2/8/2024 america the load-o'bull
Adam recently posted to his website about how he pays attention to even the most minute details of events occurring around him and then related a short encounter with a man who seemed eager to talk to him and that he, Adam, decided to avoid the encounter. I try to do the same: pay attention to minute details and take my life's course into my own hands because I have been a long time coming to realize that one way or another, pretty much everyone is lying, if not about one thing, then another. As the Po character in ConAir says, "Sorry boss, but there's only two men I trust. One of them's me. The other's not you."
Last week, I went out to pick up some supplies. Because the eSIM I recently downloaded from a new-to-me network provider is not connecting to the network, I cannot make calls, except emergency calls, send or receive texts, or use the internet on my phone. As a side note: when my mom and I called the service provider on a 3-way call to try and get it worked out, the man, Jack, on the other end said that my phone does not have eSIM capabilities which is patently untrue. My phone indeed has an eSIM slot. In fact, it has 2. I assume if it didn't have eSIM capabilities, there would have been an error, and it would not have downloaded the eSIM via the QR code that the provider sent. Anyway, I decided to, this time, use public wifi while I was in town so that I could clip some digital coupons. I also browsed the ad for the grocery store in the town nearer to our camp to see if they had on sale any of the items I was planning to pick up. It turned out they did. I finished my errands in the farther and larger of the two towns and headed back home, making a quick stop at the smaller town's grocery store on the way. When I arrived at the store, there was a moderately older man busking immediately adjacent to the only door. He was using an electric guitar and a small amplifier to which he had also hooked up some preset background music. I'm not fully familiar with how this type of thing works, so it could be that the preset music was stored in the amplifier. At any rate, the music this man and the machine were playing was very similar to what can be heard here in this video, from the sound of the guitar right down to the reverb and the supporting instruments. Adam and I had been listening to this song quite a bit in the days leading up to this particular trip in to town. We like it. I suspect the setup is exactly the same. The man in front of the store was just playing different tunes.
Anyway, I did my shopping and when I came out and started to pack up my bike, he started in on a tune that was vaguely familiar that, as he progressed, became exceedingly familiar. It was that song about David playing Hallelujah for god. Rewind a few decades, and you see that this is not only a song that affected me as an adolescent when I saw a dance performed to it, but also one that I heard over and over (and over and over) another decade after that, when Adam and I lived with one of his former co-workers. The co-worker, an alcoholic who had given up, would play this song relentlessly both on the piano and a recorded version of it.
Back in front of the grocery store, as I'm about finished packing up, I pass in front of the store's entrance and in front of the guitar player to replace the shopping cart. As I'm passing in front of the guitar player, he suddenly but smoothly switches his tune to that of "america the stolen" better known as "america the beautiful." I give an audible disapproving chortle at this piece of obvious nationalist propaganda. As I cross in front of the man for the second time to return to my bike, the man says, "I saw you on your bike on my way here," in that cheerful tone that I know all to well that suggests that they want me postpone the rest of my life to start telling them all about where I ride my bike and why. Personally, I don't have time for rapists, so I just say, equally cheerfully, "okay!" and proceeded to my bike. I get all my bits and bobs tucked in and take off, telling him to "Have a good one!" as I roll away. He smiled, and hollered, still cheerful, "yeah, you too!" And I went home. Fast forward to the next day in the morning, and I'm noodling around with some color placement on my phone for a crochet blanket I'm making. Earlier, the tune of "america the stolen" had slinked its way into the forefront of my mind, and I'd hummed about 7 syllables of it when I noticed what was happening and said, "no, we're not doin' that." So I popped on Tenacious D's "Beelzeboss (The Final Showdown)". I listened to that 5 or 6 times (I do so enjoy the song) before deciding to change it up. I switched over to the version of The Gael (the song from the film The Last of the Mohicans) which I shared above. Suddenly, having nothing to do with the colors I was fiddling with, it all congealed. Something Adam wrote in his Vae Victis post popped into my head almost simultaneously with the memory of the man that I encountered in front of the store. Adam had written: "Before you hit the internet to find that your search results for Vae Victis all say it means America is great and free thinkers are evil, it's actually a latin phrase meaning "woe to the vanquished." america the beautiful, huh?
Welcome to the first in what I hope to develop into a series of horror stories from my real life. Halloween is one of my favorite celebration/event/festival things--probably a psychological conditioning of receiving massive amounts of candy on a particular night of the year for the first 15 years of my life (some of the most impressionistic years)! I don't really care for the origin stories of trick-or-treating: how people would terrorize each other and threaten vandalism or physical harm if their demands weren't met, but in these, my adult years, I don't mind other people enjoying the creating or purchasing and wearing of costumes, coming to the door with the expectation of candy. I had a lot of fun doing it as a kid, and i gotta say: there's little else, for me, that tops the cuteness factor of 3-foot tall humans wailing, "trick-or-treeeeet!!" at you and holding out a bag. I love kids. So much. Actually, in the past several years, I have designed a handful of crocheted (and one or two knitted) trinkets with Halloween themes that I have handed out either in addition to or in lieu of candy. (Choose the "Patterns" category at the bottom of the page to find them). I made a miniature knitted Michael Myers doll and attached it to a barrette that I wear in my hair as often as I remember to during October.
Anyway, to spread my enthusiasm for the enjoyment of horror stories and non-scary Halloween fun during the month of October, I've decided to start sharing Horror Stories from Real Life. I got the idea after making my last post when I said that I had plenty of horror stories from volunteering at food pantries. Without further ado, I give you the first Horror Stories from Real Life: Who's Debbie?? In my previous post, I talked about how I volunteer at food pantries and the primary reason being so that I can self-curate our groceries. It is true, though, that I very much enjoy the tasks of helping to run a food bank...organizing and sorting, cleaning, and talking to people. One summer, we spent our time outside of a very small town (population 300 or so), and thankfully there was a weekly food pantry, a monthly food pantry, and a dollar store. Between these three, we ate pretty well all summer. As you might be able to imagine, in a town of this size, it is hard to blend in as a loaded cyclist, so the folks who ran both pantries became well familiar with me, or at least, what I allowed them to know about me and whatever else they assumed beyond that. Frequently, one or another person from the weekly pantry would saunter over to me as I packed and loaded my bike with the bounty. This annoyed me a little bit because most of the time, I just wanted to get home to Adam where I was safe from prying and judgemental eyes. On the other hand, I do enjoy conversation and being able to talk about my ideals, but frankly, a lot of times, the conversant would ignore my cues of being ready to roll and force me to linger beyond what I would have wanted. It didn't bother me, but it would have been more enjoyable if I felt my contributions to the conversation were actually being heard. Alas, that's the world we currently live in: those with less money are stupid and insufficient as humans and need to be eradicated or reformed. Anyway, I got to know these people little by little, and I mostly enjoyed the conversations that I came to accept as inevitable. However, that particular summer, I decided (for the most part) to not offer my time and able body as a volunteer. This was mainly because people in a town that small, having not much to distract them, tend to spend a lot of time getting to know one another and, eventually, because of the way 21st century humans are, exerting, or at least attempting to exert, their will over one another. I just didn't feel like constantly explaining why I don't want a job or to "build greenhouses at your ranch." ...the reaction they sustained was not one of care and worry but one of manipulation and attention-seeking.
As a result of not donating my time to these charities, I had more time to dedicate to working on my fiber arts designs, and as such, I nailed out a pattern for a knitted stuffed heart that is knit in one piece without breaking the yarn. If you don't know knitting-things, that's somewhat of a feat. By the end of it, I had somewhere around 20 samples from having tested the instructions so many times combined with wanting to use up some yarn stash. As autumn set in, I decided that before we departed, I would give the hearts to the pantry volunteers (of both pantries) as a small but heartfelt token of my gratitude.
Naturally, they were well received, and when I handed them out on my final visit to the weekly pantry, there was much enthusiasm and gratitude from both sides of the table, and, not wanting to make a big deal out of saying goodbye to the people who tried to manipulate me into abandoning my good sense, moral ideals, and beliefs over the summer, I allowed the hearts to act as a farewell. The connection was not made, however. Despite having given them Adam's web address and thereby, a way to contact me, they did not know what happened to me and, apparently, worried to varying degrees about my well-being. If it was just that, I would not be writing this blog post. The plot thickens. When I bumped into a handful of the weekly-pantry volunteers several months later at a larger food bank 30 miles away that supplies several smaller pantries (including the one from the aforementioned small town) as well as performing its own distribution services, I was greeted with a hug and smiles and "It's great to see you! We were so worried about you! We didn't know what happened to you!" There was also "(Name redacted) was so worried about you! Don't do that again!" With genuine scold in the voice behind a thin veil of smile and gladness. Mind you, they know explicitly from our lengthy conversations over the summer that I am nomadic and move as the seasons change. In our conversations, they struck me as people intelligent enough to make the connection between the changing of a season and someone's absence who has stated that they move when the seasons change. So I am forced to any of a number of conclusions, not the least of which is that the reaction they sustained was not one of care and worry but one of manipulation and attention-seeking. A few more months pass. I see (name redacted) at the big food bank. She is standing facing me with her back to the open garage door. The contrast of the dimness inside and the brightness outside obscures her face into darkness. "Jenny." she says in an ominous tone that perfectly matches the lighting. Taking just a moment to process where I know the voice from, because I can't see the face too well, I say cheerfully, "ohhh! (Name redacted)! How are you??" My attempts at a normal, "how-are-things-haven't-seen-ya-in-awhile" conversation were rebuffed. She came with a loaded gun, aimed, and fired. In the same grave tone with which she originally addressed me, she informed me of that which I was already aware: that she was, and now I paraphrase, sick with worry over what happened to me. My stock response from the previous interaction with the others was that I didn't want to make a big deal about saying goodbye. She proceeded to explain that she has a hard time with goodbyes too which, by the way, is not what I meant by "not wanting to make a big deal out of saying goodbye." What I meant was more like, "I didn't want to give you assholes the opportunity to try and suck the life out of me and attempt to 'welcome' me into your homes under the guise of protecting me from winter's threats only to spin back 4 days after we move in and attempt to enslave us. It's just annoying, and I don't have time for that shit. I'd really just rather take my chances biking down a dark 2-lane country road with little to no shoulder on a fully loaded bicycle so that I can just fend off skunks at night, sleep in when I want to, and eat what I want, listen to music when I want, and space-out when I want, for however long I want than continuously explain to you why I won't do your ranch chores and clean your house while you berate me for not contributing enough to society; or worse: do the chores anyway, at your beck and call, against my will and develop heartburn, and weak joints from the stress until I just fall over dead in the middle of your field from an embolism." See how just not saying goodbye might be a little easier for us both? She came with a loaded gun, aimed, and fired.
I didn't say any of that, of course, but now that you've read it, you can see how "I just didn't want to make a big deal out of saying goodbye" sorta captures it as far as brief sentences go. She went on to try and hold me responsible for how she chooses to use (or not use) her mind: "Worrying about you occupied so much of my brain space." ...with some exaggerated phrase like, "it made me so sick." As if it was me who was controlling her brain space. If you ask me, she's the one who owes me an apology for continually trying to suck me into her lifestyle. Over that summer there were constant invitations for me to come over to so and so's house to teach them how to spin yarn or "we'd really like to get to know you better, so we thought we could all meet up at such and such diner sometime." I politely avoided committing every time an invitation was extended because I've been around the block enough times to know that "getting to know you" means "acting interested in your point of view while subtly trying to get you to do things our way for us." If you want to get to know someone, you just get to know them.
I would have thought that my constant replies like, "well, I don't like to disclose my location," or "no, I'd rather ride my bike home myself, but thank you for the offer," and more directly, "well I associate having a job with slavery--helping the rich get richer while the poor stay poor" or even "well, I tend not to socialize with people because I have found that in many cases, people tend to have their own agenda that doesn't generally include genuine interest in your well being" would have been glaringly obvious clues that I wanted nothing to do with them or their lifestyles, that I'll come to your little food pantry where I am simply one of perhaps 70 people who comes for food, and I'll participate in your stupid little conversations where you're not listening to anything I have to say and using flattery to try and gain my favor, but I'm not giving up my principles to live in your hell. I guess people really are just that stupid. And I don't mean stupid derogatorily. I mean stupid as in when you purposely ignore a great many obvious social cues of refusal in order to pursue your agenda of trying to convert someone who is genuinely happy with their lifestyle. The problem for them, see, is that my lifestyle shines a great big bright light on how awful and unfulfilling their lifestyle is, and they can't stand it, so they try to pull me into their darkness and extinguish my light. And I'm not saying I'm special or anything. It's happening to you to. You maybe just don't realize it, accept it, ignore it, have become complacent to it...whatever. But it's all around us in advertising and social status: conform and outperform to be worthy, and I just don't see it that way. It's more like: conform and outperform to be unhappy and die sooner. So that's our first horror story of real-life: I visited a weekly pantry one summer where I was constantly bombarded with manipulation to try and get me to abandon my freedom, I gave them my handmade and personally designed tokens of appreciation, and my thanks in return was a scolding about how I should have behaved in a way that was acceptable to them and catered to their insecurities. Sound familiar to anyone? 9/27/2023 crystal
I just want to make one thing perfectly clear to anyone who comes into contact with me: the only reason I volunteer at the food pantries, the ONLY REASON, is so that I can pick out my own food. It's not "to give back," "to do good," "to be social," "for the law of reciprocity," (whatever the fuck that means) or any other reason. It's so that I can choose what we eat. All math.
Not to mention, and more than that anymore: I don't trust any of you schmuck volunteers or staff to not put something poisoned in my bag because some asshole trained in psy-ops gave you 30 bucks to do it. Doesn't matter if you knew why or not. I don't trust you. Having said that, now I will say this: you are schmucks. Food pantry volunteers and organizers are some of the most vile walking talking feces I have ever encountered. One man who I was guiding through the pantry in Indianapolis had a broken back. Asshole doesn't even begin to describe the pinky toe of the head volunteer guy on the board of directors. Let's call him Bill--since that is his name. Bill always wanted to keep things moving quickly. He was always walking around rushing the clients and hassling the volunteers about spending too much time engaging in conversation with the clients, each other, whatever. If we had enough volunteers, one would be dedicated to the task of helping clients who desired it to carry the food on a cart up the elevator with the client and out to their car. One time Speaks with Thunder was gone for some 10 or 15 minutes when he walked a guy all the way back to the dude's apartment. For reference, in Bill's little fantasy world, that's enough time to take 3 pantry guests through. Anyway, on this particular day--when I had guided the very pleasantly tempered man with a broken back through the pantry, I'm carrying the full bag of food, opening my mouth with a cheerful expression to let Bill know that this man has a broken back so I'll walk him up to his car with the food, but before I even finish drawing the breath to say it, Bill swipes the bag out of my arms, violently shoves it into the arms of the man whose back is broken, and says brusquely, "wedon'thavetimetowalkpeopleuptotheircars." Maybe those weren't the exact words, but the exact words aren't really that important. Myself, I was stunned. And speechless. I looked at the guy helplessly and apologetically, for I too was broken--of spirit. I really wish I could go back and grasp the bag, holding it fast when I sensed Bill was clawing it from my arms. I wish I could have stood up against Bill for the guy, but I guess it's no use crying over spilled milk and best to use the experience as a learning opportunity. A chance to fortify myself, steeling myself against the will of assholes. 'Cuz dey everywhere. I've got lots more pantry stories. How horrifically I have been treated as a client, as a monetarily non-wealthy volunteer, the racism and classism I have seen committed by staff and volunteers both to the faces and behind the backs of clients and volunteers. These people--they'll call you nigger and in the same breath tell you they're not racist. As it just so happens, I do love sorting and organizing, so the tasks requested by food pantries of volunteers are basically right up my alley, but I can sort and organize whatever I want, whenever the fuck I want to, I don't need to go wade through a swamp of bloody gnashing idiots to do it. I don't need you. You need me. 8/13/2023 the facts are in
Recently, a knitting designer whose work I've got my eye on posted a few calls for testing the patterns of some fresh designs she's come up with. I don't test other designers' works anymore, mainly because I don't want to aid someone who actively works against me, but also because it just takes a great deal of my brain-power and time away from my own design-work. Still, I like to see peoples' fresh designs, and I suppose I won't say, "I'll never test for another designer again," but I don't see it happening in the foreseeable future. These new designs though, I was somewhat tempted by one of them. Actually, it was more like, "ooh, that's nice. If I wanted to do a test, I'd do this one!" I played through in my mind how it might have gone if I had offered to test, and I didn't even get past "Well, I know it calls for aran weight yarn, but I've only got enough on hand of sport weight." Sometimes a designer doesn't mind if you use a different yarn weight, but again, I didn't even really want to test anyway, even though the design was really interesting and nice-looking. Oddly enough, it is the only of the three tests that hasn't garnered any interest, but it is the only one I would have wanted to do...if I was into that type of thing.
I have a few of the designers patterns that I acquired through the use of coupon codes when she occasionally offers up a free pattern using a code. She's got nice designs. So to pass the time while I was lying there, I started to peruse the rest of her catalogue. The patterns were presented by "Best Match," so I'm not sure how one named Algonquin came up as the best match when the search parameters are simply "all patterns by Joan Forgione," but there you have it. Now--I have a natural curiosity, and if I do say so, skepticism, when it comes to titles. I know someone personally who has a photography side-hustle, and the name of that hustle is "Person's Name Studios." I know for a fact that this person does not have a studio--not in the sense that there's a dark-room where film is developed--ignoring the fact that this person uses a digital camera. The arrangement may have changed, but when I lived with the person, it was their PC in their bedroom. That was the studio. So if you broaden the sense of the word "studio," then yes, I would say they have "studios." I do it all the time, in fact. I have a tarp rigged up with some ropes where our panniers and other belongings stay when we're not using them, and I call it the garage. It's not an aluminum building with a large door that raises and lowers, but it's still "a garage." So I'm not knocking the "Person's Name Studios" idea. What I am saying, however, is that I don't think that "Person" wants you to realize it's just the PC in the bedroom while they're half-clothed smoking a cigarette. "Person" would probably much prefer it if you thought it was some nice, well-lit room in an office-park somewhere, or maybe a cottage in a wooded area of town. The food industry is especially guilty of misrepresentation. How is it that from the top-shelf to the well-brands, they all use "the best ingredients." Someone's lying, and I think it might actually be all of them. So when I came across "Algonquin" by a person whose profile picture is of a white lady and whose profile says she's often got "knitting needles in [her] hand, coffee in [her] cup, and a spreadsheet open on [her] Mac," I didn't get the sense that she had any great connection to the Algonquin people after whom she named the pattern. This is not to say that a person of Algonquin descent would not have knitting, coffee, and a Mac, but between that and the profile picture which, to the best of my knowledge, is a real picture of the lady, I got the sense that it was another case of a privileged euro-descendant using an indigenous name to present a sense of higher-knowing, intelligence, sensitivity, and general goodness that is utterly and completely lacking on all counts. This judgement wasn't personal. I see it everywhere I go, but only while my eyes are open. Name your patterns however you please, hold them for whatever ransom you desire. The phrase, "sell them for whatever price you like," is the more socially acceptable one, I know, but just doesn't quite say it, in my opinion.
So I wondered aloud in a comment. From the response, I glean that it is the name of a group of people who the designer says she respects, goes about her life in the same region as, and knows a lot about. Other than all that, there is no relation. Yet I cannot ignore and would like to point out the irony that she expects her friends--those Algonquin--to fork over 8 bucks if they (or anyone else) want to knit the shirt so she can actually pay her own protection racket which is itself a continuation of the same racket that brought her friends down in the first place.
8/2/2023 sadism...
Parents, they pray all the time for the miracle of a child, they sometimes go to great and strange lengths to bear or otherwise acquire a child, but then you look at how they treat that person, the one they call their child, and you see how the person must adapt if not fully relinquish their personality and lifestyle to suit that of the parent or else suffer the arbitrarily determined (by the parent) consequences. You'd think they're praying not for the miracle of birth but for a slave that they can legally punish, physically and psychologically, anytime they want for any reason they want.
How sadistic can you get? 6/12/2023 R-E-S-P-E-C-T
I clipped my fingernails the other day, and the next day, I noticed some soreness in my thumb and came to realize that I had clipped the nail a little too short. When I realized this, it got me to thinking back to the conversation I've been talking about recently regarding parenting. I really don't think childrens' positions are given any respect, and that was what I said to enter into the conversation. It's always, "Do what I say because I said so." My brother and I were given this reason a great many times in our adolescence. I guess it's an effective way of getting your kid to shut the fuck up because you're bigger than them and can use physical force to stop them from doing whatever it is you don't want them to do, and "Because I said so" says all of this.
Going forward with my thoughts that began when I realized I'd clipped my nail too short: I thought to myself, as a parent, you're probably clipping your kid's nails for awhile until they develop the fine motor skills to be able to do it themselves. This was my experience anyway, so let's go with it. I thought of children making their own decisions--to clip their own fingernails, to get a tattoo, or to "be a mortician when they grow up." Part of the aforementioned conversation saw the volunteer grilling me about "at what age is a child ready to make their own decisions then?" I think it depends on the child, and it depends on the decision being made. It depends not one iota upon when the parent thinks the child is ready. If the parent sees a danger to the child, then they should speak up for the child's sake, and if the child trusts the parent, then they will probably take the parent's advice. The problem here is that parents, more often than not, I find, construe something that will bring social embarrassment to the parent as something that is a danger to the child, they know this--that the child is in no danger, but they can't stand the thought of suffering the social embarrassment, so they come up with "Because I said so." as their final reasoning as to why the child should not embark on the activity in question. "I mean, if I went 'round sayin' I was an emperor just because some moistened bint had lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away!"
I imagined how this fingernail clipping scenario might play out in the real world, that is, the world where the laws that humans cook up don't exist. Where social embarrassment comes from things that are actually embarrassing like repressing your fellow humans. I thought the parent might say to the developing child as they're having a nail-clipping session one day, "Now, whenever you want to try this for yourself, feel free. You don't have to wait for me to do it for you." This way, the child knows that the parent is only clipping the kid's nails because it's what they think is good for the kid--and the kid is free to make their own decisions as to how to best take care of themselves.
I was relating this to Adam when he added, "People of all ages ask for advice from other people." I think he really hit the nail on the head there. Your kid wants a tattoo? It's their decision to make. If they want your advice, they'll ask for it. Your car is making a klanking sound, but you're not experienced with engines or catalytic converters? You'll probably ask some experienced mechanics for their opinions so that you can determine the cause of the klanking sound and get it resolved if needed. It starts early with things like nail-clipping and continues throughout the entire life with the child developing into an adult and seeking the advice of others, or not as they see fit, with any decision the person ends up making. Me clipping my nail too short doesn't make me an incompetent adult. I just wasn't paying close enough attention, and that's one thing that can happen. The nail grew out, and I'm fine. Your kid gets a tattoo when they're 15 and 20 years later wishes they hadn't gotten it? Get it removed, get it covered with a different tattoo, live with the decision and keep it as a reminder of the lesson they learned about making decisions before all the facts are in. Life goes on. The child is the one in charge of determining when they are ready to make these decisions. Parents just get scared that the child is going to make a decision that will disgrace them, so they act like they're worried about the child's well-being, and they become control freaks, effectively making every decision on the child's behalf. This can lead to a downward spiral of the child never developing any kind of reasoning skills or decision making skills. Always dependent upon an elder to make the decisions for them, then suddenly shoved out from under the "protection" of the parents because that's how it is in that society: sink or swim, but the child never learned to swim because the parent never allowed it. |
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