Textural and blazing
~griekspoor
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~bartender, I want a bottle of rye whiskey. No, I don't need a
glass or rocks, just the bottle. Let her swim naked. Doesn't anyone
in this place understand?

You see that jackass over there? He was ruffled the other day and
seems to be still, over this and that. What happens in the world,
the idiots, and some sense that things aren't what they should be.
I love him for it. But between drinks he said that he was
disappointed because someone's textural guns were poised but not
blazing, and damned if he wasn't talking about me. At least that's
how it hit me. Maybe I'm just afraid that someone will think I
don't care, that the passion doesn't burn inside me more than this
whiskey. It does.

So what. I'll bite, even if your fists weren't swinging at me. No
problems getting mixed in someone else's fight.

Remember watching the show M*A*S*H? Or weren't you born yet, maybe.
Not you, guy, I'm talking to the whole bar now. I think YOU will
understand me. I think YOU will agree. Not sure about the rest of
the crowd in here. Maybe not you too. Doesn't matter though.

Where was I? Right, M*A*S*H. Television used to have more meaning,
before someone punched a hole in the hull and let it descend into
the trench. Not that the show was perfect. Hollywood was still
Hollywood, self-absorbed bastards with a camera and too much money.
I'm glad the real writers lived and died before they could see how
badly some pathetic egoists could mess their work up.

Well, there was this one episode where Hawkeye (I'll drink to you
Donald Sutherland, dead as you are, you were worth your salt at
least!) went on a mission and came back broken. Not his body, his
mind. Mostly that's what happens in war. He wasn't the same person.
Tried to get help, but couldn't understand what had caused it. The
Viet Cong attacked the village where he was giving medical aid, and
he and the people had to take cover. One woman smothered a chicken
to keep it quiet; can't give away the position and get them all
killed. Everyone survived, where was the horror?

I have a friend who's grand daughter got a job as a nanny. Can't
manage their own kid, so they farm it out so they can keep on
making money I guess. Or whatever; just my judgment and probably
not fair. Never said I was. But she got this job, only to show up
and find that the kid thinks she's a dog. And worse, the parents
agree too. Used to be an insult if your parents called you a bitch,
now it's virtuous. Supportive, understanding, accepting. Love,
progress, liberal. Definitions. Wrong and broken ones. Tell me
again that definitions don't matter! Who was it last time? Who!

So here we are. Those parents won't get that girl the help she
needs. They don't want to, the doctors don't care anyway. Get her a
leash and some kibble. That's their answer. Be supportive, dammit!
Used to think this was something the nightly news made up for
ratings, now I've seen it for myself.

My friend's grand daughter refused to play pretend. Tried to treat
the girl like a girl. Got fired for it and came home. Out of state
job and she got fired because she wouldn't pretend the girl was a
dog. Avant-garde deconstructionist trash treating a young lady like
she's the problem with the world, sending her away for trying to do
the right thing.

Hawkeye spends more time in the reclined chair. You find out that
the chicken wasn't--it was a child. The woman smothered her own
child, to save everyone from getting killed. Hawkeye's brain
changed it, so he could go on living. Protected him, but broke him
too.

Pretend away realities in the world, in humanity, and see where you
land. See what your brain does to protect you. A little girl isn't
a dog, can't be. Calling her one is a grave insult; don't do it in
front of me. No one respects you for it. The people who claim to
aren't capable of respect, they're too broken. God, I love them for
how broken they are because I am too. I understand, I feel it. But
I don't accept it. It isn't progress. You want to keep going down
that road, you'll see how broken you will become. You'll see where
it will lead. Won't be laughing at you then, I'll be crying.

Is that hate? All that, what I said. Is it? Because I don't agree
with you, think you're insane? Because I speak? When I'm not
glaring at whoever is talking, I'm glaring at the rules. Don't
lecture me about them, I know what they are. I'm not stupid, and I
know I agreed to them. Doesn't mean I can't begrudge them. I won't
stop. I'm not asking them to change, so don't ask me to change.
What's the definition of hate, anyway? Is there a lawyer in he--no,
don't. No one will ever trust you again, just keep it to yourself.

Oh yeah, and that story from M*A*S*H? Based on a true one. Served
in or have friends who went to Vietnam? Then you already know.

There. That's what you get for a bottle. Went through it fast, but
saved the last swig for you.