a commonly crude nomenclature wielded by a large percentage of the population - primarily online - is one in which a negative thing is often prescribed to be "cancer." given that this is both an inconsiderate phrase given that cancer actually exists as a terrible and painful experience, and that this phrasing is often applied to things like "the video game didn't give her massive tits because cancer" or "i lost this video game because the other player is using a character who is cancer," both of which dramatically oversell the negative outcome of such results, one would have to be daft to not assume that stated nomenclature is rendered largely both meaningless and bad (do not make the joke).
one finds that there is an equally likely portrayed value, that, while not a pithy, rude phrase, conveys a sense of a slow, immaterial march towards death. that is; an entire house of popular culture, from music, to self-help literature, to tv, and more, commonly prescribes the idea that one must be constantly working at all times. this 'hustle' as it were, is key to acquiring the requisite money and standing to survive in the modern world, and said hustle never truly can be allowed to end if one wants to succeed.
what these two seemingly disparate ideas or phrases have in common is a stretch the present author, in this hereto notably infelicitous post, will make via a haphazard rendering of the english language and a medical discovery from the year 1961. it seems reasonable to conclude that the idea of working in perpetuity, until one dies, is actually a distinctly bad thing. that to suggest that exhaustion is essentially the normal state we must occupy in order to exist might be something that society at large should endeavor to avoid. some unfortunate 19 year old dude online might suggest that such thing is 'cancer' which would, while continuing to exist as a rather unfortunate and crude use of the term, be, at least in this case, nominally accurate.
of course, all of this is dramatically and fearfully destitute if the interpretation is not nominally accurate, but instead entirely accurate. given that cancer cells are the only human cells that avoid the hayflick limit, and that said societal value does end with an individual's death (after working nonstop), one might surmise then that the idea of working constantly will, like the immortal cells of cancer that are able to replicate forever, outlive the individual humans subject to said value; all of the latter eventually rendered obsolete, telomerase shortened, existence lost to senescence.
Friday, June 21, 2019
Sunday, June 9, 2019
the fall before the pride
it was always the same growing up. maybe never overt, but there. a sort of boot-strap your way through life, never brag, never boast. no joy in who you are. it fit, in a way. you were without church but your parents were raised in very religious households, perhaps if they couldn't impart the gospel onto you at least they could impart other values. pride is a sin. in school your friends would brag during basketball games, you won thunder and lightning against the entire 6th grade once and in a game went off for over 20 points. one day at soccer practice josh told you were the best player on the team far and away. you shrugged and thanked him sheepishly. it was just what it was. it was to be expected. you had to be good, perfect, beyond perfect, so why brag about what is expected? bragging was rude, callous, made others aware of what they were not or did not have. you remember the money that flowed into your hands for graduating high school, and your friend asked you what you thought, and you said you didn't deserve it for doing what was supposed to be done, and he agreed, he felt the same. you knew that carrots worked better than sticks, this was well backed by decades of research, but neither felt appropriate. you just were, and you shouldn't need a reward to be so. years later you'd try to square this with your politics. you still can't.
there is no pride to be had in who you are. certainly not in where you are born, nationalism a constantly absurd concept, you did not choose your home country from a video game drop down menu before you were spit out. you chose no traits, no characteristics besides what you chose over the course of your life, and choosing the right ones was just that - choosing the right ones, doing the right thing, and isn't that reward enough?
but maybe you went too far. you yearned internally for the clothes you wanted, the classes you wanted, a sense of desire, of acceptance, of someone, anyone to like you and the choices you made, to recognize it. you wanted a publication credit, a slip that said you graduated, something you could hang your hat on, and even if nobody saw it, perhaps that was for the best.
but it all fit. the lack of pride fit your parents, fit your privileged class, fit everything, and so it was the only path. you were whatever someone else needed you to be. when your friends carpooled throughout college and you always drove, you never asked for gas money. you mapped out the destinations and didn't even tell them you had, you put liquor bottles away while they slept, it was the right thing to do, and in their comfort, you found comfort as well, and that was fine. nothing you do should be broadcast, should be told to others, it should just exist, like you, quiet and studious, doing the right thing. pride is a sin.
in the years since, you have wriggled and compromised, or maybe grown, it's all postmodern anyways. the clothes you wear are your own now, the music you listen to your own, the books you read your own. you still want no credit for what is necessary, because everything is necessary at all times.
and so you found yourself in line under rainbow balloons on a warm, sunny summer day, wearing a rainbow tanktop and jeggings and looking all the world like you and your group belonged. and you guess that was always the hard part. belonging. you never belonged at the lunch table you sat at in high school, it was a necessity but you didn't relate to those who trade insults. you didn't belong at the job, at the house with your parents, you felt constantly subverted and shrunk yourself to fit. but there, in the park, it all was. people wearing anything, celebrating themselves, protesting against a system designed for thousands of years to kill them, and still to this day doing so. american flags decorated against rainbow flags, as if the contradiction wasn't obvious. you felt excited about who you were, pins and stickers and clothing that you struggled to wear up until the last year. you walked amongst a crowd that felt like in any other occasion could drown you and never felt unsafe. maybe it was the company. maybe it was the atmosphere. maybe you are still wriggling and growing a bit. maybe you just want to be liked.
but the internal dialogue remains. here are people that deserve their pride, their protest, their life. what do you deserve? you haven't received a raise in years, you haven't changed the world, you haven't graduated, you haven't been perfect. you can't will yourself to be proud, you can't will yourself a feeling that has repulsed you for so long, so you enjoy the moment and try to accept who you are, at the very least, because you have finally found those who have. with your wife, with your friends, in that crowd, who you were was good enough. the next morning, you tried not to look in the mirror and hate your body again, like always, tried not to look at your lack of accomplishments.
after your shower you noticed your pan sticker still on your shirt in a crumpled up pile of dirty laundry. the wristband hugs your wrist throughout the day as a reminder that maybe in an alternate timeline, some version of you who likes being you and wears it like a badge of honor exists, but you can't get over the feeling that it is undeserved. you admonish yourself for not cleaning as you sit on the couch reading something you could never write. this is who you are, and that is ok, and it doesn't need to exist for the world to see. nobody ever told you explicitly, but everybody always did; pride is a sin.
there is no pride to be had in who you are. certainly not in where you are born, nationalism a constantly absurd concept, you did not choose your home country from a video game drop down menu before you were spit out. you chose no traits, no characteristics besides what you chose over the course of your life, and choosing the right ones was just that - choosing the right ones, doing the right thing, and isn't that reward enough?
but maybe you went too far. you yearned internally for the clothes you wanted, the classes you wanted, a sense of desire, of acceptance, of someone, anyone to like you and the choices you made, to recognize it. you wanted a publication credit, a slip that said you graduated, something you could hang your hat on, and even if nobody saw it, perhaps that was for the best.
but it all fit. the lack of pride fit your parents, fit your privileged class, fit everything, and so it was the only path. you were whatever someone else needed you to be. when your friends carpooled throughout college and you always drove, you never asked for gas money. you mapped out the destinations and didn't even tell them you had, you put liquor bottles away while they slept, it was the right thing to do, and in their comfort, you found comfort as well, and that was fine. nothing you do should be broadcast, should be told to others, it should just exist, like you, quiet and studious, doing the right thing. pride is a sin.
in the years since, you have wriggled and compromised, or maybe grown, it's all postmodern anyways. the clothes you wear are your own now, the music you listen to your own, the books you read your own. you still want no credit for what is necessary, because everything is necessary at all times.
and so you found yourself in line under rainbow balloons on a warm, sunny summer day, wearing a rainbow tanktop and jeggings and looking all the world like you and your group belonged. and you guess that was always the hard part. belonging. you never belonged at the lunch table you sat at in high school, it was a necessity but you didn't relate to those who trade insults. you didn't belong at the job, at the house with your parents, you felt constantly subverted and shrunk yourself to fit. but there, in the park, it all was. people wearing anything, celebrating themselves, protesting against a system designed for thousands of years to kill them, and still to this day doing so. american flags decorated against rainbow flags, as if the contradiction wasn't obvious. you felt excited about who you were, pins and stickers and clothing that you struggled to wear up until the last year. you walked amongst a crowd that felt like in any other occasion could drown you and never felt unsafe. maybe it was the company. maybe it was the atmosphere. maybe you are still wriggling and growing a bit. maybe you just want to be liked.
but the internal dialogue remains. here are people that deserve their pride, their protest, their life. what do you deserve? you haven't received a raise in years, you haven't changed the world, you haven't graduated, you haven't been perfect. you can't will yourself to be proud, you can't will yourself a feeling that has repulsed you for so long, so you enjoy the moment and try to accept who you are, at the very least, because you have finally found those who have. with your wife, with your friends, in that crowd, who you were was good enough. the next morning, you tried not to look in the mirror and hate your body again, like always, tried not to look at your lack of accomplishments.
after your shower you noticed your pan sticker still on your shirt in a crumpled up pile of dirty laundry. the wristband hugs your wrist throughout the day as a reminder that maybe in an alternate timeline, some version of you who likes being you and wears it like a badge of honor exists, but you can't get over the feeling that it is undeserved. you admonish yourself for not cleaning as you sit on the couch reading something you could never write. this is who you are, and that is ok, and it doesn't need to exist for the world to see. nobody ever told you explicitly, but everybody always did; pride is a sin.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
clean
you remember being called back to the bathroom because the sink wasn't quite clean enough. a spot of grime underneath and along the edge where the faucet met the hard counter managed to escape the futile digging of your fingernail-less attempts to dig it out, you had picked the keratin out every day since you were 5 or 6 years old. you'd joke that your fingernails are never dirty because they don't exist, peeled back to disfigured shrapnel. on weekends when you went away, you'd expect to come back to a room your mom had gone through and cleaned, prying open nightstand drawers and going through shelves. many an embarrassing grade was found this way by her. it was all under the guise of making sure your room - which wasn't your room, really, it was still your parents - was clean. when your 6th grade teacher opened up your classroom desk to show your parents during conferences that it was too messy you were driven to school early the next day so you could clean it, you didn't want to lose an assignment or forget to bring home a graded paper you got for your parents to determine if the grade was good enough (if it wasn't an A, it wasn't), at least that's what they told you about it when they told you it was too messy. jenny two desks over had a moldy burger in hers. the teachers didn't care about her though, neither did her parents, so there was nothing to clean. you'd be sad about this when you reflected on it later. clean is a state of class. in high school your mom would reach across and pop a pimple or fix your hair so your appearance was clean, unasked for physical contact your body naturally reacted to by drawing away physically, wondering if seeing her son pull away every time she reached out hurt her.
as you got older you wondered if it was about actually cleanliness, or perhaps it was really about control. the basement office at home your mom asked you to help organize had a betamax porn video in it your parents didn't 'clean' out, the used car you bought from them had an erotic CD in the glove compartment they didn't 'clean' out. the house of theirs is still pristine largely but then your mom sees the state of your car one day and asks if she can help clean it, if she can pay for someone to clean it, please, anything, it's too messy. either it is a judgement on you or an attempt to control the space you still occupy, who knows. as a kid you had a weekly schedule for when to clean the bathrooms at home, when to vacuum, it seemed like any other household chore setup but you suppose every house is different, you have yet to have had a single friend whose place is as clean as the space you occupied as a kid.
she still tries. cars, desks, she offers to come to your place where you live with your wife and clean it, she promises no judgements but you know that has never been true. every year she calls her mom and she comes down and they clean together, an entire house, organized and managed and tidy. like mother like daughter. your current place is full of post-wedding stuff and it is cluttered and you know the words that would escape her mouth walking through the door would be caustic and judgmental.
when you moved into your first place years ago you let your bedroom become a disaster. depression-aided apathy gave way to a carpet completely covered in trash and laundry and alcohol and tobacco stains, not a single speck of carpet showing. over seventy trash bags and two and a half weeks later one spring it was done. you surveyed the room before you. you were content with the state of it. your mom never would be. maybe the metaphor was there the whole time.
as you got older you wondered if it was about actually cleanliness, or perhaps it was really about control. the basement office at home your mom asked you to help organize had a betamax porn video in it your parents didn't 'clean' out, the used car you bought from them had an erotic CD in the glove compartment they didn't 'clean' out. the house of theirs is still pristine largely but then your mom sees the state of your car one day and asks if she can help clean it, if she can pay for someone to clean it, please, anything, it's too messy. either it is a judgement on you or an attempt to control the space you still occupy, who knows. as a kid you had a weekly schedule for when to clean the bathrooms at home, when to vacuum, it seemed like any other household chore setup but you suppose every house is different, you have yet to have had a single friend whose place is as clean as the space you occupied as a kid.
she still tries. cars, desks, she offers to come to your place where you live with your wife and clean it, she promises no judgements but you know that has never been true. every year she calls her mom and she comes down and they clean together, an entire house, organized and managed and tidy. like mother like daughter. your current place is full of post-wedding stuff and it is cluttered and you know the words that would escape her mouth walking through the door would be caustic and judgmental.
when you moved into your first place years ago you let your bedroom become a disaster. depression-aided apathy gave way to a carpet completely covered in trash and laundry and alcohol and tobacco stains, not a single speck of carpet showing. over seventy trash bags and two and a half weeks later one spring it was done. you surveyed the room before you. you were content with the state of it. your mom never would be. maybe the metaphor was there the whole time.
Thursday, May 30, 2019
the thoughts are gone
The thoughts are gone. It went in waves, of course, like many things - a gradual decline. You stopped writing fiction, and then you stopped writing blog posts, and then you stopped writing emails, and then you ceased to be the one thing you always wanted to be. Many a post in this blog have alluded to giving up on what one might want or desire over the course of existence. Perhaps it's for the best.
There is no conditional "perhaps" in front of the best that previously happened. Through all the tumult and stress and foot stomping and regrets and critiques, your wife stood there in her dress and smiled and you smiled and a weird calmness - about singing in front of a crowd, speaking in front of a crowd, a permanence you for years derided as silly or even stupid - washed over you. There was a rightness here, like the rightness you feel when exploring the streets of Kuala Lumpur, tropical heat and palm trees and rotten durian all assaulting you, of watching a sunset from Darwin beaches, perfect colors splashed across a clear, warm sky, of drinks at a dive bar in Vietnam, company louder - just barely - than the 6 month old billboard hits, but this time it was about a person, not a place, not a time. Or maybe it was a time, a forever stretched out into the very horizon you sat and meditated on from as many corners of the world as possible. A person forever, not setting and rising but there embedded into you like the heart she has tattooed on her wrist. The passport has been unstamped since 2016.
There is a pursuit, at times, of so many things that it is hard to figure out what they are. A pursuit of reading and writing more, a pursuit of video games, a pursuit of travel. It's easy to dwell on the nil here, but harder to spend time with a brief reward. Two classes aced, a life partner, a sense of self that might come and go but at least is no longer the transparent it once permanently was. You sit and painfully watch the clock wishing the night with her wasn't about to end, when in the past, you just wanted it to end, to fall asleep, to never wake up. Now you want it to stretch on for eternity, cuddled up on the couch, laughing all of life's anxieties away. Still there is more around the corner. The counter says two blog posts in two months, one of them not even yours. The book sits next to the bed folded on its spine still somewhere where you left off. Your friends talk about a game in ways you barely understand anymore.
So many references dangle in and out of earshot, quotes, in-jokes, a sort of language owned only by the most select people, you revel in what it means. For so long your language was global, only shrouded in niche internet references insomuch as the internet can be niche, now you have a network of one where language is your own creation, your own household. It feels weird and new and exciting. You and your wife can speak a version of English only you understand. An actual love language. It's weird to think millions more exist.
You still have no idea where any of this leads. All seemed impossible. You knew being a writer was impossible years ago. You knew moving to southeast Asia was impossible years ago. You knew being married was impossible years ago. You knew singing in front of a crowd was impossible years ago. Who knows what you'll think is impossible tomorrow? The counter for May ticks to two. In three days June will read 0. It's easy to focus on the nil.
There is no conditional "perhaps" in front of the best that previously happened. Through all the tumult and stress and foot stomping and regrets and critiques, your wife stood there in her dress and smiled and you smiled and a weird calmness - about singing in front of a crowd, speaking in front of a crowd, a permanence you for years derided as silly or even stupid - washed over you. There was a rightness here, like the rightness you feel when exploring the streets of Kuala Lumpur, tropical heat and palm trees and rotten durian all assaulting you, of watching a sunset from Darwin beaches, perfect colors splashed across a clear, warm sky, of drinks at a dive bar in Vietnam, company louder - just barely - than the 6 month old billboard hits, but this time it was about a person, not a place, not a time. Or maybe it was a time, a forever stretched out into the very horizon you sat and meditated on from as many corners of the world as possible. A person forever, not setting and rising but there embedded into you like the heart she has tattooed on her wrist. The passport has been unstamped since 2016.
There is a pursuit, at times, of so many things that it is hard to figure out what they are. A pursuit of reading and writing more, a pursuit of video games, a pursuit of travel. It's easy to dwell on the nil here, but harder to spend time with a brief reward. Two classes aced, a life partner, a sense of self that might come and go but at least is no longer the transparent it once permanently was. You sit and painfully watch the clock wishing the night with her wasn't about to end, when in the past, you just wanted it to end, to fall asleep, to never wake up. Now you want it to stretch on for eternity, cuddled up on the couch, laughing all of life's anxieties away. Still there is more around the corner. The counter says two blog posts in two months, one of them not even yours. The book sits next to the bed folded on its spine still somewhere where you left off. Your friends talk about a game in ways you barely understand anymore.
So many references dangle in and out of earshot, quotes, in-jokes, a sort of language owned only by the most select people, you revel in what it means. For so long your language was global, only shrouded in niche internet references insomuch as the internet can be niche, now you have a network of one where language is your own creation, your own household. It feels weird and new and exciting. You and your wife can speak a version of English only you understand. An actual love language. It's weird to think millions more exist.
You still have no idea where any of this leads. All seemed impossible. You knew being a writer was impossible years ago. You knew moving to southeast Asia was impossible years ago. You knew being married was impossible years ago. You knew singing in front of a crowd was impossible years ago. Who knows what you'll think is impossible tomorrow? The counter for May ticks to two. In three days June will read 0. It's easy to focus on the nil.
Thursday, May 2, 2019
goodness/you in this light
How do you measure goodness?
On the fridge, a bag of very, very tiny measuring spoons hang in a plastic bag pinned against the chalky white texture of the door via a circular magnet. The spoons are so small that they look like straws. Even smaller. It's a wonder how such a thing could hold or carry anything.
How do you measure goodness?
Worth is innately tied to our work. If you don't work, you aren't deserving. This is a mantra, the mantra, what we are couched in from day one. Help those who will help themselves. How can someone love you if you don't love yourself. It absolves us of all collective badness. You are your own person. This community is not mine.
How do you measure goodness?
Find someone you trust and, as a social experiment someday, ask them to define "work." In my experience, you will soon have someone tripping over their own conditional statements. Work is often the job, that is the first start, it's what we have to do to survive. Most people will start to expand - housework is work (with many caveats, usually from men), but before you know it, there becomes a breakdown. Homework is necessary, not work. It is not "labor hours." But then labor hours are just our job, and our house, our hygiene, these are not our job in a strict sense, but they can be. You can get turned away from a job interview because your clothes are too wrinkled, your hair not combed, your fingernails dirty. And before you know it, the common argument - the common attempt to define work -- breaks down. Writing is work if it's for your job, if you receive money for it, but outside of work? It is a hobby. It is a creative outlet. The nature of the work is not changed in any material way. Housework isn't real work. Homework isn't real work. Flossing your teeth every day isn't real work. Before you know it, the stay at home mom doesn't do any work. She has no goodness. She is not worthy.
How do you measure goodness?
A man comes out of a haircut with a new hairdresser drenched in sweat and nervous to have suggested a change. For years it was the same haircut, at the same person, disappointed each time with the results but knowing that hair would grow back. The new haircut was better. There are changes, ideas, but the man felt better coming out, minus the shirt now feeling like it had been dipped in a tub. Discomfort revisited and overcome. The only reason he went was because his fiancée was there with him, a guide, a comfort in a sphere considered so anxious the man would have not done it without her. Some light. It was such a small thing made big by anxiety, by fears, by a brain sometimes out of control, careening down the tracks. Someone was there to help it along.
How do you measure goodness?
Most billionaires have given money to charity, many of them large amount. As a percentage of their wealth though, they give very little. And as they run roughshed over the environment and labor, people debate if they have bought enough credit to do so. The donations pay for the badness. The capital revenues are work, so they are worthy. Work has been defined. Goodness has been measured in dollars. The stay at home mom is not worthy, again.
How do you measure goodness?
My parents defined goodness as a 4.0 with no exceptions, as good performance in sports with no exceptions. Anything less was badness, was a flaw needing to be yelled out, scrubbed out, like the cleanliness we were coached on from day one of our existence as kids (me and my sister). We were a simulacrum, or an attempt at one. Because it all made sense, we've all heard it. Good grades, good job, now worthy. Goodness attained.
How do you measure goodness?
We can't define work, we can't define worth, we can't measure goodness. The spoons are too small for me to handle. Try as I might, the powder escapes. Try as I might, I can't estimate the creek in the park. Try as I might, I can't measure the time I have spent measuring the time I have spent. We know bad when we see it, we toss and turn over consumption and friendship. Goodbye to John, he dropped the n word. Goodbye to Chris, he was a bully.
How do you measure goodness?
There is very little I, personally, have contributed to this world. I have not, alas, made a billion dollar donation, canvassed for people's rights, or dedicated my entire life to the soul pursuit of ethical goodness after I lost 3 years of sleep over agonizing about a friend's tacky boots.
How do you measure goodness?
Perhaps I fit inside the spoon. Perhaps the people who try their hardest to be there for me are the goodness, and that's all I can offer myself. Perhaps that's good enough, for me, for them, for all of us. Perhaps it's not. In the time you were reading this, someone overdosed and died. Someone died in a war. What goodness was available is now lost.
How do you measure goodness?
I skim this post and roll my eyes, mostly. I'm not fond of much of my writing, but this feels, unambiguously, like my high school self in a way. Vacuous and poorly formed. Not enough distance, not enough deference to elaborate sentence schemes and self-deprecation. Nothing really intelligent or revelatory or noteworthy. Killer Mike said prepare to be average. Can that be measured? It is my first post in over a month. I can not measure any goodness here. Just a void.
How do you measure goodness?
The spoons hang still on the fridge. A small webpage on a college website updates my total accumulated credit hours by 4. A check arrives in the mail connotating a reimbursement of taxes paid. The worth is unambiguous. I have no idea what it means.
-End
On the fridge, a bag of very, very tiny measuring spoons hang in a plastic bag pinned against the chalky white texture of the door via a circular magnet. The spoons are so small that they look like straws. Even smaller. It's a wonder how such a thing could hold or carry anything.
How do you measure goodness?
Worth is innately tied to our work. If you don't work, you aren't deserving. This is a mantra, the mantra, what we are couched in from day one. Help those who will help themselves. How can someone love you if you don't love yourself. It absolves us of all collective badness. You are your own person. This community is not mine.
How do you measure goodness?
Find someone you trust and, as a social experiment someday, ask them to define "work." In my experience, you will soon have someone tripping over their own conditional statements. Work is often the job, that is the first start, it's what we have to do to survive. Most people will start to expand - housework is work (with many caveats, usually from men), but before you know it, there becomes a breakdown. Homework is necessary, not work. It is not "labor hours." But then labor hours are just our job, and our house, our hygiene, these are not our job in a strict sense, but they can be. You can get turned away from a job interview because your clothes are too wrinkled, your hair not combed, your fingernails dirty. And before you know it, the common argument - the common attempt to define work -- breaks down. Writing is work if it's for your job, if you receive money for it, but outside of work? It is a hobby. It is a creative outlet. The nature of the work is not changed in any material way. Housework isn't real work. Homework isn't real work. Flossing your teeth every day isn't real work. Before you know it, the stay at home mom doesn't do any work. She has no goodness. She is not worthy.
How do you measure goodness?
A man comes out of a haircut with a new hairdresser drenched in sweat and nervous to have suggested a change. For years it was the same haircut, at the same person, disappointed each time with the results but knowing that hair would grow back. The new haircut was better. There are changes, ideas, but the man felt better coming out, minus the shirt now feeling like it had been dipped in a tub. Discomfort revisited and overcome. The only reason he went was because his fiancée was there with him, a guide, a comfort in a sphere considered so anxious the man would have not done it without her. Some light. It was such a small thing made big by anxiety, by fears, by a brain sometimes out of control, careening down the tracks. Someone was there to help it along.
How do you measure goodness?
Most billionaires have given money to charity, many of them large amount. As a percentage of their wealth though, they give very little. And as they run roughshed over the environment and labor, people debate if they have bought enough credit to do so. The donations pay for the badness. The capital revenues are work, so they are worthy. Work has been defined. Goodness has been measured in dollars. The stay at home mom is not worthy, again.
How do you measure goodness?
My parents defined goodness as a 4.0 with no exceptions, as good performance in sports with no exceptions. Anything less was badness, was a flaw needing to be yelled out, scrubbed out, like the cleanliness we were coached on from day one of our existence as kids (me and my sister). We were a simulacrum, or an attempt at one. Because it all made sense, we've all heard it. Good grades, good job, now worthy. Goodness attained.
How do you measure goodness?
We can't define work, we can't define worth, we can't measure goodness. The spoons are too small for me to handle. Try as I might, the powder escapes. Try as I might, I can't estimate the creek in the park. Try as I might, I can't measure the time I have spent measuring the time I have spent. We know bad when we see it, we toss and turn over consumption and friendship. Goodbye to John, he dropped the n word. Goodbye to Chris, he was a bully.
How do you measure goodness?
There is very little I, personally, have contributed to this world. I have not, alas, made a billion dollar donation, canvassed for people's rights, or dedicated my entire life to the soul pursuit of ethical goodness after I lost 3 years of sleep over agonizing about a friend's tacky boots.
How do you measure goodness?
Perhaps I fit inside the spoon. Perhaps the people who try their hardest to be there for me are the goodness, and that's all I can offer myself. Perhaps that's good enough, for me, for them, for all of us. Perhaps it's not. In the time you were reading this, someone overdosed and died. Someone died in a war. What goodness was available is now lost.
How do you measure goodness?
I skim this post and roll my eyes, mostly. I'm not fond of much of my writing, but this feels, unambiguously, like my high school self in a way. Vacuous and poorly formed. Not enough distance, not enough deference to elaborate sentence schemes and self-deprecation. Nothing really intelligent or revelatory or noteworthy. Killer Mike said prepare to be average. Can that be measured? It is my first post in over a month. I can not measure any goodness here. Just a void.
How do you measure goodness?
The spoons hang still on the fridge. A small webpage on a college website updates my total accumulated credit hours by 4. A check arrives in the mail connotating a reimbursement of taxes paid. The worth is unambiguous. I have no idea what it means.
-End
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