ARE YOU BEING CUTE IN THERE?!?!
Gratuitous picture of my home life.
THIS IS THE BEST PICTURE OF EMMA EVER LOOK AT HER FACE OMG ITS LIKE SOMEONE JUST HANDED HER THE BABY AND SHES LIKE AND WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU WANT ME TO DO WITH THIS THING DONT YOU KNOW I HATE REDHEADS UGH SHE IS 1000% DONE
I shudder with recognition, for this is my wife as a blonde.
Fedoras of OKC is all the time pasting the answer to this question onto the pictures: “Are some human lives worth more than others?”
And you know, that’s not even a yes-or-no question. It’s the kind of question that negates itself in the asking. Are some human lives, which are universally inconsequential, worth more than others in your equally inconsequential opinion? Like, the whole concept of valuation is a fart in a hurricane. “Worth” is a meaningless word that will die unheard on the solar winds before the light of most stars reaches Earth.
Everybody out of the pool.
I’m actually surprised that this person actually seems to understand graffiti fairly well and still comes off so utterly conventionally boring about it.
The order in which you draw the circle-A reveals a lot about a person. This tagger seems to have started with the circle, describing the domain and limits of order.
It’s not as clear whether the peak or the bar came next, but I would guess the peak. The peak begins outside the bounds of order, much as people are born in a moment of chaos, before a long ascent through the O. At the height of the A, order is broken again by the punctum of experience that reveals primal anarchy to a person for the first time since birth. The descent represents the anarchist’s obligation to tear back through his old life of order, exposing others to the freedom of his own experience.
The bar nullifies this and all other bourgeois interpretations of the symbol’s meaning. There is nothing in the circle, nothing without the circle, and its line has bound the A to it forever. The bar is a stake in the heart of a manichean vampire, a knife in the eye of a critical viewer. It doesn’t define the symbol—it negates it.
Drawing the circle last is a sign of timidity, I think. It’s the process of a person who fears independence, a person who tucks his thumb inside his fist. That’s the kind of circle-A that someone who would waste so much breath complaining about graffiti would draw. “Don’t cut the bars out of my window,” this diaper baby mewls. “You’ll ruin my view.”
My father killed himself almost eight years ago.
I never knew him. I spoke to him on the phone once and remember that he hung up on me while I was in mid-sentence. I saw him once, I think. He was on the maintenance staff at the county’s community college, and I think he walked right past me while I waited on a bench for my girlfriend to get out of class.
When my mother told me about his suicide, I didn’t feel it. I felt for her, and in a few days I’d feel dread about the funeral, but it wasn’t like I had lost anything. All I had was a father in the abstract. My existence implied a father, and that was it.
I decided to go to the funeral (“the,” not “his”) out of a vague sense that I was his next of kin and that maybe something would change. I barely knew his side of the family, and none of them had really ever reached out to me. His mother and sisters made token attempts, and they were part of my life for a little while, but the ugly truth is that I feel it was in their power to put him back in my life, and they couldn’t or wouldn’t do it, so what goddamn good were they?
There was other ugliness around the funeral, but I’m not posting about that. My father’s death showed me that he could be even less a part of my life, and not just because he was dead.
First of all, his casket was closed. You know that means he killed himself violently. When I visited his house, the bedroom was sealed, and his ex-wife told me, “There isn’t anything to see in there anymore anyway.” I’ve never learned the details, but he almost certainly shot himself in the head, and I imagine he used a shotgun in his mouth. I don’t know why, but that’s the impression I got of him.
But it’s not just that. I visited his house because no one had found a will at the time, and I was afraid I’d have to be his executor. I might as well have not wasted my time. His family had taken everything of value already, mostly guns, but they’d also taken any photos, any journals, any keepsakes that might have given me any kind of a connection to my father. It’s like no one had really lived there at all. There was a computer in one room that had basically been wiped clean except for an eBay cookie. He was stilled logged in and had posted an auction for some motorcycle stuff that had ended months ago.
Years later, I’ve felt more robbed by him than I ever did growing up without him. He never reached out to me before he killed himself at all, and as far as I know, he made no provisions to leave me with anything of himself. His will left what he had to his ex-wife, who promised me what little legacy she could manage then never spoke to me again. His brother made a weak apology about the way things are, and his sisters pledged that things would be different, and they haven’t been. His death has meant that my relationship with that half of myself will never really begin, and it has underscored the cold fact that no one of his blood wants me to be part of their lives, either.
My wife jokes that my Tumblr is about things that make me want to kill myself. It’s not quite true, but there’s some truth to it. I post things like this here rather than Facebook or a private journal because I hope these rough clods will knock around with all the pretty and ugly things until something smooth and beautiful is left. I want these goddamn rocks in my heart to be something I’ll want to pick up and hold someday. I get that the metaphor is clumsy. The emotion behind it is, too.
FUCK ALL! FUCK ALL!
FUCK ALL! FUCK ALL!
FUCK ALL! FUCK ALL!
CUT ALL POLICEMEN INTO PIECES!