Friday, October 7, 2022

2 Minutes. Go!

It's because you don't give a shit. I get it. Caring is hard. It requires investment - and investing involves risk. Copping an attitude is free. Shoulder chips are free. You can edge me off the sidewalk, but you can't make me see. 

I'm counting on my apathy.

It's hard to reconcile. I understand. It's like a storm of hornets swarming, and you can only survive if you stay very still. But you can't stay that still. So, you're fucked. Stop caring, trust me. It's the only way.

I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for some "fuck it" yesterday. 

If you can stop caring naturally, organically, then good for you. Some people need TV or whiskey. Some people need opiates, and some people need God. 

Whatever it takes to get your head on the nod. 

I'll take this stance and polish it. Put my feelings in a box and then demolish it. I'll do whatever it takes to spare myself the need for critical thought. 

Want to see the new iPhone I just bought?


  1. My sign-in isn't working... interesting observations on this way of thinking. I like the idea of trying to stay still, to become invisible, but knowing it isn't possible. Love the funny ending. (

    1. And it’s back – the Mader Rap ™
      I love the narrative voice you’ve used here. You make it look effortless and I know damn well that it isn’t. You skitter about all over the place with your choice of imagery, but that’s all a part of the show. It’s truly amazing.

  2. My sign-in isn't working...


    Reflections pale
    in pools,
    blistering. The day long,
    nights everlasting.
    Speckles. A dance
    of water breaks.
    Impenetrable light.

    We take strides,
    listen in,
    hear the refractions,
    faultless lines.
    A smile bends
    like a bow.
    Incalculable might.

    Bursting globes
    of liquid mist.
    Struck out
    from the dark,
    utterly restless,
    a cave of


    1. I sense that this resonates a little with Dan’s post above, either tangentially or by your using a similar voice. You’re using snapshots and sharp visualisations and the effect – to me at least – is a little surreal but still calming. It’s challenging and demands numerous rereads. It’s quite intriguing and very well written.

  3. White linen

    He waves it from the windows,
    a lost symbol of innocence,
    from rotting walls and rooftops.
    The mountains stare back,
    united in their unholy silence.
    An impenetrable fog.
    It’s a story without substance,
    bent and forced to live.
    The white linen, it blows
    in the wind, catches on
    stick limbs of trees amid
    the murmurations of birds
    cycling a path born of air.
    It waves its last in the din,
    this acceptance without question.
    The flock has risen.


    1. I love the atmosphere you’ve created here with so very few words. You’ve painted a scene with such accuracy that I could almost paint it and given that I love grim-dark themes so much, it stirs me, making me savour each line. It’s incredibly well written and you should be congratulated. Bravo.

  4. I’ve lost a lot of weight since I began chemotherapy. Food doesn’t taste the same; it’s impossible to engage with it like I used to. I used to feel a thrill whenever I ate before, relishing everything I chose to put inside my mouth. And then, once it was there, I used to savour each bite, rolling it across my tongue, pressing it up against my teeth, and delighting in the textures and flavours it released. Food was better than sex, it was always available; I could take pleasure when on my own and with other people. So many choices and it was never a disappointment; I was in control, satisfying my own needs, taking without a shred of hesitation.

    But not now. Food is grey. Or beige. It’s dead matter; chemicals I need to survive. I remember the bags the nurses used to plumb into my arm – angry with poison and electric death. The things I eat now are exactly like that; a means to an end, equations and formulas in physical form, calories, vitamins, and unknowable trace elements all spun together to create a mush that my body demands I choke down every day.

    And where’s the attraction in that? Why would you choose to put yourself through this ordeal each day? Life has become a habit that’s been thrust upon me. I have more people now than I ever did wanting me to stay alive. Nurses, doctors, consultants, surgeons; they’re all well-meaning, I suppose. And I have appointments lined up ahead of me until the end of days. A dutiful skein of support that enfolds me. Commitments: an institution painted in beige.

    I must apologise. I digress. I find that so easy now. I’m like a necklace of beads without the thread to corral them, my thoughts scattered and without form. I don’t recognise the person I’ve become, a stranger with thinning hair, gaunt and with a sallow complexion, wearing clothes that will never fit him again.

    Food is where I began – the place we all come from – developing from the simplest of actions to the art that creates indulgent symphonies of delight. So many choices, skills to be learned, and a host of gleaming equipment you need to buy.

    It’s an all-consuming passion. An encapsulation of life.


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