from Ernest Ortiz Writes Now

When I used to work and had to go out of town I’d get a motel room, call Domino’s Pizza from the number printed on the motel key, pick up the pizza, and turn on the TV. Usually, I’ll choose the Food Channel to watch endless episodes of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives or Forensic Files on HLN. It’s a great way to enjoy myself after a long day of driving and investigating.

Two weekends ago, my family and I went to Sacramento for a friend’s kid’s birthday party at an indoor playground. Before we arrived at the birthday party we checked into a nice hotel and rested after a long two hour plus drive. The only time we turned on the TV was watching Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. I wanted to watch Forensic Files, but didn’t want to risk having uncensored footages of dead people scaring my children.

Whenever my wife and I have some alone time together at home or in a hotel room we would watch either of those two channels. It’s nice that we have that in common, among other things. I also leave Forensic Files on whenever I’m alone to write. Although hearing the word, diatoms, a bunch of times does get distracting. When my children get older and more mature I’ll introduce the show to them.

Maybe they’ll work in forensics. Hopefully, they won’t learn the wrong lesson of not getting caught.

#children #family #forensicfiles #tv

 
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from The happy place

When I was really young, we used to have a dog, it was beautiful, looked just like a Doberman.

Could’ve been a Doberman for all I know, with her bronze and black fur.

I remember sitting on the floor, and I bit her in the back, by her spine, just the fur, but still …

And she yelped miserably

And later they had to put her down, did someone shoot her?

I don’t know why, but I thought probably it was my fault, biting her like that, making her mentally I’ll

I thought

I don’t know why I did it, I wanted to feel it, I think.

I think I wanted to feel what it’d feel like

To bite this dog, to feel the fur

Her skin, you know?

This dark secret I carried with me for years,

The shame

But I was so young, I wasn’t even in school

I might’ve been four or maybe five years old

But I can picture still, the feeling of having her fur between my teeth

And her yelping

And her brown eyes, sad

And it makes me sad.

I hugged her afterwards, but I couldn’t unbite her

 
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from Lastige Gevallen in de Rede

Vrijwel niet

Dit 'geld ligt op straat' stukje heeft duizendenéén varianten (dit was nodig omdat ze steeds verdwenen van mijn digitale schrijfblok, en ik de vele edities daarom meestal maar bewaar in de hersenpan). De vrijheid in dit land bestaat enkel en alleen uit de vrijheid om te kopen en verkopen en alleen op de wijze waarop dat is toegestaan, alle andere vrijheden worden enkel toegestaan als ze de basis 'vrijheid' niet aantasten of ten goede komen, de natuur als afgebakend park, om campings en hotels te ondersteunen, als getemd dier in afzondering van soortgenoten, voor handel in brokjes, als opslag of buffer om het winkelhart te beschermen tegen de waarheid, als een doorvoer plek voor mensen en mensen spul transporterende voertuigen, luchtwegen en waterwegen ... en cultuurlijk als ons voedsel reservoir, kortom als fictie voor het voor altijd in vertaling zinvol omdwalende brein maar nooit als haarzelf, in vrijheid)

Het geld ligt op straat het is de laag waar u overheen gaat het is het teer voor wegverkeer het geld ligt op straat het zijn de klinkers gebakken klei gelegen op een zelf herhalende rij het is de rugpijn voor de dokter de machine in de machine de nederlagen nodig om een ander te dienen het geld is de straat waarlangs de bedenkers van de staat liggen gehuisvest ook al verankerd in gebakken klei en in steen gehouwen een landingsplaats voor te vullen gebouwen slapend wordt het rijk rijker dan het is wel het water niet de vis wel de vlucht niet de lucht het geld ligt op straat in lege wikkels in volle bakken met evenvolle plastic zakken of met zand en aarde bedekt zodat de aangerichte schade niet door de verse facade lekt samengevat, vierkant en plat een gemeenschappelijk budget gat inmiddels in dienst als wandelpad gekraakt en verpulverd kust restant bedekt het tegen water afgeschermde land verkenner van het heden aangevoerd uit het verleden het geld stroomt over straat is de elekrisch aangedreven tijd waar mee u vroeg maar toch te laat opstaat is de reden voor de uitlaat als u in gezwinde vaart rijdt over de geldstraat de straat is nodig als deklaag voor goederen als geld stroom voor het opwekken van werkloon voor verplaatsing van troon plus kroon en de instrumenten van de macht gereedschap van weg en wacht de grondstoffen voor het maken daarvan reden voor ontstaan van het beperkte compleet afgedekte land allen die heen en weer gaan, reden te over hebben voor het er niet bij laten hebben nood aan wegen, stoepen, banen en straten het geld ligt op straat voor en achter de deur waardoor u ergens in en uit gaat is de harde cultuur laag waar u met beide beschoeide benen op staat of op aangeschafte rubber wielen overheen rijen op een volle brandstof tank of op geladen batterijen voor geld staat geparkeerd op de u aangewezen plek zodat u wagen niet verzinkt in drek of vastloopt in los zand van het onbewerkte land de verdekt opgestelde parate staten van de bijwegen, zijwegen en als vanzelfprekend hoofdstraten de bron van de zegen des vele heren wegen motor van wel vaart is de kern van de eerste straat wij leggers van het dekzeil waarop we met rol koffers naar met hekwerken omheinde vliegvelden lopen we met vrachtwagens de natuur afvoeren een welke we voor de ruimte nodig voor onze bouwwerk kerken moesten slopen het geld ligt op straat en meteen daaronder zit onze ware aard

Het ware fundament waarop het onechte fundament voor altijd zal wankelen

 
Lees verder...

from eivindtraedal

“Minusvariant” handler om mer enn bare en dum kommentar om innvandrere på fylla. Det handler om et iskaldt menneskesyn der folk veies og måles etter sin markedsverdi, som vi må forkaste uansett hvem det rammer.

I etterkant av helgas skandale har mange nordmenn med pakistansk bakgrunn reagert ved å dokumentere at de slett ikke er “minusvarianter”. De er leger, ingeniører, jurister og gode skattebetalere. Det er naturligvis ikke noe galt i å vise fram disse suksesshistoriene, men som Sumaya Jirde Ali klokt skriver, ligger det også en felle her. Alle innbyggere fortjener respekt, uavhengig av hvor høy utdannelse de har eller hvor mye skatt de betaler.

Ideen om “minusvarianter” rammer ikke bare innvandrere. Det er bare dem det er lettest å ta. Det er som regel slik reaksjonære krefter opererer: de starter ved landets grenser, med de menneskene som står utenfor det nasjonale fellesskapet. “Utlendingene”. Dem er det lett å dehumanisere. Så jobber man seg innover. Først blir innvandrerne veid og målt, definert som “lønnsomme” og “ulønnsomme”, så, når vi har blitt vant til denne tankeøvelsen, står resten av oss for tur.

Gradvis snakker vi mindre om menneskers verdi, og mer om menneskers pris. Vi venner oss til tanken på at de som av forskjellige grunner er rike er litt mer verdt enn oss andre. Folk som jobber i offentlig sektor blir nedvurdert sammenlignet med dem som jobber i privat sektor (og dermed blir begravelsesagenten mer verdifull enn jordmora) Vi blir mer bekymret for skatteflyktningers ve og vel enn for krigsflyktninger. Og nåde deg hvis du ikke har noen markedsverdi, for eksempel fordi du er for syk til å jobbe!

Egentlig vet vi jo at denne tankeøvelsen er meningsløs. Under pandemien fikk vi tydelig se at markedets prissetting av mennesker ikke sammenfaller særlig godt med samfunnsnytten. De “samfunnskritiske” yrkene var ikke eiendomsmeglere, direktører eller aksjespekulanter, men yrker som sykepleiere, lærere og bussjåfører. Du vet, de utskjelte sliterne i offentlig sektor som sjelden kommer best ut på lønnsstatistikken.

“En kyniker er en som kjenner alle tings pris, men ikke dens verdi”, skrev Oscar Wilde. Partier på høyresida har alltid vært sårbare for denne anklagen Det er ikke tilfeldig at Erna Solberg lanserte sitt kandidatur som statsminister med slagordet “mennesker, ikke milliarder”. Det spørs om høyresidas nye stjerne, markedsliberalisten Sylvi Listhaug, er villig til å gjøre den samme øvelsen.

Uansett bør vi alle avfeie ideen om at det finnes “pluss-” og “minusvarianter” av mennesker i samfunnet vårt. Det er et sivilisatorisk tilbakeskritt. Markedskreftene kan gjøre mye nyttig for oss, men de kan aldri brukes til å vurdere et menneskes verdi.

 
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from Chris is Trying

This is a short reflection of a dream I had about 6 years ago, a dream that is still the most vivid & emotionally moving dream I've had to this day.


We were all there, just waiting out these final moments.

Waiting for our time together to cease.

There were seven, or eight of us. It’s hard to remember these details once we had passed through.

But we had spent eons together, wandering over this world, meandering around, obtaining knowledge, piggybacking off experiences and phenomena, learning so much about this strange landscape.

And the whole time the surface that rested below us was a potent reminder of how easily we could all fall into nonexistence.

It was always there, no matter where we travelled on this planet. It was on the mountains, it was covering the oceans, it was covering the plains. Any contact and we would be absorbed into...whatever it was.

We knew we’d have to go in there eventually. Once our abilities ran out and there was no more we could attain, we would start to sink. We’d stop hovering above the surface and get drawn into the inky, murky, swirly curtain that was draped over everything we knew. Like a balloon weighed down by a stone, we would end up unable to stay above.

So we had gathered together before the tiny stone gave us no choice. Before we would be forced into the carpet of mortality, the oil spill of endings, the endless not-quite-black, we would be masters of our own destiny. We felt more grateful than many of the others. To have all seven of us (or was it nine?) be able to experience this purpose at roughly the same time, there was a special connection that we treasured.

I looked (or whatever the equivalent of looking was) around at my peers. There was that familiar pulsing of pure emotion whenever we interacted with each other, but it felt stronger and more overwhelming this time, to the point where you couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was impossible to escape it, or to focus on anything else. The pulsing was reciprocated, of course. Because we knew this would be the last time we’d all be together, at least in our current forms. None of us wanted to accept our fate; being drawn into the oily surface where we would lose our camaraderie. So to delay the inevitable, we forced the emotion onto each other. That feeling of immense joy, counterweighted by the sorrow that our time together had come to a close.

We didn’t bother bringing up past experiences. We didn’t bother trying to invoke nostalgia to savour the moment. There was no need. We had all gone through several eternities together. We had seen others complete their purpose and fall into the murk, and we had seen new beings appear – always from nowhere, noone ever knew from where or what caused them to exist – and go through the same motions we did. And yet, there we were. Simply holding on to the final moment and just existing there, together, for one last time before we departed forever.

I don’t remember who fell into the surface first, but once it started happening, the pain from every subsequent passing was a little bit easier. In the end, it was the red one, the yellow one, and I who remained. The thought materialised that I never knew what colour I was known as – we were never able to communicate our own interpretations of what we saw, for some reason.

So when there was only the three of us remaining, there was an unspoken (unfelt?) agreement to sink into the surface together. And after one final pulse of emotion – not the strong, arresting blast like before, but a more measured response to give the moment some respect and dignity – we went in.

And for the first and only time, we would touch the surface.

#fiction

 
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