Junk mail and nothingness

I received this e-mail in my inbox the other day.

And by "other day" I mean in December of last year. Look, e-mail isn't my forté, OK? It reads:

This is how you get the universe from nothingness. Nothingness is the property of not being. If there were a never ending amount of things to not be, nothing would not be able to not be them all. This is because never ending never ends. So the universe would be nothing getting around to not doing of a never ending amount of things. It would get around to not doing them one at a time. Each frame of time in the universe another configuration of it slips off into the past and becomes nothing. This would mean that there is a never ending amount of time in the universe. The future would go on forever. Now think of an example of nothing getting around to not doing a thing: where events slip off into nothingness. Look close enough and you will see that perception does this. Our perception is like a hole that experiences go into. The past frames of time don't stack up on the present frame of time. The past frames of time have become nothingness. Being that our perception is more like a hole than a material, might it be that we live after we die.

I think what this zany spammer is trying to say is that human beings are like walking black holes, swallowing a lifetime of sense data, converting it into memories and then obliterating it when we die. There is a strange irony to this version of our consciousness -- rather than being a thing in the universe -- it's a vacuum into which the things of the universe are made into nothing. Existentialism isn't being and nothingness, it is humans themselves: beings of nothingness.

I guess this is why it is so important to write things down.

And stranger still consider: our scribbles might be read by subsequent generations, and our thoughts could be kicked along through time like a pebble that keeps catching your foot. But of course one day when the very last human being dies, every human thought will die, and the transmogrification of our ideas up until that point will finally become nothing. History will be nothing. What it means to be human will be nothing. Everything will be nothing.

This last man (I say 'man' because I'm sexist) is the caretaker of an endless game of Chinese whispers, holding a paltry collection of human knowledge that has ricocheted through the ages like a silver pinball, ending up dented and faded in the recesses of his brain. Is that what it means to be human? To hold your shred of the everything, before your failure to exist turns it into nothing?

I need a better spam filter.

A country of broken necks

Spines are shattered; everyone's neckless
Rubbernecks never run for office
Let's just quit this rat race, looks like
God should flatly concede all trace–

Danglin' floppin', cubicles-airplanes
Chemicals taint and paint the insane
Pop the suicide champagne, looks like
Broken necks have marred our campaigns

Let's talk longings primitive instinct
Elements meet forever they're linked
Life's just endless rethink, looks like
Your march rages onward hoodwinked

Two cars meet in promenade conflict
Butterfly floats and stings to afflict
Us like meaning addicts, looks like
Our scribe deems us worthy handpicked

See the sea? It's literal magic
Bitterness corks longings pelagic
Yes, doctor it's tragic, looks like
Our neck's wring is automatic

One hundred forty two words about redheads

Readers,

I apologize for my absence. January slipped out of my fingers like a well-basted football; in that time I suffered no fewer than two existential crises, listened to Wagner's Gotterdammerung, confronted my own sense of failure, and my failures, and the act of failing, and turned 30 years old. Coincidence?

For lack of anything else, here are 142 words about redheads:

In the simple unabashed opinion of this author, all redheads should be gathered, transported to locations remote and gassed with poison until they are dead. I would also submit that redhead be strangled at birth with no exceptions. Here is why.

"Gingers" as they are affectionately known, are freaks with horrible translucent skin, appalling freckles and questionable dispositions. They are frequently heard complaining about things like "the sun" and the dearth of cosmetics that suit their ghastly complexions. When they are not complaining, they are intolerably cheery and possess a giddy bray that makes my knuckles whiten with rage.

I propose the systematic extermination of both male and female redheaded persons. It makes sense to detonate a nuclear bomb on Ireland and continue freakward thence, until the globe is scourged of this crimson menace.

Yes, even Amy Adams. I'm serious about this.

Love,

Harvey


P.S. It's just the Wagner.

This is how the world ends

With any luck, this new leader of North Korea will launch some nukes and initiate the destruction of the planet sometime next year. From what I understand Kim Jong Un is angsty and inexperienced, which I hope manifests itself as a penchant for nuclear holocaust. Push that button K-JU.

Because dammit, I tire of resolutions. I've done it a few times now, and I don't think I should face another year on this bumpy ride called Earth. And don't mistake this attitude as suicidal. Please. I don't think you should face another year on this watery top either. Let's call the whole thing off, and see if the birds can fare better. Twenty-eleven clinched something that we've all suspected deep down: humans have failed at life.

In 2011, I learned how to distill hate into enmity (metaphorically), and that dairy upsets me (digestively). Other than that, my annual report is thin, terse and tinged with loathing — and fabricated sales figures.

Like the underside of a barge, my spirits cannot be dampened; they are too soaked. I resolve to eat better and quietly hope that in the not-far-ahead future we all are positively drenched in radiation poisoning.

On stuff I refuse to wear

Bicycle helmets

I am a cyclist. This probably won't surprise you given my proclivity for beards, but it might surprise you given my proclivity for hating hate-able shit, and as any moron can tell you: cycling is well hate-able. For starters, a lot of cyclists are holier-than-thou tree-hugging, pedantic, passive-aggressive losers and I loathe to be associated with them in the slightest. I'm certain to like you less the more you like cycling, and this is multiplied by three if you wear clip-ins or own a bike you can pick up with one hand.

If you need more reasons to hate cycling consider the aesthetics of the entire endeavour. Perching oneself upon a "saddle", gingerly holding on to grips, pedaling to your destination with the wind in your hair, and the tring-tring of your bell in the city air. That's a textbook definition of "fey". Do I have to mention those stupid flip-up hats that bicycle couriers wear? Those goat-bearded, short-socked assholes are considered the tough-guys of this subculture. Jesus Christ.

But anyway, I hate driving more than any of this (much, much more) so I ride a bike. And I refuse to wear a helmet. This blog is called the Slow Motion Suicides, dummy, not the Slow Motion Safety Lesson. If I'm going out, I'm going out in a motherfucking blaze of asphalt-meets-aluminum-meets-my-skull-on-the-crosswalk glory. I want someone to puke at the sight of my annihilation. Besides if I'm sideswiped by a streetcar, my helmet will prove as effective as abstinence education.

(And studies have shown^{[citation needed]} that cyclists wearing helmets ride more recklessly, and that drivers leave un-helmeted riders more room on the road than those wearing safety gear and fuck you.)

Religion reform #19

I think for religion to survive in the modern world, it really needs to take a hard look at the concept of miracles. It's pretty clear that miracles do not happen. What does happen is events of this form:

• Man Miraculously Recovers from Severe Stroke
• Woman's Life Saved in Life Threatening Car Accident
• Sick Woman's Cancer Disappears Without A Trace

That is to say, a shitty event turns out to be less shitty than at first we thought. This is the stuff of miracles? It suggests to me that God — as the causer of the shitty event — is either indecisive or incompetent. Was he really trying to wreck that dude with a severe stroke? Then get 'er done, you homo. Was that car accident meant to be life-threatening? Did God change his mind at the last minute? Does he really have to resort to property destruction? Why give someone cancer just to take it away? That's the very definition of a Dick Move.

Of course, I don't expect an answer to these queries. What I want is beefier miracles. Some David Copperfield level shit. Jesus was popular because he raised from the dead, transmogrified water into booze, and defeated surface tension. That kind of jazz sells tickets. Modern miracles are so hackneyed and commonplace they're barely Interesting Happenstances let alone miracles. (If you have ever uttered the phrase "the miracle of childbirth" you deserve to perish in a housefire. Shame on you.)

I guess what I'm saying to the major religions is: call up David Blaine and get some shit going. Now. You can only reach Criss Angel? Whatever, it's better than nothing.

Suicide Mad Libs

Dear (name of person),

By the time you read this (noun) I will be gone. No longer can I endure a world of (adjective) pain and misery. That's why I had to (verb) off the (famous landmark) and (verb) my (noun). I'm so sorry.

Please tell (person) that I (strong emotion) them very much. I wish that things had gone (adverb) but because of my (name of social disorder) and my inability to (name of skill), I couldn't go on anymore.

I hope in (noun) you will understand why I chose to (verb) this way. I hate to (verb) you all during (name of holiday) but I had no choice. I am so (name of emotion).

Please don't feel sorry for me. I am in a better (name of household plant) now. There will be no more pain.

Please be (temperament) and tell my (proper nouns) that I (emotion) them very much. I will see you in (name of place where people go when the die). God bless (name of fruit or vegetable).

(Salutation),

Harvey

Dead teens

You just can't say anything bad about a murder victim.  Especially if they're under eighteen. Every news story about a slain teenager describes a straight-A student with a helpful demeanour, who "never got into any trouble."

Who are these people, and why do they keep getting iced?  Exactly zero teenagers I knew growing up meet this description, including me.  I had mostly Bs and Cs and sought various mild forms of trouble.  As for "helpful" and "always had a smile on his face"?  Fuck that.

Most teenagers are fucking assholes.  Egotistical nitwits that contribute zero to society and produce nothing but poorly-worded scorn and video game scores.  I'd happily execute a couple a day with a crowbar for exercise.  I'd snap their fucking skateboards in half too.

But I digress.  Really, I'd just love to read an honest news story about a teen that died.  To wit:

OAKVILLE — Barely 7 people gathered on the weekend for a half-hearted candlelight vigil at Coronation Park to pay tribute to murdered teenager and local jerk Harvey Kornbluth.

The remains of the 17-year-old man were discovered in a remote, wooded area in Coronation Park surrounded by Crispy Crunch wrappers and pornographic magazines.  An autopsy detected lethal amounts of stab wounds to his head, face, mouth and cranial area.

He had also been shot through the chest.

Kornbluth, who was last seen 12 November, was not well-liked by his school or community.  An average student, he did not belong to any clubs or groups.  He was known for his drunken-outbursts, his unkempt appearance, rowdy behaviour, and making out with your girlfriend.  Many students didn't know him, but those who did said they remember a bitter man, who was always ready with a snide or awkward comment.

Among those who attended Saturday’s vigil were a couple of relatives, and three acquaintances hoping to collect on debts owed to them.  Chuck Kessler was among the mourning visitors.

"Harvey touched a lot of lives," he said. "And almost exclusively in a negative way.  There aren't a lot of positive things I can say about a murder, but [Kornbluth's subsequent non-existence] is probably one of them."

Kornbluth's only cousin, who asked not to be named, said he’s overwhelmed by the number of people who have offered their support and condolences to his family.

"It's surprising; he was really such an asshole." he said. "And a pretty weird guy.  What was he doing in that forest anyway?"

The loss will prove inconsequential to the community, as Kornbluth was a staunch non-contributor and misanthrope.  Vigil organizer Lisa Dupont said she wanted to see if any of the guests would know about the $130 Korbluth owed her.

A funeral will take place this Thursday at St. Jude's Church.  Police have a suspect in custody who has confessed to the killing.  They are considering laying charges.

I'm glad I lived to not see that one.

S.O.B.ituary

It is with a noticeable amount of regret and mild sadness

The Kornbluth family and Kellogg's of Battle Creek

Announce the sudden passing of Harvey Kornbluth

Harvey kicked it on Monday, November 10, 2008

Kind of peacefully, but you could hear it

After a short Illness

That seemed to last forever

 Even though he went to the doctor three times and they gave him antibiotics

Still, nothing

Jeers and cheers are to be held on

Tuesday, November 18 from 18:00 - 18:02 at St. Jude's Parish

 Low-sodium snacks will be served

 BYOB

and

The funeral service / PowerPoint presentation of Harvey's Life (entitled: Maverick: The Life and Times of North America's Greatest Maverick)

Will be held on Wednesday, November 19, 2008 from 11:00 -11:33 with a reception to follow at the Toronto Jewish Community Centre

Free holishkes and kasha Prizes for best animal costume

All ages Feat. DJ seals-the-deal, and Arianna

Breakdancing competition to follow reception

Seder to follow breakdancing

No overt displays of emotion please

BYOB

All proceeds will be donated to the estate of Harvey Kornbluth

The deliberate march of the ancient Chinese

The Grange does teem of elderly Chinese
Might even say "infested" should you please
But that'd be racist -- so let's say instead
Distressed I am! Behold their languished tread
One never sees them at the gym or pool
Old lives bereft of work or play or school
Can merely pad about the hallway floor
And circumscribe the condo's corridor
And pondering my own time come to that
Pajamas, slippers, solitude, a flat
And mired in constitutionals, oppressed
Our footsteps drag death's hand into our chests
No thanks to walks I shan't the will to live
For that's just holding water with a sieve

Ice whine

Try to picture a crippled man wearing a hospital gown, poised between two parallel bars, struggling to get to his feet. His hands grip the bars with all his might, and his arms are shaking like trees in a hurricane. His determined face is wincing from the strain of his whole body weight. He is sweating, not from heat or fatigue, but desperation and fear. Every muscle in his torso is burning, but his legs dangle weakly. He is learning to walk again.

What's strange is that at night, in his dreams, he can walk and run. His feet move beneath him without a trace of effort and concentration. As though his subconscious mind doesn't know about the accident that paralysed him; about the fall that brought him frozen legs.

Each day nurses at the hospital coax his legs through tedious physiotherapy. Some days his progress is remarkable: for a few moments he can stand. Sometimes he can walk a short distance. But on most other days he must sit; and curse the feeble rate of his progress, and wonder when he will walk again.

Frankly speaking: this is how I've always felt about Toronto weather. The God damn icy winds, evenings that start at 4 pm, the coal-coloured snow caking the edges of streets, numb fingers and rivers of runny noses, and awkward trudging over unshovelled walks, and the heart-pounding realization that your car tires have forgotten the surface of the road, and the fact that everything takes longer in the winter, everyone is dumber in the winter, every God damn thing is one thousand times more difficult in the winter, and yes, it's much harder to stay warmer than get cooler you clods, and no, I don't think gentle snowfall in the evening is pretty, but a harbinger of a fucking season of death; a piercing, slow death, where the empty branches of trees reach up to the sky like skeleton hands, beginning for euthanasia, or a scarf, or chapstick -- in such conditions I can barely stand on my own two feet.

And summer, like the dream of being able to walk again, seems hopelessly distant. Perhaps I am being a bit overdramatic, but still. Winter blows.