Hu-zah, Hu-zah

Dated 15-April-2001

===================

I stuck a knife right in his gut
hu-zah
hu-zah
I stuck a knife right in his gut
hu-zah
hu-zah
I stuck a knife right in his gut
and in his gizzard began to rut
and the blood comes dripping
down…..down

I stuck a spear right up his ass
hu-zah
hu-zah
I stuck a spear right up his ass
hu-zah
hu-zah
I stuck a spear right up his ass
and with a spark near lighted gas
and the blood comes dripping
down…..down

A red hot poker right in his eye
Hu-zah
hu-zah
A red hot poker right in his eye
hu-zah
hu-zah
A red hot poker right in his eye
it felt so good, I began to cry
and the blood comes dripping
down…..down

And now he’s dead and he bleeds no more
hu-zah
hu-zah
And now he’s dead and he bleeds no more
hu-zah,
hu-zah
And now he’s dead and he bleeds no more
so I fuck his corpse like a cheap dime-whore
and the blood comes dripping
down, down

It’s not you. It’s me…

Ok – it’s a lot you. I mean it is glaringly you.

But it’s still me.

I have an unhealthy relationship with social media. I know – Shocker!!

I don’t even doom scroll. The closest I get to that is what I call “hate-scrolling”. This when I go through my feed looking for what my friends are saying and block anything that isn’t them. I block ads, meme generating accounts, pages and even random people that pop up. I’d block groups, too, but apparently that’s not possible.

Social media is filling a gap I left in my anti-social life when I cut the cable and switched to streaming (more on back tracking there later). When I still had cable, I was a channel surfer. I spend hours just wasting time and not actually watching anything. Hoping something would catch my interest. There is a lyric from Pink Floyds the wall – “I’ve thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from.” Last I checked it was upwards of a thousand channels and at least half of that shit is just infuriating.

I am not sure how much my attention deficit plays into this, but it’s a distraction technique. Distraction from loneliness, boredom, sadness, pain… All of those, I guess. Random flickering images to keep the thoughts at bay.

The lure of social media was the myth of engagement. There was engagement in early chat rooms. There was engagement in bulletin board systems I’ve been on. Social media has engagement, but it is not what I’d hoped it would and not even as good as it used to be. As we become more the product the level of engagement is hitting rock bottom. A convenient way to keep up with my friends spread around the country has become wading through the mire of advertisements to catch a glimmer of worthwhile content.

With the older pre-social media systems, I actually made friends. Talking online lead to deciding to have a face to face. Sometimes good – sometimes bad. But there were actual connections being made. Even if some were quickly severed.

Social media has also gotten in the way of my being creative. Be it writing, cooking, or even just reading a book. Hate scrolling has taken over a lot of that time.

I know this is not a cut and dry issue and social media isn’t the big-bad-evil… Well, it is big and bad and evil, but anyway. There is a lot to blame with my psyche on the issue and social media just found a good notch to fit into with that. It aids in my bad habits of not wanting to engage in small talk with new people. Online is easy to get to the point of topic without seeming as socially awkward.

Anyway, I have some things to work out regarding my relationship with social media. So, it’s not you, it’s me.

But, it’s still definitely you.

Stroller

I still have memories of the stroller.  It was a big clunky thing.  A double-seater, with the seats font-to-back, not like the side-by-sides they sell today.  The color of the vinyl canopy is lost (on me; it was) either navy blue or forest green.  My mother would load my little brother and me into the stroller; my brother in front and me in back.  Then off we would go.  My mother couldn’t drive, so we walked everywhere.  I don’t think she ever learned to drive.

The trips in the stroller were always an adventure for me.  I got to see the big street and the cars.  It seemed like we would walk for miles:  (we would pass all the blinking) the traffic lights, the railroad tracks and the stores.  It was all so different from the house and the yard, then we would get to wherever we were going.  My mother would take my brother and me out of the stroller, and set us in the play area.  She would then sit and read a magazine, smoke a cigarette, and wait for her turn.  We barely noticed when she walked into a back room to see her doctor.

When my mother was done, she would load us back into the stroller for another adventurous walk home.  Later, I would find out that these weekly trips to the doctor were (actually) visits to her psychiatrist.  She was undergoing treatment for manic-depression.  I have no idea if they called it that in the early 1970’s, but that’s what it was.  There were many things in my childhood with these kinds of euphemisms.  Like the days my father fell asleep on the living room floor in his underwear.  He was “tired”, not drunk.  “Tired” also described the times my mother would spend days in her room.  It was never depression.

The times she spent in her room, locked away with the curtains drawn, became more frequent as I got older, as (it did with)  my father snoring on the living room floor.  Still, the days my mother brought out the stroller were good days.  These were the days when she was active and happy.  These were the days she baked and cleaned and made June Cleaver look lazy.  The “stroller days” lasted after the old double-seater disappeared and my brother and I were old enough to walk with her when she took her trips to the doctor, the store, or even just to go walking.

These days finally ended when my brother and I started school.  Being only 10 months apart, we started kindergarten at the same time.  For the first week or so, my mother walked with us to kindergarten, and then we would walk on our own both ways.  The stroller days were entirely over, we were big boys and in school, we didn’t need the stroller days anymore; and my mother was alone in the house all day.  I think she missed the stroller days, and the loneliness contributed to her being tired more and more often.

Posts

I have a lot of old shit lying in my comnuter. Most of it is dated from 2001 on. But a lot of it is older than that probably up to thirty years old at this point. The 2001 is just when I did a big file migration.

I am not really editing anything, just small gramatic or form changes. I am also not censoring anything. Some of this if from the mind a a mid-twenties brain with ADD, anxiety issues and a desire to be “provacative”. The more outlandish or insane the stuff sounds, especialy the poetry, the further from reality it is.

Slowly Filling Thoughts

Dated 15-June-2001
==========

thoughts of killing
slowly filling
running through my head
anger building
stress not yielding
soon they will be dead

here, I’m going
they’re not knowing
what I’ll say or do
“on me pissing
to me dissing
I’ll just run them through”

thrust a dagger
see them stagger
falling to the floor
watch them dying
down there lying
like a little whore

now I’m drinking
their blood, thinking
of my grizzly deed
people screaming
police teaming
I pay them no heed

soon I’m lying
laughing, crying
pistol to my head
in deed basking
now I’m asking
“is the asshole dead?”

“yes!” they’re saying
past my braying
tears of joy I cry
’bout my killing
offer willing
“they just had to die.”

Missing you

Dated 15 April 2001

==========

Sitting alone in the darkness,
Candle burning bright,
Alone.
I think of you,
Your body and sole,
I Cry.
It’s been only two weeks,
But feels like forever,
My body still yearns,
For the warmth of your touch.
I want the earth to open her arms
And release you from her embrace.
If you can hear me,
I want you to know I love you,
And always will.
‘Til we meet again.