Saturday, October 31, 2015

Facebook status updates part XL (Oct. 2015)

(50 of these. Damn.)

I used to take pictures. Until they made experiences too real to bear.

“Sleight of hand is something anyone can do. There is no magic in being a conjurer - often the opposite, in fact. Most conjurers are just people without the talent to be performers. You want real magic, watch people work sleight of mind on themselves.”

We were afraid. Our fear gave birth to the gods that ruled us once they grew too powerful to be demons. They rule us far more kindly than we ever treated them. And we wait, in our terror, for them to become the monsters we were to them.

This is the post your mother warned you about.

We live in the cyborg age: when I wiped my harddrive, I lost every means I had to contact you.

“You keep asking me to tell you the truth. But the only truth I know is that all truths are partial at best.”

I wrote another story about you, changing every detail I could so that you might not know how much I’m trying to say.
It was called ‘The Last of the First Goombah Panty Raiders, book 1: The Torment of the Galactic Cheese Muffins volume 2 - Love’s Windswept Moor and the Kingdom of Mal'Kuth’s Eternal War Against the Armies of High Lord Chaos XIII Jr.. Subtitled: a novella.’

They finished making their costumes, the work of months to tan the skins, a year of watching videos on YouTube to prepare. This time, they felt they might pass as human.

I changed the difficulty setting on my life. Went from Medium down to Easy, and I think that’s why we can no longer be together.

VOTE HARPER … because the world needs more music

VOTE MAY … because it was a better month than October

VOTE TRUDEAU … because Canada needs political dynasties too

VOTE MUCLAIR … because if it sounds like nuclear it might just bomb

He used to hand strangers notes on which he’d written: ‘I love you’, 'Have a nice day :)’ and the like until he handed one to a bank teller who hit an alarm at seeing the piece of paper being handed over. He spent six nights in jail, and each took away a word he used to write down.

He tried to wake up in the dream, to shift location, to sleep or be elsewhere but not a single thing worked. The room remained, his family waiting on the other side of the table remained, seeking in dreams a truth they’d never tried to find in the waking world.

You discover all your crimes on twitter, each hidden within trending hashtags. And you know, deep inside, that you can’t be the only one to have made these connections.

They say we all see things that we cannot unsee, but it is far harder to learn what one cannot unlearn, to sit on knowledge that festers and one cannot share without making the world a poorer place for the knowing....

We live in the cyborg age: when I wiped my hard drive, I lost every means I had to contact you.

These are not the posts our mothers warned us about.

“The return exchange dance is NOT any kind of Native American dance. Even if you are starting to feel as though you’re cursed.”

The zombies tore off their own arms to give them to the homeless, unaware that they had been asked to bring alms instead.
The gifts were accepted.

You know a story went odd when a character explains white privilege via neutering dogs.

“I’m not scared of being a monster. I’m scared of what comes after, what happens if being a monster isn’t enough anymore.”

Sometimes, she said, silence can be an act of creation.
And I never understood, not until it was too late.

I voted according to my conscience, he explained, and staggered back to the toilet to throw up again.

One of the mysteries of the era is the weakness of Great Prophet of our times. For all his terrible prognosticative power, the towering Nixon - who strode the 20th century like the broken gods of old, spoke only one great truth amid his cunning sea of lies:
"Tonight we'll dispense with the formalities. I'd like to toast the future prime minister of Canada: to Justin Pierre Trudeau," Richard Nixon said at a gala buffet in April 1972 during a state visit to Ottawa when Trudeau was just four months old.
But his power seems to have crescendoed then and deserted him thereafter, for it did not foresee his own downfall. Those who study such moments of Grace wondered what it meant for lowly Canada, and what terrible things might come to pass under a future set in stone.

Every day is just like every other one.
Except when it isn’t.

I have been trying to write you a love letter
In full knowledge of the heat death of the universe
Every boy wants to be their father, at least until they see the sides of him which are more than that.

“I lied,” the Devil said in quiet fury. “Everyone knows that about me. Everyone knows I lie!”
“You said you loved me.”
“And you should have known I was lying. Only you didn’t, so all of this is your fault. All of it,” and the Devil walked away.
And I deleted every selfie I’d taken of the both of us from my phone, but it didn’t stop the pain at all.

I love you in the way the NRA protect their interests above sanity.
I don’t know if this should scare you.

I was trying to mainline poetry as if it was caffeine but I was left wide awake at 2 a.m. sobbing over lives I had never lived, experiences as knife blades of torrid prose and I stayed up for the dawn with wide and shuddering eyes.
It was not like what the poets had written at all.

"I love you lagom," he said, and for years she wondered if she'd misheard until she learned otherwise.

It’s not a proper world if it’s one where heroes die.

It’s only been a year but I’m scared of meeting you again. You said, “we can still be friends” as if we could go back to being that small. As though we could just take back the soft secrets, as if we could pretend the private jokes that were just us didn’t exist anymore at all.

The note you handed me said I was layogenic and when I checked my phone to learn its meaning you sprinted to the window and climbed out the fire escape. You’d said you could love a hunchback, but the truth was something else. Then you fled.
I tried to explain, but my conjoined twin just giggled in savage glee.

They finished making their costumes, the work of months to tan the skins, a year of watching videos on YouTube to prepare. This time, they felt they might pass as human.

On Halloween eve, there is a 30% increase in vehicles that only look like taxis. And almost all of them are hungry.
(It will be left as an exercise to the discerning reader to determine how much of this increase is linked to uber.)

You keep asking me what being dead is like, as though I would have haunted you if I had a choice in the matter.

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