#dolki min

[anotherrandompersonsstuff]

An effective depiction of what it means to feel deeply, painfully uncomfortable both in society and in your own body, and the often associated desperate need for physical contact and love.

I love how the layout becomes less standard and more unconventional when the monster gets home.

[gribbletheturtle]

maybe the horror all along was the body and what society forces you to reflect back through it

[gribbletheturtle]

if gender commentary wasn't enough, we also get such a realistic portrayal of living with chronic pain as a young healthy looking adult who just can't ask for help

[gribbletheturtle]

[peliginfields]

But there are steep stairs on buses. There are no-step buses now, but they’ve only just been introduced to the fleet. The first time I took public transportation, the height of the stairs was much greater than I expected, and I worried if I would even be able to climb them. All the stairs I had practiced on until then had been of negligible height and width. I grappled with gravity and climbed aboard the bus, claiming a small victory. The ascent was so laborious that I felt my bones might crumble, but the sense of accomplishment pleased me greatly. I thought the only thing left was to deposit my fare and find a seat. But before I could even catch my breath, the bus driver stomped on the accelerator, and I tumbled to the back and got wedged under the bench. I was coated in dirt and sweat and droplets of blood. Shocked, I couldn’t move a muscle. Nor did I have the leisure to feel shame. The driver swore like nothing I’d heard before, and the other passengers jeered. They didn’t even try to help. It never crossed their minds to reach out a hand, grab me by the tentacle, and pull me up. Ah, I was in far too disgusting of a state to arouse sympathy and a willingness to help. The high degree of concentration required to maintain my humanlike form was in tatters; my eyeballs drifted in opposite directions; my arms and legs contorted; and my abdomen swelled up like a balloon. They must have been thinking, if only you were just a little less repulsive, I would step forward and lend a hand.

-Dolki Min, Walking Practice, trans. Victoria Caudle

[peliginfields]

If I’m going to be stomped, I’ll be stomped as a human, and if I’m going to die, I’ll die as a human. Can you understand the agony of hating humans so much but shoving that hatred aside to look just like one? The desire to become a member of society always overpowers the shame of being embraced by their system.

-Dolki Min, Walking Practice, trans. Victoria Caudle

[peliginfields]

I also get the impression that it is only after a gender has been assigned that you are seen as human.

-Dolki Min, Walking Practice, trans. Victoria Caudle

[peliginfields]

I set my bag on top of my thighs and take a look around. There are cameras here and cameras over there as well. There are old cameras and new cameras. Cameras to carry with you. Standing cameras, sitting cameras, cameras riding wheelchairs, yawning cameras, dozing cameras, sleeping cameras, chatting cameras, cracking-up cameras, angry cameras, passionate gaming cameras, music-listening cameras, begging cameras, ignoring cameras, swearing cameras . . . and even a camera on my insides filming me. The cameras don’t know who they are. When one camera shoots another, they too are shot. Cameras that are shot and are shooting each other. Surveilling and being surveilled. Being surveilled and surveilling. I cast off any delusions with a shake of my head. I’ve got to get to sleep. Sleep, dear reader, is restorative. I’mgettingsleepygettingsleepygettingsleepygettingsleepygettingsleepy . . . If sometime, somewhere, I could forget—if only for a second—that cameras are following me, then I could close the gap between myself and the part I am playing. It might just disappear. You, dear reader, earnestly play all your parts. The roles that were assigned to you without your consent are stuck to your body like a label: A label that you can’t remove before death. A label that can’t be removed even after death. The labels are invisible. They’re not really there, you know. They’ve melted into your flesh. They may have even made their home in a deeper, more abstract part of you. You won’t be able to fish them out even if you’re sliced up to the point that your bones are exposed and your guts are spilling out of your carcass. Really does your head in, doesn’t it? Imagine someone has, without your knowledge, stuck an expletive-filled sticker on your back. The sticker absorbs the looks from other people and, before you know it, grows large enough to cover your skin with no signs of stopping. It tries to control your identity. I don’t think you understand the true nature of the sticker, dear reader. It’s okay if you don’t. You’ve got to not know to be fine. I’ve consciously tried my damnedest to receive a sticker. And I’ll have to keep it up. I am always conscious of my acting. To become one with your sticker—this is near impossible for me.

-Dolki Min, Walking Practice, trans. Victoria Caudle