WASH MY BRAIN, IT’S DIRTY
With the U.S., in terms of why it is so incredibly easy to take advantage of a moment of crisis [it] is because this is such an amnesiac culture. More than being an amnesiac culture, it’s a culture that makes amnesia a point of pride—the idea that you can reinvent yourself, that you have no history, that you have no past. It’s really a culture that’s been at war with memory since its inception. It sees memory as baggage. … I do think until historical memory, including the bad parts, is something that’s valued in the United States and amnesia is no longer fetishized, these patterns will repeat. Because people without memory are putty. …That war with memory—particularly the refusal to look at the original genocide at the founding of the country and slavery and the fact that it’s seen as unpatriotic to look at the difficult parts—I think is the biggest aid in the use of shock again and again in the United States.—Naomi Klein
i am in need of a washing, i am just too contaminated, i’ve just contaminated myself altogether too much. i am searching for a regimen, a program, a corporate-controlled paradigm taking no-bid contract taxpayer dollars for delivering cooked-book results; i’m pining for a collectively sanctioned plan to clean me, cast me anew into something—someone—presentable, sans blemish, predictably perfect, suited for an age that is more volatile than it cares to admit, fit for an era in denial of its fascist aspirations.
my brain is not new: pesticides and fluoride have done their work in only a couple of short decades, radiation on all sides chips at protective bone mass until inner cells will inevitably divide and subdivide rebelliously, erratically; my soul is eroded, when i look into the past there’s only lead and government rbgh cheese beginning to wipe away whatever soul i could have been born with while my embryonic self was developing in an atmosphere of federally-approved psychotropic (fluoridated) medications—because my mother was functional enough to comply with chemical handcuffs but not enough to be employed— mercury-leaking teeth eating pcb-toting fish warping what neoconservatives believe is sacred at conception, but not holy enough to be nourished with anything more than obesity inducing high fructose corn syrup once it’s out of the vagina and vaccinated with autism—controlled demolitions are the symbols of our age, the true emblem of our zeitgeist. some get out in time, but some are calculated into the collateral, will be swept by debris.
if i’m disorganized it’s because i have no home base, it’s because i’m finding the applications to hoovertowns a little invasive to fill out and i’m sorry that people distrust first and never stop judging. so people failed by other people try to use children they can’t provide for as a shield against stigma. this is what my parents did: they thought they raised a worker, but i was born under a more fragile star, a constellation that wanted only art.
so the poor are the ones who have to bear the burden not only of work, but the burden of memory: for the stomach, when full, forgets what it was like when it was empty.
my family always paid their taxes even if it meant feeding me, with digestive disorders, cereal three meals a day. more than half of all corporations paid no corporate taxes in two thousand and five, midway point of the first decade in the twenty-first century.
through money and force, you want to baptize everyone: but when the water’s bloody, saturated with excreted drugs, and filtered only to look unoffensive to the squeamish eye, the silver placed in at birth to prevent blindness can only do so much. the swaddling clothes are a fascist curtain, the legs don’t grow and walking is always a suspect prospect. through money and force, you want to baptize everyone, make all faces into your own image or the image of what you feel is beautiful. this is a war of aesthetics, as all battles are. & so we will never understand: if there was true freedom, war would not exist. the minute you prod or persuade someone to kill for you is the minute decisions are suspended. no one thinks, everyone acts, just to keep the red water off themselves and keep the blue in their veins.
no, you refused the greatest part of myself i could give you. i can forgive, though, you ruined by state-sanctioned poisons, arsenic in the water, msg and aspartame in the food—the only food you could afford to put into your body, your body sold into the world of work, your body not your own, your body giving birth to bodies that would not own their bodies. "tame" in the aspartame—you are docile and always, always working, but never building toward making anything that could make you happy, redeem your soul, capture the bliss you have forgotten. and so for many years i had to forget my bliss in an attempt to heal you.
i don’t know what’s more civil, the rejection letters or the lack of rejection letters. a new generation’s turnaround: i was able to be educated, but not able to be employed. one step above ancestors, but still hitting the ancestors’ wall, just a little later, just with a somewhat delayed crash, but i’m still pulverized into the same pieces.
i’d throw caution to the wind if it didn’t blow back in my face so often.