Michael Kindt's Blog, page 430
December 27, 2011
plemur:
early-onset-of-night:
shakethedustt:
beautiful and...
beautiful and sad all mixed into one.
Beautiful? Hm. It is sad indeed that there are those who view life and death in such simplistic, one-dimensional ways…
To think that viewing death as true finality is viewing it in a simplistic, one dimensional manner is to gloss over the complexity of understanding life as a finite experience within an infinite timeline. If I were to state that viewing life as an ongoing experience—even after death—as a simplistic, one dimensional view, I'm sure you would take umbrage to the statement. Each of us may have different thoughts on permanence, impermanence, infinity, life, death. and our place in these concepts, and none of them are one dimensional or simplistic. Thoughts, understandings, and all the facets of a person's experiences are multidimensional and complex. Dismissing legitimate and rational views in such a callous manner does yourself—and your own experiences—a disservice.
Perhaps, but viewing life as a finite thing is one-dimensional and simplistic nevertheless. It is also completely irrational and lacking in any evidence to support it.
If we admit the existence of infinity or eternity—and really how could we not?—then we must abandon our cute little constructs of linear thinking…whether about time or space or ourselves. The universe does not have a beginning, middle, or end. In the face of eternity it simply can't. Only the beginning can exist, a never-ending, infinite becoming.
If space is infinite in all directions, then every single point in it is the exact center. If time is eternal, then every single moment in it is the very beginning….
To think that you or I appeared out of nowhere, for no reason at all, to abide only briefly and then vanish forever is simplistic, one-dimensional, and irrational, and there's really no other way to see it.
I have lived in a trailer court or two
and the last time, the most recent, I was living in a rust red single wide, a total shithole, floors caving in, stains all over the ceiling, a weird, elusive smell, the works. Down the way lived Jesus, or so I pretended. Maybe six or eight trailers down, Fucking Jesus H. Christ.
Or he was some dude who looked like him, with the beard and the hair and even the sandals. He was all about peace and love, I pretended. I didn't know anything about him, so had to pretend a great deal.
He drove a Toyota Corolla, like me. We were brothers, Jesus H. Christ and me. Car brothers.
He would come and go, doing his daily shit, and I would peer at him through the dirty curtains as he did it. His piece-of-shit Toyota coughing and smoking and back-firing as he went on his way to heal the sick, make the blind see, free the demon-haunted brains.
No one ever gave a shit, but, then, I didn't tell them. I didn't tell them "That's Fucking Christ Jesus Himself, right there in that rusty Toyota!"
I would watch him come back, watch him get out of his car with a case of beer and a carton of smokes, and I'd pretend he was exhausted from helping the Lost Children of Nobody, from his missions, and that he was going back into his beat-up aluminum rectangle of a home to fucking relax in that 'hurry-up-and-die' working poor way.
Also, I pretended he knew I was watching him. He was my Fucking Lord And Savior after all, so how the hell could he not? He knew I had my nose in the dusty curtains, knew that I was looking to him for guidance, for example, for meaning, for life, truth, god, the American Fucking Way.
Sometimes I wouldn't see him for a while. I'd look and nothing. His car just sitting there for hours was all I'd see. I'd grow bored, turn on the tv, grow bored again, and turn it off. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for hours and hours and I'd become lonely and sad, desperate, lost like a Lost Child of Nobody.
I would begin cheating on Jesus, begin looking out different windows in different directions, pretending the woman who had just come out of the shower with the towel on her head was Allah or the fat shirtless guy was Buddha or the old man Albert Einstein. I pretended the guy who was always fixing his boat was fucking Odin, the One-Eyed God of the frozen north from whence my people came in great wooden ships to terrorize and teach and steal and build.
It was like this the whole time I lived there in the trailer court, me peering out the damn windows, day after day, seeing everything or nothing, pretending what was necessary to give it context because it had none.
Then one day, a Wednesday, I realized I was losing my fucking mind. I located my car keys, got in my own rusty Toyota, and got the holy fucking hell out of there. As I drove through the trailer court, faster and faster, I could feel dozens upon dozens of eyes on me, crawling like ants, eyes which did more than look, eyes which told stories at me, yelled stories at me, pleading, with question marks ending every sentence. Stories which made no sense. Stories which were crazy. Stories like this one.
And as I turned onto the main road, I found myself driving the fastest of all, well over the legal limit, my tiny Toyota motor screaming. In the rearview mirror I watched the trailer court diminish, growing smaller and smaller, until even the dim light it produced was nothing at all.
December 26, 2011
The whole time I was with my family this Christmas, I had one conversation:
What's this?
Hummus.
Hummus?
Yeah.
What's hummus?
A dip. Or a spread. Here, smear it on the bread. See?
What is it again?
Hummus.
Why is it brown?
It's not. It's beige.
What is it?
HUMMUS.
What's in it?
Chickpeas mainly. Plus a little garlic, salt and pepper, cumin, lemon juice.
Hummus?
Yeah.
What are chickpeas?
They're…I don't know. They're chickpeas.
I thought you said it was hummus.
It is hummus. I made it from chickpeas.
What are chickpeas then?
They're a bean, a legume, a pulse, something like that. I'm not sure offhand.
A pulse?
Wait! They're garbanzo beans. Yeah.
I thought it was hummus. Didn't you say it was hummus?
It is hummus. It's made from garbanzo beans.
I thought you said it was made from chickpeas.
It is. Chickpeas are another name for garbanzo beans.
So it's a pea and a bean?
Yeah…I guess.
At the same time?
It's versatile.
Versatile? I thought you said it was hummus.
It IS hummus.
So you invented it?
No, it's a Middle Eastern food.
Like Jewish?
Ok.
Jewish, huh?
Yep. Happy Hanukkah.
But it's Christmas.
Indeed it is.
Hummus, huh?
Try some. It isn't toxic.
No, thanks. I don't eat anything that's brown.
But you're drinking a Pepsi.
I said EAT.
Well, hummus is nummy.
Hummus? That's what it's called?
Yeah. It's Martian food.
I thought you said it was chickpeas.
Nope. Martians came down in their spaceships and gave it to me.
Well, I'm definitely not eating it now.
Good. More for me. What time is it? I gotta be getting back…
shakethedustt:
beautiful and sad all mixed into...
beautiful and sad all mixed into one.
Beautiful? Hm. It is sad indeed that there are those who view life and death in such simplistic, one-dimensional ways…
nameissteve replied to your photo: Cartoon selected for my article. I've been writing…
I...
I particularly liked the part where the guy called you "the WunderKindt".
Yeah, that guy hates to love me. He believes that calling people names makes him intelligent. What a pigfucker.
:)
hey i think you have an extra a in this sentence from cagle: "have reduced our government agencies to the status of a pawns." unless i'm still drunk from gin gimlets and scrabble last night, which is entirely possible. cheers, juli
Yeah, you're right. I write really fast and they leave something to be desired over there when it comes to editing….
Cartoon selected for my article. I've been writing for...
Cartoon selected for my article. I've been writing for Cagle now for about 6 months and it's been pretty fun. The comment section is totally full of Republican operatives pretending to be actual humans. They even use real names and are all "veterans". Their icons are all of white dudes wearing camo. Haha. It' fucking hilarious. Anyway…
December 24, 2011
My grandmother is way old.
81 years old, I believe. Her name is LaVonne, but she's always been called Bonnie. When she was a little kid, her tiny brother couldn't pronounce "LaVonne" and instead called her "Bon", which morphed into Bonnie, and that is what she has been known as for 70 some years.
I remember, very vaguely, her 50th birthday party.
She is a ginger and is riddled with Alzheimer's and doesn't know me anymore. Kind of, but not really. At our Christmas party yesterday, the guitar came out and we had some live music, which isn't that unusual at our family gatherings. She wanted to dance, so I put my arms around her and we danced.
She was so tiny and frail. I worried about breaking her. "I haven't danced for years," she told me.
I hadn't either, it turned out.
I wrote this last year. She has since moved on. I miss her.
I love you guys. Hope everyone has a good Christmas.
Won't be on until the 26th, late, if then. You will yearn for me tragically, huh?
I have been up since dawn, doing shit. I made a baguette to go along with my hummus, which I also made. This will be my nibble that I bring for the Christmas Eve gathering. Everyone's bringing nibbles and this will be my contribution.
Also, I am drinking a bottle of this Erdinger Dunkel beer and I notice that there is yeast in it. I am mulling over how to harvest it. Imagine: me with German yeast. There would be no stopping me.
I still have to wrap presents, which I despise because I am so bad at it. Two year olds can do better. Thus, I procrastinate and procrastinate and procrastinate.
And I have to leave in, like, two hours. Shit.
So, yeah.
Everybody smile!
:)
—Mike
