onlypineapple @onlypineapple - Tumblr Blog

With regard to that big thing

It’s a much bigger undertaking than I thought. I don’t know why I promised 48 hours, but the essay is clearly gonna take way more effort than my free time allows. So it’s not coming out today, but it will in the coming days. Thanks for reading.

#writing

I’m writing a big thing here soon

I haven’t been on here because Tumblr is toxic for my perception, both of others and myself. But I wanted to write about something I don’t have a real platform to do elsewhere; I’ve been dedicating my writing energy to spoken word poetry. Which has been great, but it doesn’t provide much room for critical writing, much less if it’s against left-wing dogma. So I’ll be posting this long, multi-part thing here soon. Soon as in within the next 48 hours. It’ll be about a lot of things that I haven’t quite condensed to a single phrase. But I will add that it is ironic that on my return, I was greeted with a little decal that asked me to “Gif my words”, followed by directions to type in a word that will be symbolized by an image. A word alone is not enough anymore.

#writing

Piece 8/30: “Neither am I”

What irony haunts The ill who cry I'm not crazy A culture, wrought With social nots A person, rife With social wants A collective strife Of human needs But ill must cry I'm not crazy Desire-constructs Forged by economies Indulge in them Parlay dichotomies Know the narcotics That rule, in harmony To the tune of a democracy Where eyes meet screens Where flesh meet autonomy Where repression meet applause Where police meet service weapons Where money meets legislation Where presidents meet deification Where culture meets banality Because, in reality, Has anyone ever had A good day When we asked them To have one? Indeed, in our worthless words We see a monopoly's policy Manifest in phrases So I suppose, in a way Corporations are people But when the ill Do not subscribe To the social nots Of capitalist ties A test of faith To plutocracy's lines: Berate the ill And when they cry "I'm not crazy" Dare to say "Neither am I"

#writing #national poetry month #poem #capitalism

A Logical Heart

It was revealed to me by a friend last week that my emotion comes packaged with analysis. That the moment I feel, I also think. Furthering on that thought, true to the insight, I realized I think far longer than I feel. Where someone will look at situation and allow their emotions to guide them into an opinion, I spend time asking my feelings "Why?", inadvertently funneling all my emotions into a lifeless efficiency of thinking; the act of questioning things is, by proxy, the act of improving things. When you learn the whys, you learn to manipulate the hows. This is the bedrock of technological innovation.

But I end up acting like a charm machine, pursuing the most ideal interactions with people, sometimes compromising my own, instinctive emotions.

Yeah, I know: this writing will indulge this problem in exactly as it was described to me. But the following paragraphs is also a moment I want to write about. In the case of this conflict, writing about it will make me happier than not, so we're just gonna have to deal with the irony.

So I sat in a Unitarian Universalist service for Easter Sunday to support a friend. Listening to the odd church's strange sermons, I found myself doing that thing again. I sat there and analyzed the good, the bad, and the weird. And the thing I started to look for, when it dawned on me that I was acting like a computer, was for the emotional reaction to the whole thing. Surely something as spiritually visceral as an Easter Sunday service can rouse some feelings? Maybe some contempt since I've always been some kinda Athiest even as a kid?

Zero. I felt nothing. The only glimmer of humanity was a moderate intrigue in the behaviors and ceremonies of a Unitarian Universalist church. Instead of letting the emotional impact of the service hit me, I scanned for consistencies and inconsistencies in their language. Observed their ceremonies in relation to other ceremonies. Cross-reference the attires of their reverends with other religious garbs.

And that's when it hit me. All my life I've felt like a computer; an anamoly of humanity where I don't participate in society or race, but act as an enfleshed hard-drive amassing strange details of it all. It's because of that nature. How am I supposed to feel a part of anything if I don't feel?

It's not entirely sociopathic, mind you. I have zero tolerance for watching videos where people are beaten or killed. I just cannot do it and refuse to. I have loved once or twice. Had sex and enjoyed it. Smoked weed and ate McDonald's.

But when it comes to large scale commitments to humanity, like fiercely embracing an ideal (like religion, politics, favorite Starbust flavor), I lack that entirely. I have assessments of society that I deem logically ideal, but they were the products of arduous internal logic checks, like I was searching for a .exe file, and not because I emotionally identified with them.

For example, watching african-american men being repeatedly shot at by police officers forced a logical change in opinion about the state of race relations in this country. I used to think it was fine. But logically, the rate it was happening, coupled with poorly-worded backlash to those who played down the chasm between white-americans and afircan-americans, meant I could not hold on to the idea that things are okay.

But I don't actually feel anything for it. Like I'm not compelled to protest, or spend any time truly embodying that decision. I don't feel driven to apply my strongest talent, writing, to that opinion. At all. Even as I try to write poetry, i struggle to express unless it's in the voice of a character I've written.

I don't think I'm all fact-checks and electric sparks, though. Yesterday, the same friend inspired some real genuine care that I don't remember feeling for a long time. And possibly never before (But I'm not too sure). She was biting her nails; a negligible act of self-destruction. I've never looked at someone before, though, do something so meager and felt so impassioned. It really bothered me that she would do anything self-destructive at all, even if it were something as typical nail-biting.

And what flares when I perform in any talent, be it music or writing, and the emotions I inspire; those have to count for something, right? Good as I may be at understanding and mimicking passion, the fact that I embody it so well on a stage has to count for something. After all, am I so lifeless if the next performer on stage is not nearly as energetic? Why, then, am I machine if they aren't?

On that note, why be so delicate about the perspective I have about myself in relation to the whole of existence? Much as I strain to optimize my opinions rather than really feeling them, I am very careful not to undermine myself. Sometimes this works against me and ends up making me rather hard on myself. But even then, like in the last sentence of the previous question, I will look for ways to make myself feel better. That's in and of itself a feeling, and hints further at a robust set of emotions.

While the Unitarian Universalist (I keep forgetting which words come first this is very upsetting) church was a, dare I say, fun thing to analyze, I can hear a heart whisper ideological discontent. It clearly is just not a thing I liked. And, ironically, what I did like were the people strewn along the chairs. The ceremony felt hollow but they felt real. There was a warmth to them that I don't attribute to service. And, much as I may stand on the sidelines to peer at human race, all too often I find myself cheering them on. No, I don't feel like a participant. But I love people all the same, and hope for people's individual successes. That's what's funny. Because I'm pretty sure computers don't hope.

#writing #anecdote #persona;

5/30: The Closet Door

There are no monsters What monsters are wrought From the skirmishes of a society What monsters are taught Ideals embellished by piety There are no monsters But when I see a man called monster The dream-like manifest of fears Do we imply our society is fiction Do we imply his culture surreal Because when I see a person called monster I hear the tacit admission That the society we engender The society that birthed the beast Is not, and has never been, real It is the admission that we do not exist That our society does not exist That our culture is a mere dream Indeed, if there were monsters We were the nightmare Who birthed them

#writing #poetry #national poetry month #monsters

4/30: Time and Consequence

(An entry from a character of a story I probably won't write for a long, long time)

I can see it now. When I sleep, it is no longer the blank black curtains of the eyes that draw life to intermission. What appears now is a very different play altogether. Galaxies, locked into performance by the direction of time and consequence. They spin near one another, fated to meet -- an inference from how they've gotten closer in the years since I've started seeing this.

They are twins not in appearance, but in mechanics; slow spiral spins, cumbersome whirpools, each fitted with a supermassive center that mocks what power stars have been fed to believe, made insolent by the obedience of common, futile planets. It must not seem the case to the casual observer. The stardust comprising colored red, for one, white-blue, for the other. The red one steers its galactic peasants with chaotic hostility, the white-blue, with diplomatic coercion. Their fate move too slow to perceive their cosmic contract.

Force is still force no matter the avenue it is imposed. Irrespective of how the two galaxies appear to spin, regardless of how they regard their stars, they are bound as twins in mechanics. They will generate the material that continues the existence of their matter beyond their lifetimes. And their path to desist is not choice but fate. They will collide, through time and consequence, and consume each other in what will be the greatest show the cosmos has ever performed on its infinite stage. And when I open my eyes to wake again, I will play my part, and spiral into inexistence, no less victim to time and consequence.

My eyes were not curtains, in retrospect. They were a script.

#space #writing #national poetry month

3/30: A Lawyer’s Poem

Lust for life's death Defying peace Detach yourself Esteem from others Let your faith break Through hate, find joy Let negative in Put hope to die Let no one judge Be jury of crimes Because, like poems Life's how you read lines

#lawyers #writing #national poetry month

2/30: Flood

Floods of thought They come and go Stay still again To let them flow

I stand to reason I come undone Thought-stained treason Disdain's fun

Carves the rock Erodes away Logic's dock My boat, astray

I count from one To stay as stranded Three feet, for some Is a yard for granted

Anchor on rock A captain of float Forget this dock To captain this boat

Learn all the ropes Feel blood in me Rush warm with hope Know floods as streams

Streams of thought That come and go Move on like them Sail with the flow

#national poetry month #writing #poetry

decdpools-blog

onlypineapple

As an paper clip who respects creative integrity and intellectual property, I am disgusted at how much you have copied my style. Do you not have any value or respect for originality? You’re a laughing stock… I personally found it absolutely artistically atrocious

Order in Social Disorder: Dick v. Asshole

"It is, in action tempered by posterity, that, with dictated measure, the clarity of our words is tantamount to the clarity of our philosophy," said a white person in literature to some effect I don't know I just made this up. Basically, our society is marred by miscommunication. With the advent of texting and online aliases, there are simple points that are lost to the misuse of words. The misunderstanding comes from the arrogance of the screen; the person isn't there, so instead their psychology is boiled down to a pixelated statement who's image varies on whether you're the kind of asshole that drops their phone 3 weeks after purchase. And it is about assholes that I am here to talk about! Today's Order in Social Disorder revolves around an important distinction in everyday diction! Today, we uncover the differences between an "Asshole" and a "Dick". For my fellow feminists, fear not; "dick" is interchangeable with "cunt". First, let's establish the current behavior; when I say "asshole", what is your first association? For many, it has to do with someone who did something rude. Now, when I say "dick", associations get messy; there's Dick Van Dyke for you strange 23-year-old women with daddy issues, there's the penis for gay men who run out of "cock" synonyms in bed, and there is the association similar to "asshole". Just above the hips and below the abs, I get a feeling that we use both with a distinction, but we don't classify that. So they appear to be the same, but what is that underlying difference? As a New Jerseyan, I will lay out the most likely scenario these words may find a purpose: driving. (For those who don't live in New Jersey and don't get why driving is associated with dicks and assholes, please sign me to your lease I am a good roommate) Here's the scenario: There's a traffic light next to the entrance of a supermarket.You are trying to turn left, through the opposite lane, into the supermarket. As the traffic stops, you realize a car in the opposite lane has a choice: they may stop ahead of the entrance and let you through, or they may block your turn entirely. But remember, this is New Jersey. So the driver blocks your path. There is no advantage to it other than a very slight 1 car space deeper into traffic. Despite their two choices, they chose to block you. Here it's good to ask, "Well, if they block me, then we can call them a dick or an asshole, so, why mention the choice?" Because it is the acknowledgement of choice that determines whether this sub-human vehicle mover is really a dick, or an asshole. An asshole is blind to their impact; instead, an asshole makes decisions like a drunk Link from Legend of Zelda, spinning his proverbial sword around, inflicting the results of his misguided up-B upon those around them. A dick, however, makes strategy of darkly-sown logic; they are aware of the factors, and have even thought about the results, but take the dark choice for reasons unaware to you. For a more immediate illustration, protagonists in TV nowadays are actually major dicks, not assholes. The Blacklist, Hannibal, Orange is the New Black, House of Cards, It's Always Sunny, Breaking Bad, Keeping Up with the Kardashians; these are TV shows that feature titular characters making ominous choices to better themselves over bettering anyone else. To add an anecdote, I have noticed that in my life, I have been called a "dick" far sooner than I have ever been called an "asshole". This because I say absurd things at inappropriate times (timing based on standard social courtesy i.e. you don't call someone ugly 15 seconds into meeting them. I have). But it's just sarcasm! It's the strategic use of the "wrong" choice in the face of a "right" choice, aware that the "wrong" choice has a less kindly outcome. I want to challenge someone to see if they match the sarcasm, encourage their masochism, and lastly free conversation from the grips of the weather. It's cold, it's snowing, there's not much to say; welcome to February. And I usually get good friendships out of it. From here, though, I am called "dick", and not an "asshole", because it is a choice I made to be destructive. I assess the results of both choices, and decide to take the less courteous choice. (There is a "correlation is not causation" point here, where being called a "dick" over "asshole" relates to many factors including the way I look or my tone, not merely what I'm saying. I feel confident saying that, in a vacuum, the sentences themselves have elicited "dick", and that my tone/appearance merely compliment the intrinsically "dick" nature of my words) And now, back to the car metaphor, the person blocking you is thus an "asshole" if they stopped and was not aware of blocking you. The person who was and moved forward anyway, maybe looking at you slowly as he drove, is a "dick", and perhaps a fucking psychopath if he maintained eye contact. It is important to make these distinctions in everyday life; as George Orwell once said, "...the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts." It is in the precision of words that we find a precision of thinking, and vice-versa. To adequately capture our thoughts in expression makes it easier for us to be more open-minded and more self-aware, allowing an inner peace to settle in the face of a world that speaks so fast it doesn't know what it's saying, and doesn't understand itself. So the world is probably an asshole.

liloury-deactivated20180113

whenever i get low on money i start thinking really irrationally like what if i hadn’t spent that $10 back in 2004

Armistice of the Self

Some years ago on this Tumblr, I wrote about something that detailed my volatile brain that looked at people and perceived flaws faster than it perceived humans. I aptly titled the piercing habit a "sniper", because I'm only on Tumblr to symbolically masturbate to myself. It's a mechanism built as a defense against the dark arts. And as a proper Ravenclaw, it wasn't used as a foundation for success, but as a means to make myself feel smarter than everyone else before they all realized I was just a massive dick. Here I stand now, several less repulsive shades of shit later, in a night club in Hoboken. It had been a long, long time since I was in an atmosphere of partying that wasn't just a collage of desperate sexual hunting and repressed social anxiety. No, here, there was a very different kind of depravity; people networking their visual art. Two floors of fancy decor, gigantic mirrors for walls, and illustrators catching the awkward eyes of passerbys who irritatingly consumed the space in front of their stands but didn't buy shit. Add on music that was too loud to interpret artwork and $7 fucking dollars for a bottle of Heineken, and my gut was a bit crossed. As me, a few friends, and the rest of the attendees did our best not to question humanity's ability to efficiently stand in crowded rooms -- I had to literally ask a guy who waited for a crevice "Are you gonna move forward or..." -- we made our way to the obligatory-reason-for-being-there; a friend was showing off her sweet illustrations. Along the way, the shoulders I rubbed against felt unusually derisive. Hoboken, one of many cities that pretends to be New York but isn't, is a tiny 1-sq. mile city by the Hudson that is often romanticized for being aesthetically Hipster enough to feel like you live in an episode of Broad City. But since you're between 20-34 making above 60K a year you don't have to live in an actual ghetto to fulfill your obscure aspirations! And even quell the fears of your suburban parents! Dad: Does anyone there live below the poverty line??? Columbia graduate: No dad don't be ridiculous how else could any of us afford to sedate ourselves??? Hoboken also houses a deadly cocktail of immeasurable drinking establishments with the highest percentage of singles as well! So its residents drown themselves over paying 3k-4k for a one bedroom apartment -- Alone! So exciting! And it was with these special kind of mildly rich weirdos that I found myself alienated. So, I committed the odd sin of firing off once more. "Oh, this girl is very attractive and pleasant, I wonder how long it'll take for her to realize her dreams were dead 6 years ago and whatever she's doing now is meaningless" "The people at the coat check have a tips bin. That is the most arrogant thing I have ever seen in my life" "Mm, this person next to me smells of good health insurance I don't like it" Like how do you even smell health insurance dude? What is your problem? I thought to myself. Snipers don't fire repeatedly on a clip, no. This was definitely a fucked up machine gun with a silencer to mask the pettiness, its bullets propelled not by gunpowder but by the raw psychological sewage of a man too unsuccessful to do anything else at a nightclub, like, I don't know, socialize. ratatatatata-WHY ARE YOU DOING THE UNDERCUT IT DOESN'T WORK ON YOU-ratatatatatata-SHIT SHOULD HAVE I WORN CHUCK TAYLORS OR SHOULD I HAVE JUST BROUGHT THOSE SHOES ON ZARA-ratatatatatatata-OK BUT WHO'S SERIOUSLY TIPPING THE COAT CHECK PEOPLE FOR HANGING A COAT????

Okay, I think I had a fair point about the people hanging a coat who were already charging 3 dollars per item. The rest was unacceptable garbage my brain resorted to, however, and when I realized what I was doing, as I often do at this point,I asked myself why. I do it to shoot down my inferiority complex by explaining to myself everyone else's problems. That way, I could notice myself a little more and entertain my insecurity a little less, especially since examples of things-that-seem-socially-more-successful-than-me were literally blocking my way.

The usual cycle here is to to have a discussion with myself about my mental aggression, right, then I take down my third drink (21 dollars in), right, and then I realize that being inebriated solves all my problems easy-peazy at which point I take a fourth drink and drive drunk all the way to pornhub street. No it was different this time. Instead of presenting myself with a fierce compilation of vices and lesbians, my brain cleared itself instantly like 16-year-old with an indicting web history. Whiteout. There was not even a discussion this time, because waving the machine gun like some kind of psychological Scarface no longer brought me pleasure to open wounds. So I stopped, stared at my little friend in my head and thought "Oh this is just a habit. I don't need to do this." At some point in my life I'd stumbled onto a stability so grounded that I could stand in a place that is beyond socio-econmic status and not feel insignificant anymore. This was a long way from being in a classroom of my peers, where I would pick on friends just to feel better. Essentially, I did not want to be a part of this lifestyle. But I wanted to relate to them desperately just to say I could. And among artwork blocked by hairstyles dipped in L'oreal's TXT IT putty, I knew what it was I loved and did not. So I was able to put down the gun metaphors, and realize that I'd grown up. And that I should pat myself on the back for it. Because, ultimately, my personal standards should not be dictated by people around me. They need to be dictated by my own rules. And by the rules my life has set for me. And for the first time, I practiced that, and it worked. So way to go me. No I did not tip the coat checkers nobody loves themselves that much don't be ridiculous.

Hello! This blog is evolving right before your eyes!

No need to tap B on these changes; this tumblr will be more writing-oriented in the coming weeks. These posts will be mostly expository pieces that show how lame I am in over 500 words! I’ll still be blatantly copying wewillnotfit and desperatehousewaifu tumblrs like a blogbot, of course. For some insight on what I’m like when I talk about my opinions all day long, look no further than this decrepit and self-shunned tumblr of mine. New posts start Monday.

#writing