Because if they find out that you like something, it will be used as ransom to get you to do things you don’t want to do. Housework, or barnwork. Farmwork. (Funny that “housework” is a word that MS Word allows but “barnwork” and “farmwork” get the red squiggly line. “Housework” isn’t real work, perhaps?)

Farmers operate on the principal of hiding their valuables. Hide your daughters! Hide your gold coins! Hide your roll of cash under the mattress! Hide what you feel.

Only the soil knows what you feel – the accumulation of thousands upon thousands of dead life forms broken down into thick, moist, snowball-making-perfect, jet black earth.

Do we hate the earth because we know we will become it? Why do we hate incredible dirt? Why is it that the further a human being is removed from dirt, the more status they have among other humans? Why are Hummers, the vehicles that use the most mulched thing the earth gives us, vehicles that use the thing soil turns into after it’s been left for hundreds and hundreds of years, buried under pounds and pounds and pounds of more vegetation, mulch and soil, and destroy the environment for other creat – oh. I get it. A Hummer is the wanton use of the world’s resources without regard for the future. It’s living without a safety net! It’s courageous!

Driving a Hummer says that the human race has rewarded your contribution, or ability to influence other humans, by giving you a lion’s share of our communal resources. Driving a Hummer says that you are Important. More Important than the people around you. And that you don’t worry about the future!

You are a warrior!

You go boldly into existence.

You are brave!

The world will end and you are ok with that. (Like many environmentalists I know.)

The next Ice Age is coming, partly because of your use of the Hummer, but you don’t care.

Carpe Dium!

You know you will be the last to go, one of the last humans to join the Great Composting of the Millenium.

You are the furthest from becoming mulch of any other humans.

I guess, you are a Winner.

Go, Winner, Go!

How come I don’t have a Hummer? Damn. When the Great Composting begins, I’m gonna be, well, hardly one of the first to go because I’m a white North American – but of the white North Americans, I’m gonna be one of the first to go! Damn. How do I get a Hummer?

I’m gonna Seize the Day and shake it till it’s Dead and Conquered. I’m gonna Fuckin Kill Every Day from Here On In!

I’m Gonna Kill the Days with Words! My Weapons and Bullets. Words. Sentences. Thoughts.

When I was sixeen, I started letting my thoughts wander. When did you start?

In the Catholicism-fueled philosophy of my immigrant, farmer parents, letting your thoughts wander was a Prelude to Sin. (Sin!!) Not quite “Sin!!” but getting way too close.

I knew it was wrong to let the thoughts wander the way I did, just as I knew those feelings I felt – those warm, exciting feelings between my legs, when I rubbed against my bed or slid down that steel pole at school when I was six – would lead me into Sin, but the wandering thoughts were just too much to resist.

First, I’d see my mother’s watering, squinting, sad and angry eyes as she looked at me… I was such a failure! Such a waste of space with no future! And I’d poke ‘em out with the high heels of the boots she let me buy – 2 inch heels, nothing wanton like 3 inch.

I’d stomp again and again and again, pushing her eyeballs to the back of her skull, killing her vision, killing her perception of me as lost, sad and doomed. Killing my future, I suppose, of domestic, religious, virtuous slavery. Trying to kill it.

Somehow, she’d morph from standing looking at me to being flat on the ground as I stabbed, poked and skewered her eyes, each one over and over again with those brown imitation wood heels.

In reality, I rarely wore those boots. I was never comfortable in heels; didn’t quite get the fuss about them. Sure, I looked taller and hotter but why bother? What I wanted: the attention of boys was also what I didn’t want. Because boys would steal your soul. They’d fuck you and leave your hymen broken, laughing uncontrollably at how desperate and gullible you were: “Marry you? Love you forever? Oh My Fucking God!” “Hahahahahaha! Would you love yourself?? Would you stay with you forever?! Hahahahaha! Give me a break! You just gave me the only thing you have of value!”


Seemed better to remain as a child, running around in flat shoes, secretly dreaming of poking out my mother’s eyes with the high heeled boots. Dream boots.

Boots that could take me places I couldn’t go myself; boots that were weapons. Death to mothers and futures of slavery, death to vision and death to watery, slimy pain. Death to tears; death to control. In and out, in and out, in and out. Stabbing the hole where vision used to be – a vision of me as a loser, without hope. Stabbing my mother’s fear.

Poking out the pain. Drifting off to sleep – a bad, bad, bad sixteen year old. A defiant sixteen year old. Sad, self-hating, imperfect. A robot, really, A Robot of God.

Image from:

Are you a closet horror

Are you a closet horror writer too?!

That's an interesting, I've

That's an interesting, I've enjoyed reading your article.

An image to go with your nightmare:

Are you a closet horror writer too?!

It hit me not so long ago that this preponderance I have for horror is nothing to hate on - it's just the way I am. Not the sunny "make everything better" Catholic homemaker mold my childhood environment tried to force me into. Horror rocks!

One of my all time favorite albums is Aphex Twin's Collected Ambient Works 2, yet no one ever ragged on him for being "scary and/or creepy"! Instead, just the opposite!

True about oracles and soothsayers.

Heh, I used to complain about my aunts who always seemed to want to hear horror stories from me: like, they wanted me to suffer and share it with them; they didn't want to hear good stories! It's true. People like to hear about pain - from afar.

I found these pics yesterday, of people bathing in rivers of garbage:


"This is me blocking out all the emotional, mental, spiritual debris of a day, a week, a life." I nightmared myself awake on that shit today; it was like being tossed ashore on a wave of floating garbage (mental uncompostibles?) which always makes me feel horrible. My own wandering thoughts are detached from my actions, and myself: images, concepts, and a lot of words... variably bad or good, and a lot of the time, terrible. A search for meaning. I know I couldn't (wouldn't?) write without this, and it would seem that other people also want to read it, even count on writers to do that work for them (oracles were always in caves; soothsayers in isolation). Was just penning to a friend, a poet's job is to continually confront who they actually are (and who all people actually are), personal pain for the ticklish fancy of the readership.

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