I know it's not cool to like the Cult. That has been made clear to me ever since I initially listened to them as a young teenager first out on my own. My punker and hardcore friends thought they were pussy mainstream goth rock and my metal friends thought they were pussy mainstream goth rock and my goth friends thought they were pussy mainstream NOT goth rock. It's interesting to go back in time and see how much influence the musical equipment of the era had over all of the music coming out. Everything with a keyboard has that dated sound about it from the Eighties... with the exception of maybe Depeche Mode and even (ahem) NIN--who somehow managed to make their sound their own.
I feel like I am going a direction here that I sure as hell don't want to go... Bad Eighties rock and pop music isn't what I want to waste much more of this day thinking about, since today I already spent some time looking up and listening to Southern Death Cult which was one of Ian Astbury's bands prior to The Cult forming in 1981 (?). I really wanted to find something likable about his older projects, because of how much shit The Cult got...but Jesus christ.. His lyrics SUCK and his voice may be unique because I can recognize it, but jeez dude... everything you sing sounds like you're a posturing playboy. Am I wrong? Does Ian have ANY qualities or history that could endear him to me? Was he abandoned as a baby and left to be raised by Wolves.. "Brother Wolf and Sister Moon"? No he wasn't, and therefore I cannot in good conscience be his advocate when others want to smack him around. I do applaud him for paving the way with a hairstyle entirely unacceptable for the times though. Can anyone endear him to me?
Here is an old video of him performing with Southern Death Cult....
Enjoy "Black Angel" from Love...
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The First Cut is Always the Worst
Much time and effort has been spilled over the merits or lack thereof of this medium through which I am sending out this little monologue. I am of the camp that believes that blogging is limited only by the imaginations, talents, and abilities of the blogger and not by the medium itself as others might lead you to believe.
For me a blog is as its core a diary that is delivered in an electronic context through the Internet. Beyond that one is getting into specifics with regards to taste and opinion and all other sorts of subjective criteria. A blog... a web-log. Using the web to log verbal information of whatever sort suits the blogger.
Me, I have developed an intense love of the written word. I have written a whole shitload of words in the last five years, to varying degrees of effectiveness, and I have done so as honestly as I could and as clearly as I could. I make no claims towards anything close to talent or focus or even drive. I simply am drawn to my need to express myself through the written word and I also happen to love spewing it out into a public context.
So many people bemoan the lack of interest that is met in the face of blogging but to me that whole deal is a sort of red herring. The Internet is all about meeting people half way, and blogging is about expressing yourself in whatever fashion you deem appropriate.
To me this is much like playing in a band in that as a band member I have always been sickened by the prospect of self-promotion. Maybe it's some sort of elitist hogwash but I simply hate the idea of trying to sell myself to someone who would be otherwise uninterested.
That I am this way speaks little to my actual passion for not only creative expression but for my need to be understood and recognized.
Yes, I have an ego, but it's not the sort that lends itself to brash and arrogant statements of dominance and mastery. For me, my ego is one that lives in need of being understood. Not that I am hard to understand, mind you, just that to me, to be totally misread or misinterpreted, especially at a time when I feel I have been articulate and quite clear, is something that I find almost unbearable.
Over these last few years I have learned the hard way that being understood is so much a part of the way in which you are read, by who is reading you, and less by whatever hoops you might jump through in order to be "gotten".
I have wasted literally weeks worth of hours practically worrying over how much I have been misread or misunderstood in all the ways in which I have chosen to communicate. And a short list will refer us back to music, writing, speaking, art, etc...
I have made great efforts in order to be understood, but you know what? No matter how clear you find yourself to be, it is always up to the 'other' in the equation to define the force of your message and of your communicative powers.
My waxing on this subject seems to imply that in the case of a great orator or a great writer that their work is only as good those who take it in, and in a sense it is. But there is also this: there are numerous, often very complex reasons why it is that a given person is grasped in a satisfactory manner or not.
So what's the point?
This is a blog about writing, about communicating your essential embrace of living, and while those sentiments seem clear enough, it will nonetheless be up to those who take part in this to actually give it all the life and blood that it needs to survive.
So you are here now, reading me, reading my writing and in a sense taking my communication.
Think of this post as a request.
Can you write? Do you want to talk to others through the written word? Does something burn you from the inside? Give it to us, take a chance, get over your fears of whatever it is that is topping you and just do it.
I want more and more and more of you to get involved in this.
Will I be the enveloping parent with the comforting touch always there with a kind word of encouragement? I might, and I might not. If you need that from me in order to come out of your shell and give us something so real it will make me cry then do so, I fucking need it.
Maybe you know me, maybe you don't. Maybe you have followed my writing, maybe this is your first dip into my pool of ugliness. No matter.
Give us here at Blind Butcher something real on which to chew and with your help this thing will grow up and run itself.
This is a blog with both modest and improbably massive ambitions both in play at once.
Hit me up in private if you want to discuss ways in which you can contribute to this. I'm all ears. If you have never written with your true voice because you're not sure what that might mean, contact me. I can help you understand why it is that you need an outlet. Why not let Blind Butcher be that place for you?
The first cut is always the worst.
submissions @ blindbutcher . com
For me a blog is as its core a diary that is delivered in an electronic context through the Internet. Beyond that one is getting into specifics with regards to taste and opinion and all other sorts of subjective criteria. A blog... a web-log. Using the web to log verbal information of whatever sort suits the blogger.
Me, I have developed an intense love of the written word. I have written a whole shitload of words in the last five years, to varying degrees of effectiveness, and I have done so as honestly as I could and as clearly as I could. I make no claims towards anything close to talent or focus or even drive. I simply am drawn to my need to express myself through the written word and I also happen to love spewing it out into a public context.
So many people bemoan the lack of interest that is met in the face of blogging but to me that whole deal is a sort of red herring. The Internet is all about meeting people half way, and blogging is about expressing yourself in whatever fashion you deem appropriate.
To me this is much like playing in a band in that as a band member I have always been sickened by the prospect of self-promotion. Maybe it's some sort of elitist hogwash but I simply hate the idea of trying to sell myself to someone who would be otherwise uninterested.
That I am this way speaks little to my actual passion for not only creative expression but for my need to be understood and recognized.
Yes, I have an ego, but it's not the sort that lends itself to brash and arrogant statements of dominance and mastery. For me, my ego is one that lives in need of being understood. Not that I am hard to understand, mind you, just that to me, to be totally misread or misinterpreted, especially at a time when I feel I have been articulate and quite clear, is something that I find almost unbearable.
Over these last few years I have learned the hard way that being understood is so much a part of the way in which you are read, by who is reading you, and less by whatever hoops you might jump through in order to be "gotten".
I have wasted literally weeks worth of hours practically worrying over how much I have been misread or misunderstood in all the ways in which I have chosen to communicate. And a short list will refer us back to music, writing, speaking, art, etc...
I have made great efforts in order to be understood, but you know what? No matter how clear you find yourself to be, it is always up to the 'other' in the equation to define the force of your message and of your communicative powers.
My waxing on this subject seems to imply that in the case of a great orator or a great writer that their work is only as good those who take it in, and in a sense it is. But there is also this: there are numerous, often very complex reasons why it is that a given person is grasped in a satisfactory manner or not.
So what's the point?
This is a blog about writing, about communicating your essential embrace of living, and while those sentiments seem clear enough, it will nonetheless be up to those who take part in this to actually give it all the life and blood that it needs to survive.
So you are here now, reading me, reading my writing and in a sense taking my communication.
Think of this post as a request.
Can you write? Do you want to talk to others through the written word? Does something burn you from the inside? Give it to us, take a chance, get over your fears of whatever it is that is topping you and just do it.
I want more and more and more of you to get involved in this.
Will I be the enveloping parent with the comforting touch always there with a kind word of encouragement? I might, and I might not. If you need that from me in order to come out of your shell and give us something so real it will make me cry then do so, I fucking need it.
Maybe you know me, maybe you don't. Maybe you have followed my writing, maybe this is your first dip into my pool of ugliness. No matter.
Give us here at Blind Butcher something real on which to chew and with your help this thing will grow up and run itself.
This is a blog with both modest and improbably massive ambitions both in play at once.
Hit me up in private if you want to discuss ways in which you can contribute to this. I'm all ears. If you have never written with your true voice because you're not sure what that might mean, contact me. I can help you understand why it is that you need an outlet. Why not let Blind Butcher be that place for you?
The first cut is always the worst.
submissions @ blindbutcher . com
Welcome Blind Butcher!
Submitted by: Kilian Sweeney
I hesitate, actually, to post for the Blind Butcher only because we've shared a blog for so long and I'd like some fresh takes. But anyway, here's something...
I bought a four string Irish-Tenor banjo in a little wooden shop outside of Denver, Colorado in the mid 1990's; totally unaware at the time that this antediluvian purchase would lead to my first internet community experience. I didn't know a thing about banjos though, so I trolled the internet for banjo discussion boards and soon came across a forum anchored by the stately Sonny Osborne.
My initial impression of this internet community business was utterly positive. There I was, a total banjo novice in Houston, who nevertheless had the "ear" of a member of Bill Monroe's Bluegrass Boys - and not just Sonny but a host of banjo enthusiasts. I soon realized though that folks will squeeze all their beliefs onto any stage that will have them. In this particular case, there was a lot of Christian banter and of course the occasional melt down that leads to Nazi name calling and jingoism. Folks like Sonny wouldn't have much of that and always steered the conversation back to banjos. It took some work though. After a while I dropped off, somewhat disappointed in the amount of flag waving and cross bearing going on.
I took a look at other boards like Hands Up Houston, the Goner Records board, some culinary boards... The maturity of the board obviously depended on the maturity of the participants but all of them could at times be rather harsh and idiotic. For some reason the cooking boards seemed the most bitter (hehe). If someone didn't like a certain spice for instance that could really piss somebody else off. And then there would be a round of name-calling, charges of narrow-mindedness, etc. Certainly the most offensive stuff seemed to happen between two people who had no personal relationship whatsoever. It's not my experience exactly but on the internet it seems so easy to get pissed off at a person you don't even know.
It would seem that is true anyway, but really who are you getting pissed at when you mouth off at somebody's internet icon for typing that they don't like marjoram? Really I believe you reserve your true anger for the people closest to your hearts and chiefly yourself.
There's a lot of this ugliness exposed for the internet. So much so that for a while I was negative about the use of cyberspace. I thought it was malignantly different than other forms of communication. I thought it allowed people to be braver than they normally would with actions they wouldn't dare do in person, actions they probably shouldn't do. I don't feel that way now. Now I feel it is just another extension of humanity which reflects fairly honestly who we are.
Take the Goner Records Message Board for example. Somebody might post about their band's upcoming show; followed by a message like "your band sucks." It can look cold and unimaginative to an outsider, and indeed it is, but you can't read everything from those lines. I would tell myself that sort of rude dialog wouldn't go on in a bar. People are more polite, but of course that is rose colored glasses thinking right there -because you sure as hell are going to find people in a bar who don't mind telling you that your band sucks right to your face. I can tell you that from first hand experience. In fact by and large folks can be ugly to one another in bars - at least indifferent.
Take the NAP - the commonality of the first NAP group was that we had all crossed paths on the Houston original music scene some time in the 1990's. But you would not have found this crew sitting around a table together at Rudz. In a way, here was our chance to do that. The promise of NAP was to come to grips with dark traits of my own: anger, insecurity, and selfishness. I already saw internet forums not as loud shouts, not as soap boxing; internet posts and comments are whispers in a forest quickly muffled and seldom heard. But to emphasize their insignificance is boring. So my NAP ambitions weren't broad but I was going to put something in to it in the spirit of community and education. I saw the NAP as having two audiences - one being the participants and the other being "Houston." Houston in the sense that it would be an extension of our local musical friends, fans, other musicians and the like. Sure enough at least at first that was the case - and the NAP was linked from many Houston-based music related internet enterprises and then as now the majority of hits to the NAP site originate in Houston.
I always hope that more people from the extended audience and beyond would participate. I have enjoyed the extended community; and the present nap posting group is now made up from the second audience more than the original posters. Yet I am somewhat ambivalent about a broader audience because there is nothing more base than a comment-heavy site without a core community. Online newspaper comments being the embodiment of my concern. Although there are a handful of broad-audience comment sections that maintain a decent level of interest. Mark Bitman's culinary blog for the New York Times can be a good read, in part I believe, because Bitman actually reads his audience's comments and occasionally culls ideas from the forum and uses them in his posts. This gives his audience a sense of ownership.
Thanks to the way Ramon (the modest originator) presented NAP, its participants do have a sense of ownership. I believe NAP is an extension of ourselves. It is not wholly insignificant either, even to those who would have us believe otherwise - those who are apathetic and who lead us to wonder largely why they bother or rather don't bother. Even they are giving of themselves; demonstrating not only the insignificance upon which they lay this endeavor but the insignificance upon which they lay their sense of others. It's not a pleasant experience. It is something of a disappointment honestly; currently like a high school speech class - now it's my turn now it's your turn. Most contributors don't comment much as if they are too insecure and too petty to pay attention. But I ask myself what other way I would have it? I mean by force. To ask for more could only turn it over to pure cheese - lovey dovey kissy happy.
I hope for J & C and the Blind Butcher: a passionate crowd with a yearning to learn as much from others as they hope to share themselves. Comments don't have to be positive but they do have to demonstrate that interest was shown; interest enough to read and think about what has been shared. But now I turn it over to you to tell me what it is exactly that I am over-expecting.
I hesitate, actually, to post for the Blind Butcher only because we've shared a blog for so long and I'd like some fresh takes. But anyway, here's something...
I bought a four string Irish-Tenor banjo in a little wooden shop outside of Denver, Colorado in the mid 1990's; totally unaware at the time that this antediluvian purchase would lead to my first internet community experience. I didn't know a thing about banjos though, so I trolled the internet for banjo discussion boards and soon came across a forum anchored by the stately Sonny Osborne.
My initial impression of this internet community business was utterly positive. There I was, a total banjo novice in Houston, who nevertheless had the "ear" of a member of Bill Monroe's Bluegrass Boys - and not just Sonny but a host of banjo enthusiasts. I soon realized though that folks will squeeze all their beliefs onto any stage that will have them. In this particular case, there was a lot of Christian banter and of course the occasional melt down that leads to Nazi name calling and jingoism. Folks like Sonny wouldn't have much of that and always steered the conversation back to banjos. It took some work though. After a while I dropped off, somewhat disappointed in the amount of flag waving and cross bearing going on.
I took a look at other boards like Hands Up Houston, the Goner Records board, some culinary boards... The maturity of the board obviously depended on the maturity of the participants but all of them could at times be rather harsh and idiotic. For some reason the cooking boards seemed the most bitter (hehe). If someone didn't like a certain spice for instance that could really piss somebody else off. And then there would be a round of name-calling, charges of narrow-mindedness, etc. Certainly the most offensive stuff seemed to happen between two people who had no personal relationship whatsoever. It's not my experience exactly but on the internet it seems so easy to get pissed off at a person you don't even know.
It would seem that is true anyway, but really who are you getting pissed at when you mouth off at somebody's internet icon for typing that they don't like marjoram? Really I believe you reserve your true anger for the people closest to your hearts and chiefly yourself.
There's a lot of this ugliness exposed for the internet. So much so that for a while I was negative about the use of cyberspace. I thought it was malignantly different than other forms of communication. I thought it allowed people to be braver than they normally would with actions they wouldn't dare do in person, actions they probably shouldn't do. I don't feel that way now. Now I feel it is just another extension of humanity which reflects fairly honestly who we are.
Take the Goner Records Message Board for example. Somebody might post about their band's upcoming show; followed by a message like "your band sucks." It can look cold and unimaginative to an outsider, and indeed it is, but you can't read everything from those lines. I would tell myself that sort of rude dialog wouldn't go on in a bar. People are more polite, but of course that is rose colored glasses thinking right there -because you sure as hell are going to find people in a bar who don't mind telling you that your band sucks right to your face. I can tell you that from first hand experience. In fact by and large folks can be ugly to one another in bars - at least indifferent.
Take the NAP - the commonality of the first NAP group was that we had all crossed paths on the Houston original music scene some time in the 1990's. But you would not have found this crew sitting around a table together at Rudz. In a way, here was our chance to do that. The promise of NAP was to come to grips with dark traits of my own: anger, insecurity, and selfishness. I already saw internet forums not as loud shouts, not as soap boxing; internet posts and comments are whispers in a forest quickly muffled and seldom heard. But to emphasize their insignificance is boring. So my NAP ambitions weren't broad but I was going to put something in to it in the spirit of community and education. I saw the NAP as having two audiences - one being the participants and the other being "Houston." Houston in the sense that it would be an extension of our local musical friends, fans, other musicians and the like. Sure enough at least at first that was the case - and the NAP was linked from many Houston-based music related internet enterprises and then as now the majority of hits to the NAP site originate in Houston.
I always hope that more people from the extended audience and beyond would participate. I have enjoyed the extended community; and the present nap posting group is now made up from the second audience more than the original posters. Yet I am somewhat ambivalent about a broader audience because there is nothing more base than a comment-heavy site without a core community. Online newspaper comments being the embodiment of my concern. Although there are a handful of broad-audience comment sections that maintain a decent level of interest. Mark Bitman's culinary blog for the New York Times can be a good read, in part I believe, because Bitman actually reads his audience's comments and occasionally culls ideas from the forum and uses them in his posts. This gives his audience a sense of ownership.
Thanks to the way Ramon (the modest originator) presented NAP, its participants do have a sense of ownership. I believe NAP is an extension of ourselves. It is not wholly insignificant either, even to those who would have us believe otherwise - those who are apathetic and who lead us to wonder largely why they bother or rather don't bother. Even they are giving of themselves; demonstrating not only the insignificance upon which they lay this endeavor but the insignificance upon which they lay their sense of others. It's not a pleasant experience. It is something of a disappointment honestly; currently like a high school speech class - now it's my turn now it's your turn. Most contributors don't comment much as if they are too insecure and too petty to pay attention. But I ask myself what other way I would have it? I mean by force. To ask for more could only turn it over to pure cheese - lovey dovey kissy happy.
I hope for J & C and the Blind Butcher: a passionate crowd with a yearning to learn as much from others as they hope to share themselves. Comments don't have to be positive but they do have to demonstrate that interest was shown; interest enough to read and think about what has been shared. But now I turn it over to you to tell me what it is exactly that I am over-expecting.
Raising Maidens of Virtue
Emery is a week shy of turning 44. She has three children. Emery's house is ordered. Things that belong in the dining room are in the dining room. Items belonging in the bedroom are in the bedroom. Everything in the kitchen has its home and the home's threshold has a welcome mat letting visitors know that God is in the house.
Emery is normal.
Today she woke up at the usual time when neighbors pull out of driveways all around her and head off to their jobs. She washed up and felt really good about the day. She looked forward to checking her emails to see if any friends had sent her anything of interest. She made toast. She poured juice. She moved slowly.
At her simple computer desk in the living room, she propped up her swollen ankles with synthetic throws and nudged her mouse to her inbox. As the page loaded, she dipped her toast in the juice and nibbled on the corners all the way around the edges until the square became a circle.
Nothing in the inbox. Nothing.
She stared at the screen and listened to the sounds of a school bus burning the block with diesel each time it stopped at every other house, and didn't really wonder why all of the children didn't just wait on the corner together. She thought about current news stories she had read. Thought about all of the poor and lost souls out in the world who would suffer another day without hope. She put down her toast gingerly, felt a swell in her chest, and knew what she needed to do.
She dropped her legs from the cushions and poised herself to make a difference. She hit the keys before her with a determination she had never felt, even though she was awkward and made many mistakes with her first passing. She knocked her saturated toast to the floor and didn't bother to pick it up even though her stomach growled and tried to persuade her of her own hunger. There was no stopping her. Today she was going to change the world.
Today she was going to write the email that would be sent and resent to millions of people and she had no time for nourishment. Hours passed and Emery kept punching on the keys. The clock on the wall concluded revelations without her so much as stopping to stretch her sore back or to relieve her aching ankles. The sun set, and then it rose again, and Emery continued to pour her love into her interface because she knew how important it was and there was no discomfort she wouldn't suffer in order to see her masterful gift hit light.
I now give you "Emery's" email, poetically titled "Breakfast At McDonald's."
Breakfast at McDonald's
I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree.
The last class I had to take was Sociology.
The teacher was absolutely inspiring with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with.
Her last project of the term was called, 'Smile.'
The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions.
I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake,
literally.
Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning.
It was just our way of sharing special playtime with our son.
We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then
even my husband did.
I did not move an inch... an overwhelming feeling of panic welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.
As I turned around I smelled a horrible 'dirty body' smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.
As I looked down at the short gentleman, close to me, he was 'smiling'.
His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's Light as he searched for acceptance.
He said, 'Good day' as he counted the few coins he had been clutching.
The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.
I held my tears as I stood there with them.
The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted.
He said, 'Coffee is all Miss' because that was all they could afford. (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm).
Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes.
That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging
my every action.
I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to me two more meals on a separate tray.
I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand.
He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, 'Thank you.'
I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, 'I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope.'
I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down my husband smiled at me and said,'That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope.'
We held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.
We are not church goers, but we are believers.
That day showed me the pure Light of God's sweet love.
I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand.
I turned in 'my project' and the instructor read it.
Then she looked up at me and said, 'Can I share this?'
I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class.
She began to read and that is when I knew that we as human beings and being part of God share this need to heal people and to be healed.
In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my son,the instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student.
I graduated with one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn:
UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.
Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to
LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS -
NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE."
uhhh.... WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT SHIT?
I have received this email myself, twice now that I know of. This is a problem. This email is wrong on so many levels that I don't even know where to start ripping it up and burning it to the ground.
I want to take my daughter into the woods and raise her with only my hands and the land, to spare her knowing that I have delivered her at the foot of an Abyss of Idiocy that I have no power to destroy.
Emery is normal.
Today she woke up at the usual time when neighbors pull out of driveways all around her and head off to their jobs. She washed up and felt really good about the day. She looked forward to checking her emails to see if any friends had sent her anything of interest. She made toast. She poured juice. She moved slowly.
At her simple computer desk in the living room, she propped up her swollen ankles with synthetic throws and nudged her mouse to her inbox. As the page loaded, she dipped her toast in the juice and nibbled on the corners all the way around the edges until the square became a circle.
Nothing in the inbox. Nothing.
She stared at the screen and listened to the sounds of a school bus burning the block with diesel each time it stopped at every other house, and didn't really wonder why all of the children didn't just wait on the corner together. She thought about current news stories she had read. Thought about all of the poor and lost souls out in the world who would suffer another day without hope. She put down her toast gingerly, felt a swell in her chest, and knew what she needed to do.
She dropped her legs from the cushions and poised herself to make a difference. She hit the keys before her with a determination she had never felt, even though she was awkward and made many mistakes with her first passing. She knocked her saturated toast to the floor and didn't bother to pick it up even though her stomach growled and tried to persuade her of her own hunger. There was no stopping her. Today she was going to change the world.
Today she was going to write the email that would be sent and resent to millions of people and she had no time for nourishment. Hours passed and Emery kept punching on the keys. The clock on the wall concluded revelations without her so much as stopping to stretch her sore back or to relieve her aching ankles. The sun set, and then it rose again, and Emery continued to pour her love into her interface because she knew how important it was and there was no discomfort she wouldn't suffer in order to see her masterful gift hit light.
I now give you "Emery's" email, poetically titled "Breakfast At McDonald's."
Breakfast at McDonald's
I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree.
The last class I had to take was Sociology.
The teacher was absolutely inspiring with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with.
Her last project of the term was called, 'Smile.'
The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions.
I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake,
literally.
Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning.
It was just our way of sharing special playtime with our son.
We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then
even my husband did.
I did not move an inch... an overwhelming feeling of panic welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.
As I turned around I smelled a horrible 'dirty body' smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.
As I looked down at the short gentleman, close to me, he was 'smiling'.
His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's Light as he searched for acceptance.
He said, 'Good day' as he counted the few coins he had been clutching.
The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.
I held my tears as I stood there with them.
The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted.
He said, 'Coffee is all Miss' because that was all they could afford. (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm).
Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes.
That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging
my every action.
I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to me two more meals on a separate tray.
I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand.
He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, 'Thank you.'
I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, 'I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope.'
I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down my husband smiled at me and said,'That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope.'
We held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.
We are not church goers, but we are believers.
That day showed me the pure Light of God's sweet love.
I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand.
I turned in 'my project' and the instructor read it.
Then she looked up at me and said, 'Can I share this?'
I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class.
She began to read and that is when I knew that we as human beings and being part of God share this need to heal people and to be healed.
In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my son,the instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student.
I graduated with one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn:
UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.
Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to
LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS -
NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE."
uhhh.... WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT SHIT?
I have received this email myself, twice now that I know of. This is a problem. This email is wrong on so many levels that I don't even know where to start ripping it up and burning it to the ground.
I want to take my daughter into the woods and raise her with only my hands and the land, to spare her knowing that I have delivered her at the foot of an Abyss of Idiocy that I have no power to destroy.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Keep it Outside
What reason do I have for hating this song?
What is it?
Forever and Ever, Amen
(Randy Travis)
You may think that I'm talking foolish
You've heard that I'm wild and I'm free
You may wonder how I can promise you now
This love that I feel for you
Always will be
You're not just time that I'm killing
I'm no longer one of those guys
As sure as live
This love that I give
Is gonna be yours until the day that I die
Oh baby
I'm gonna love you forever
Forever and ever, amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful
I'll be happy to tell you again
I'm gonna love you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever amen
They say time takes its toll on a body
Makes a young girl's brown hair turn gray
Well, honey, I don't care
I ain't in love with your hair
And if it all fell out
I'd love you anyway
Well, they say time can play tricks on a memory
Make people forget things they knew
Well, it's easy to see
It's happening to me
I've already forgotten every women but you
Oh baby
I'm gonna love you forever
Forever and ever, amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful
Just listen to how this song ends
I'm gonna love you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever amen
I'm gonna love you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever
Forever and ever amen
What is it?
Forever and Ever, Amen
(Randy Travis)
You may think that I'm talking foolish
You've heard that I'm wild and I'm free
You may wonder how I can promise you now
This love that I feel for you
Always will be
You're not just time that I'm killing
I'm no longer one of those guys
As sure as live
This love that I give
Is gonna be yours until the day that I die
Oh baby
I'm gonna love you forever
Forever and ever, amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful
I'll be happy to tell you again
I'm gonna love you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever amen
They say time takes its toll on a body
Makes a young girl's brown hair turn gray
Well, honey, I don't care
I ain't in love with your hair
And if it all fell out
I'd love you anyway
Well, they say time can play tricks on a memory
Make people forget things they knew
Well, it's easy to see
It's happening to me
I've already forgotten every women but you
Oh baby
I'm gonna love you forever
Forever and ever, amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful
Just listen to how this song ends
I'm gonna love you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever amen
I'm gonna love you
Forever and ever
Forever and ever
Forever and ever amen
Monday, August 25, 2008
Some Dead Guy and a Bunch of Swedes
As I sit here typing this I can't help but be amused at where I am in my life. The changes I have made in order to put myself where I am, sitting here now, typing this diatribe, if you had told me where I would be a year ago to the day I would have laughed in your face. Or would I? If there's anything I've learned in my forty (yes, forty) years in this flushing toilet of a world it's that you can't expect much more than change.
I've logged a fair amount of hours studying the tenets of Buddhism. I've spent a few hours studying other religions and always find them wanting. There are elements to all of them that I find interesting, but maybe it's all just academic. Once I was turned on to Buddhism by some incredibly stoned friends back in the late 80s I was seriously in no actual position to absorb the weight of what I was reading. Or maybe I was in no position to accept the simplicity of it.
What appeals the most to me about Buddhism is that it is fundamentally not a religion at all. The man who founded Buddhism (Siddhartha) was an Indian nobleman, a prince who was tired of the opulence and thus set out to discover the true meaning of life.
Instead he discovered that life has no true meaning, that it is in fact all about suffering. That's something I can get behind.
In our lives it is the path through our suffering to acceptance that is the true path and not some hyper-spiritual nonsense about salvation or the afterlife or gods or any other sort of total horseshit without value.
Basically Buddhism was intentionally never supposed to be a theistic system at all. Instead it is a collection of principles or maybe guidelines from which one can learn to appreciate what there is of value in this life and not hang so heavily on that which ties us to longing.
So many people misinterpret this to mean that we should all ditch all of our earthly possessions and live in a cave somewhere. That is exactly not the point.
Instead it is better to regard possessions as something transient and impermanent, because of course that's what things are.
Therefore, whenever you lose everything in a fire your life isn't over.
Again, people think it means you should learn to not feel loss in tragic situations and that there is a way to transcend pain.
Buddhism clearly states that there is no way to avoid pain.
All of that I get, and not only that, I work hard to insure I never forget any of it.
Beyond that I am rocking out as we speak to the album Misanthropic Generation from the band Disfear, and damn, this thing is fucking brilliant.
Take the guitarist from the Swedish death metal band At the Gates and add one of the guys from Entombed (another Swedish metal outfit) and a few other dudes and you get this insanely mighty Motorhead styled hardcore/metal crossover band that simply blows your balls off.
Right now Disfear is my path out of the suffering of life and I am eternally grateful.
So what else is new? Well, this blog is brand spanking new, and once people start getting into it and participating as posters and as commenters things should get interesting.
Look.
Don't turn into a total dickweed just because I brought up Buddhism. I'm an atheist for the record, and better still I don't really care what YOU believe as long as what you believe isn't shoved up my ass with a shovel.
If you use your brain to try and sort life out and it happens to bring a belief in god into the fray, knock yourself out. I won't be the dick about it. I should hope you'll do the same.
Okay, enough of that.
Contribute! Send posts! Send hate mail! Tell us what you love, what you hate, who you are and why. Bowl us over with your love of the written word. Kick our fucking asses with your passion for life. There's always room for more butchers on the block.
I want this to be a project that numbers of people can get behind because it's more fun that way. Lively discussion would be nice, but intelligent spirited debate is even better. Best of all is old fasioned passion. And the more topics the merrier. I want you to pass through here and always find something to talk about.
So? Start Cleaving.
Interested in contributing? Tell us why. Not interested but see obvious areas that could handle your expertise? Tell us, tell us, tell us. We're writers (barely), not programmers. If it's legible, I think it's working well.
Hit us up, say hello, tell us off, insult our mothers. Give us an opportunity to do the same.
johncramer @ blindbutcher . com
Do it. No one else will ask this of you, you degenerates.
Hit us up, say hello, tell us off, insult our mothers. Give us an opportunity to do the same.
johncramer @ blindbutcher . com
Do it. No one else will ask this of you, you degenerates.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
If at first you don't succeed... you failed.
Okay so, I haven't been doing crap for writing really in the past year since there has been so much else going on in my life, but I accept this challenge from The Blind Butcher to throw some of my spirit into the void on occasion. To be honest, I probably won't have artfully crafted kindness to drop on readers here--because I am up to my gills in angst of the situational kind and rather than create victims of my scathing criticisms on those around me to my detriment, I would rather just attack the helpless and soulless in this two dimensional battleground. I have nice things to say about happenings in the World, and you will find these nice stroke jobs hidden securely between the lines of my stunted aggressions. ..if you were to but take a second to sort through my more than common ways of swinging and lashing out at the stupid shit that bugs me. My point is that, yes I come across as brash. Yes, its more than likely that I am a juvenile who does nothing to improve the quality of life for man on a universal scope... but that isn't totally my job. That's man's job... and I don't see the point in representing the everyman. I represent only myself and occasionally I use my voice to represent a phantom and assumed group of underdogs who I imagine would like someone like me on their team. But I know there is no team. No. There is no team at all.
What am I talking about here? Nothing I guess. Just an introductory disclaimer that shows off my shitty writing ability. But speaking of "teams", I can't tell you in words what a total fucking disappointment the Olympics were for me as a television spectator this time around. You would think that the United States was the only team competing in a World challenge for athleticism. It was so frustrating to watch women's volleyball for days on end, when there were so many other sporting events taking place. Do I like gymnastics? yes. Do I like sprints? yes. Do I like the hundreds of other competitions taking place? well thats a hard question to answer.. since i never had a fucking opportunity to watch fuck all of it. Its a total travesty that all we saw was close ups of Michael Phelps during his teams multiple wins. Weren't there other Olympian medalists on those podiums? Can I hear their back story? And not the fucking back stories about how someone turned lesbian and stole another country's beau... It was disgusting. A total jerk off. It reinstated the "slow jerk" as put forth by " The Whitest Kids You Know" for me. (Yes... it's retarded and John is probably cursing himself for inviting me to participate with the Butchers, but hey... I'll make every other contributor look like professionals with something of value to say when erect next to me.)
So.. long winded first post about nothing really here. I wanted to talk about my job where I make fancy salads for rich assholes and talk a little bit about my goals in the construction of certain vegetables or animal fruit carvings.. but I'll save that for future.
What have I been listening to mostly?
Exodus. Yes. Still Exodus, and some cheesy electronica. I intend to make a podcast for later this week that butchers can enjoy... or not and so suck it... or watch me slow jerk it.
What am I talking about here? Nothing I guess. Just an introductory disclaimer that shows off my shitty writing ability. But speaking of "teams", I can't tell you in words what a total fucking disappointment the Olympics were for me as a television spectator this time around. You would think that the United States was the only team competing in a World challenge for athleticism. It was so frustrating to watch women's volleyball for days on end, when there were so many other sporting events taking place. Do I like gymnastics? yes. Do I like sprints? yes. Do I like the hundreds of other competitions taking place? well thats a hard question to answer.. since i never had a fucking opportunity to watch fuck all of it. Its a total travesty that all we saw was close ups of Michael Phelps during his teams multiple wins. Weren't there other Olympian medalists on those podiums? Can I hear their back story? And not the fucking back stories about how someone turned lesbian and stole another country's beau... It was disgusting. A total jerk off. It reinstated the "slow jerk" as put forth by " The Whitest Kids You Know" for me. (Yes... it's retarded and John is probably cursing himself for inviting me to participate with the Butchers, but hey... I'll make every other contributor look like professionals with something of value to say when erect next to me.)
So.. long winded first post about nothing really here. I wanted to talk about my job where I make fancy salads for rich assholes and talk a little bit about my goals in the construction of certain vegetables or animal fruit carvings.. but I'll save that for future.
What have I been listening to mostly?
Exodus. Yes. Still Exodus, and some cheesy electronica. I intend to make a podcast for later this week that butchers can enjoy... or not and so suck it... or watch me slow jerk it.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Day One, Ground Zero, The End of Days
I could count my fans as fingers on the hand of a blind butcher. With that in mind, perhaps it is the foolhardy who will break through the surface of oblivion and breach the threshold of glory. We here at The Blind Butcher can always aim high because we are so very used to landing oh so very low.
This is a blog that will hope to (in our lifetime) become a clearing house for all who have something to say that needs to be said but which has no other outlet. Lofty? Only as lofty as it is probable, which is to say it is highly improbable.
But what the fuck, eh? It's The Blind Butcher's world, people. You just live here.
This post goes out as a hello, and also as a request for interaction. Post comments, submit screeds, rants, raves, reviews, interviews, commentary, love letters, dear John letters (ahem), suicide notes. Basically, the Butcher wants to post any and all manner of written exposition. Make it interesting and others will want to check it out.
You submit the words and we'll make sure they get published. No, there's nothing in it save for the joy of tearing down walls and in turn building temples to our brash and fluid imaginations.
Let's get to work, you and us, there's so much to do...
This is a blog that will hope to (in our lifetime) become a clearing house for all who have something to say that needs to be said but which has no other outlet. Lofty? Only as lofty as it is probable, which is to say it is highly improbable.
But what the fuck, eh? It's The Blind Butcher's world, people. You just live here.
This post goes out as a hello, and also as a request for interaction. Post comments, submit screeds, rants, raves, reviews, interviews, commentary, love letters, dear John letters (ahem), suicide notes. Basically, the Butcher wants to post any and all manner of written exposition. Make it interesting and others will want to check it out.
You submit the words and we'll make sure they get published. No, there's nothing in it save for the joy of tearing down walls and in turn building temples to our brash and fluid imaginations.
Let's get to work, you and us, there's so much to do...
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