Morning Speeches

My abdomen feels like tar when it’s “pure” and hot and viscous. A science word.

I feel like a philosophical teenager when their emotions don’t sit on their shoulders like cliché arguing facets on a sitcom, but a teenager that is full of hope and roped into obligations, while yelling at their parents to treat them like an adult.

I cried at thirteen at being caught in school yard between two hayfields. I do not knit because I was on a farm. I knit because I left. I feel like a Steinbeck novel sometimes, it’s true. Maybe East of Eden. Migration to bigger cities to find “better people” or lofty ideas. It’s a push actually – to find a job, to find knowledge, perspective. The sightlines change in the cities, it’s not even the landscape it’s the motivation.

Politics take place in big cities and their words make farmers weep. “Infrastructure” “Leadership” “Growth”. The word Growth is a death trap. Growth means: more, accumulation, gluttony, theoretical responsibility. Growth to some people is an exciting word that builds bridges, glass buildings and ideas that become so lofty and so big we are responsible for carrying on paper “like a living breathing document.”

Growth means more. And that’s why a teenager pushed out of limited towns runs to places where everyone can dance exactly the way they want.

I was a lofty painter it seems. A speech maker. My history teacher told me to can it in class once when I tried to speak on the responsibilities of families and children. I’m sure it was just that my voice was loud. A person naturally born to talk. I am immature. I know this every day of my life and as much as I fight to keep it I see the passing opportunity for a grown woman to say something intelligent and insightful.

So I thought maybe I could justify speeches by appropriate words, just like a novelist will justify insight with doctorates. It turns out that one should justify life only by living it.

The mean-spirited gossiping Betty’s of the 1850’s, while making quilts and boiling water for complicated births – they too were constantly immature. It’s not the progression or “growth” of the human mind, the development of the toy, the acceptability of morals, the responsible government, or the availability of food. We are still alive doing work with a different ease, and a different difficulty than those building cities in the years 100.

Corporations rot spines in seats in attempts to quell the effective man, in order to grow their business like diseases. They are the mechanization described by Orwell in which words become such fancifully disguised points of intellect that the truth is buried in an ethics bored and people no longer know how to communicate an authentic feeling.
Factual statements are represented in numbers, not words. Actually it’s just me.

I’m just the whiney teenager here, hating the similarity and the complete unification of the human breed. Incest ideas are the bane of my existence. A long time ago it was the need for unified messages, a clear path of ideas. An understanding of desire and goals. Do territories want to make a country or do they want to fight?

Ease of communication has hung out the complexity of the human mind like an awkward naked picture. So here we are.
What I want – as the moody teenager with the tar stomach at a desk – I want a simplified circle of specialized ideas. A human being is not ultimately a collective spurred for “Growth.” That’s why Shakespeare survived posterity. Who will survive it now?