An Irksome Ambiance.

There is fuckupedneses abounding. And it revolves around a motion picture.

A picture in motion of a person, and he talks and he strolls, and has pens, pencils, cardigans. He eats food probably, drinks beer, most likely. He wears ties. I called him a person, but I really don’t want you to think I meant it.

And he talked to a camera. A camera watched this guy and he talked and he looked at the glass lens, and he said words. From his face. From his brain – that’s where communication came from. Is that where all of this communication came from?
I talk out from my brain to be sure – scientifically – emotionally it feels like it’s elsewhere.
So where does he talk from. His brain made the words but where did he feel it – those words that he said – representations of thoughts that he actually had.

And he winked. At the camera. While he said things, he winked once.
And you wonder who he saw in that lens. That’s most frightening.
Was he picturing the people about whom he talked? Was he picturing the people whom he’d yet to meet? Was he picturing a secret? Was he picturing his own pride, does he see himself – when he says what he says? Or was he picturing the masses of people, who will watch this movie. The people who never knew about him to begin with, and so now he will be ingrained in minds like mine.
And it bothers me because that means he thinks this movie is about him. When really it’s about the institution that nurtures him. “Nurtures” – it’s appropriate, but understand it is full of hate.

He’s alive. You know that. You have to know that. He might be flat on a screen, but that representation of him is almost as fucked up as the words that he says which are indicative of things that go on in his head.

For example – people lie in court. What comes out of mouths as words in high pressure situations are never accurate. It’s often scared. And there are rises of challenges, and you know he manipulates conversation – as he says what he says – he lies. Because he knows exactly what’s happened. Because he’ll say it exactly and then say it differently. That’s not behaviour of disassociation. That’s Primal Fear. There is no consequence for him. He doesn’t feel regret, even if her verbalized it.

I hate people who lie. To a face. Whoever’s face, mine yes, but others too.

It was too easy to justify it. And it was unnecessary for him, to justify himself, until someone asked him: Why?

And that’s when those words started.

What I've been thinking about in my spare time.

It’s pure genius! -and for me, a perfectly logical way to solve the misogynist presuppositions involving the story of Adam and Eve. And then everyone can get off every else’s back about who was in the garden and who was being ridiculous and curious and …oh …I don’t know…. HUMAN.

So. This dude god, made a man and s/he made a woman – I don’t give a shit in what order. S/he did it. And usually I like doing easy work first – just saying(I’m sorry - but whose breasts are ever even. NOBODIES). But they were just sort of human beings without much “life process”, not much “personality. Just a few bits of things that define humanity – one of them being curiosity.

So what happens is god has to dole out this child birthing bit – and because s/he admits it’s a HUGE responsibility for all of human time, it can’t be arbitrarily given. And rock paper scissors hadn’t yet been invented not to mention it’s a kind of boring as the ultimate challenge. Also, if you are gambling for some extreme body rearranging pain – I guess s/he didn’t want to admit facts yet.

So god has a wee contest, and the challenge was: which of the two individuals created would eat something they were told not to eat – without being given a reason not to. Any responsible parent would reason – don’t eat that because it’s poisonous or don’t eat that because you’ll screw your sex with extreme pain and horrid responsibility forever.
But to peek interest – god kept it a secret like the sadistic tradition of Christmas present. “No Sally, don’t go in the closet”.

Anywho – through no fault, not even that of curiosity (which is how one learns… by the way – it’s not some evil instigator or uncontrolled sexual impulse and a way into complete and absolute hell because we’ll all start fires and pillage towns if we ever found out the capabilities of the world… when used with good judgment(ex – the atomic bomb)) the apple was eaten.

As we all know Eve ate the apple. Because she was curious (that serpent bit… was added to the bible by someone on drugs, like that guy who wrote Alice in Wonderland. Disturbed)

So – A WOMAN (singular) lost the challenge. And the moral of the story is that we should all be careful of our actions lest the screw tonnes of other people for all of eternity *cough Hitler*. Also because we never know which turds in this world will mass generalize a lesson to subjugate a sex for a long fucking time.
I would also like to point out that Eve said it was delicious and told Adam to try it which he did and then Eve baked an apple pie and well heck – I’ll forgive her for giving me ovaries for the superb deliciousness that is apple pie.

So when you see a sign that says “It’s not Adam and Steve” or “It’s not Sandy and Eve” or some other combination of names, it’s because it was god's challenge to decide who was birthing – and one can’t challenge two members of one sex. So in a way they are right. And perhaps you’d like to inform them of it – giving my very educated and informed opinion as to the reason why. Then tell them about evolution.

And if anyone who reads this misinterprets what I just said and for some reason becomes the power of authority and bases the whole of humanity of some crap interpretation of my most diligent insight I’ll come back from the dead – and I won’t be as nice as Jesus.

Sell me sex and life.

Have you ever noticed that the doctors on TV can solve medical mysteries really quickly, and that there will always be a solution to a problem (even if it is death, the doctors know you will die.) In real life though, they never give you answers, and if they can’t solve the problem, they often won’t keep looking for the solution (thank god they didn’t take math; otherwise we’d still be on parabolas.)

Bodies are degenerate. Even while they are growing. Sometimes, I feel, that we’ve lived so many centuries that humans inherently know processes or solutions and that there are only a few things we don’t understand.

But everything is experimentation. People haven’t figured out this living bit. And the reason I thought we had is because every faceless person lives like they have. The solution to problematic locomotion is cars. For real. But it’s not a solution because we’ll soon have no oil, we’ll run out of steal, we’ll run out of ways to upgrade or downgrade. That is not what I call an internalized solution anyway. My solution – wouldn’t you know, is a canoe, or my feet. Why? Because something will always float, and my feet will always walk. I’m an animal and that’s the way I’m supposed to be. I wasn’t pre-ordained by some god, but that’s a discussion for another day. (If you were, then congratulations, but I lord it over no one, and no one will lord it over me if you don’t mind.)

Cars cause motion sickness for reasons. I wasn’t built as a human kamikaze.
That is why my body is degenerate. It forgot how to survive. I think they only reason I made it to 22 as healthy as I am is because I’m well preserved. Like a jam full of sugar.

I wonder sometimes if animals like deer or raccoons (they don’t all bite) like the look of shiny musical players. Do they find it sexy or thrilling? Do they find it telling of character? Does having a shiny player make one animal that much more desirable or alluring to the next.
I wonder if chipmunks pierced their ears if the others would notice.
I’m being only SLIGHTLY facetious.

Humans built homes, and it is natural. Humans, for some reason built everything. The objects aren’t natural, but I’m assuming the process of making it is, since it was done. Are the extensions we’ve created of ourselves inhuman? When does myself stop. If I paint a picture is it me. Is it natural? Or did it stop being me at some point in the air between us.

I wonder about humans and what we do and what we know sometimes. Or often really. Especially people who own gigantic cars, monstrous houses, listen to loud music written over a matter of minutes on a machine, who go to they gym and eat nothing.
I think they’re trying to sell sex. But at the same time – a bird sells sex by puffing its feathers – so why not just tease your hair?

My Public Announcement

Ladies and Gentlemen and to those who don’t behave like ladies or gentleman (my attempt at being PC)

I would like to make a formal public announcement, but seeing as I’m not allowed to stand on my desk and shout, and if I did shout it would only reach inappropriate ears (some hairy, some not) – I’ve decided to yell right here.

So pay attention. (I’m not yelling by the way…. Meaning gets lost in volume and I have no intention of invoking fear.)

Holly Fay will NOT be going to Australia. Holly Fay shall NOT be going anywhere to seek out people. Holly Fay shall ONLY be going to a place that interests her, and she will focus only on herself and her personal goals that involve her head and her heart and her ability to be alive and wondrous in this world.

If Holly Fay chooses to seek out people based on their peopliness, then all she will find is people who only know things about people NOT about anything else and people like that are boring. Why? Because it’s always present people and their present state of being which says nothing about anyone or anywhere or anytime. And that’s ri-god-damn-diculous.

THEREFORE I say to Holly Fay make your portfolio, love your art, love your hands, love your vision(and find your vision) and use this world to make you feel like the best person you can be to yourself. You are the only person who should matter to you. Then the peoply-people shan’t bother you or waste your time. Why? Because you are too busy negotiating your visions with someone who cares about what you do, and how you got there, and why your mind works the way it does. And that, my lovely, is what we are all looking for. Any shmoe can love your boobs, it takes a great human to love your heart.

And with that, I conclude this public announcement and I wish all seekers of life (myself included) the greatest of adventures and the best of minds.

Most Sincerely,
Elizabeth Hurlburt

Grade my Essay

Two characters were in a short story this one time. A short story was once defined by Edgar Allan Poe, and then of course was rebutted because he put limitations on the “genre”. (That’s the point though right?)

Some day someone will not break the rules per se, but will surpass the very notion of them so deftly that “rules” will no longer exist as a concept. Watch the librarians scratch their heads and catalogue THAT!

Anyway, there are two characters in this story that was shorter than a novel, and not quite a novelette because the original author said so. And they were talking, and the author described their actions which was little. A woman with a bowl-like hair cut sat on a chair and chastised a thin women painting her nails. The bowl cut lady said the most dreadful things to the thin girl painting her nails.

But my point is not to retell the story. But to tell you to what advantage.

By means of illustration:
Have you met me? No, probably not. Some yes, most no. But if you wrote about our meeting what would you say about me, or about yourself through how you wrote us? Would you use where we sit to describe our relationship, or perhaps our un-relationship?
What would we mean? “We” – not to each other, but to the story itself. Why do I exist in a story at all? Why did you make me live? Although I would like to know – it’s not very necessary to make me know…but I’m sure the person for whom you’ve written this would like to know.
I’m sure, in all likelihood you’d use the motif of knitting, or maybe sounds like rain to illustrate the process, the unending process of life, and whatever it is that you and I are doing to make this story a meaningful experience.

So, I’m not the subject of the story, and neither are you, but that lady who needs a new hairdresser and the skinny girl with painted nails are. And I’m sure you already know that the nail polish of the skinny girl is used to “foil” or rather smack in the face of the fashionless lady who is described without emotion, without reverence, without décor, with only practicality, with very benign adjectives. She panders to her man’s way of life rather then exert any form of femininity. In fact the feminine is used to threaten the very nature of the novel, which itself was written emotionlessly.

The feminine aspects, the shoes, the hats, the gloves, the attractiveness, the youth, the sexuality, the gender, the existence of a women completely not under the control of a man is used to divide the characters, and to illustrate the community itself. Which is also naked, set in a virtual wasteland.

And wouldn’t you know it the skinny girl was raped. Surprise surprise. Might this be illustrating the rugged, barren, uninviting, harsh environment of Canada – to further the point that here we are not united in struggle but divided in unrelenting, unforgiving landscape that creates small communities trying desperately hard to survive in meager culture, thereby being intolerant of people with personalities unlike their own (or personalities at all?) Perhaps. We are so hard pressed in this country aren’t we?

Anyway. The bowl lady with unkempt shoes and a muumuu definitely felt threatened. But even she worshipped Jean Harlow. Curious Non?

I don’t rightly know what exactly happened to those ladies, but that’s the point right? To leave me hanging and to make me keep thinking about it. All the skinny girl knows is that her heart is broken. And now she will be assimilated just like them.

…….
So then what about you and me? It’s a race to the story! (Cue thematic dueling music)

A rap-style dialogue on the Subway this morning

“All of these people are dead. Look man all of these people are dead.

Hello? Hello.

Are any of you awake. Hello?
I feel like I’m in a haunted statue house.

Don’t eat the onions man. Just piss ‘em off.

‘Just a beat boy, but it brings me joy’

No man, no man: ‘She’s over sixteen, but not eighteen, no she’s not eighteen’

Yeah, man, comb your hair.
Screw you.

HELLO! All the way to Finch man with zombies.

Yeah. Don’t eat the onions!”

- Anonymous 1 and Anonymous 2

This is not the Berlin Wall

I don’t know what it is about heads that hit brick walls.
Are we all hitting a break wall with heads not hands? And then to what avail. Nothing really. Except that when you hit your head hard enough you crack it and then you can see things you weren’t supposed to see.

Who built this brick wall anyway? That’s what I want to know. I refuse to hit something without good intentions.

So here I am standing in a big giant line of people hitting and cracking their heads. I keep my head on the wall at all times so as not to attract attention at being forever straight. The man to the left of me cracked his head, sat on his behind and began discussing the lights and paths of his childhood.

Someone asked, “Is this relevant?”

So we took out his brain and we questioned it, and examined it, and then we let it go.
It was not relevant after all. To tell you the truth, I thought it was very relevant, but I didn’t want to lose mine by disagreeing. Actually – I don’t know what happens if you disagree but I fear losing it in consequence anyway.

It is sad though, to see relevant people being let to wander. They don’t have a real task to do anyway. And why can’t you wander with your head uncracked? That’s what I want to know.

It seems so sad too – the futility of myself and our task. I wished that I could have listened to that man’s light stories. But who’s to blame for that but me.