The Dog Feed Article 2

The Dog Feed

As some of you may know, I have been questioned on my article by a number of people, from both UPLB and outside sources, and I wish I could elaborate further on the replies of others without stirring up a rather large argument, however, I fear that if I do not I will bring about a world of trouble for my article’s credibility. I’d rather not cause a riot, but here goes: (*Before I begin: Please do not take this personally, again this is my view, and this is for the Dog Feed. In no way do I wish to harm reputations or cause a stir, I just want to show my point. Thanks.)

The point that I made earlier still stands even though there are those who are supposed to be good at heart. With the shit that I said in my last article, I am entirely aware that not everyone is the same. I am not stupid, but take a look around, the public isn’t either. They know that I generalized and they know in their hearts that there are more than “1 in 3 candidates” (quoted from a current standing official in the UPLB Student Council) who actually want to do something, but what they do is what counts. However, again, if you look at it through public eyes, the interest that the voting population would sustain would probably be just until they finish the free food given to them. They don’t really care that you say you are different. You can fuck with their wordplay until they bleed letters from their ears, but it won’t really matter. They care that you show your point, not just stand and verbally defend. If you wanted to do so, prove me wrong with your actions while you still can. That’s what people care about. They care if they see you go outside and take a piss on someone’s deserving face, but they do not care if you talk and talk for hours on a podium. For a shitload, actions speak louder than words. (Not that I care, I’m just writing the Dog Feed for fun.) The problem is: every one of these people there who try to defend themselves against a vague article on student politics that was directed at the candidates, are generally candidates. With just that, you’ve already sold yourself to the branding machine.

Now to further elaborate on why my point still stands; even those that are good at heart try to shield themselves from the inevitable questioning that will ravage their image like a starving tiger seeing a lonely antelope on a vast plain. Now, by defending yourselves, you’re just proving my point. You guys didn’t have to come out and say that you were innocents to the fuckery that was said in the other article. If you didn’t then you knew yourselves that you were innocent and that you did a pretty damn good job. However, since you did, it just shows that you guys are trying to protect your image, without me actually accusing you of the fuckery in particular. You try to defend your comrades as well, hence shoving my point twice as far up reality’s ass. If you wanted, you could’ve sent the same message to me alone, but instead, you guys wished to come out and say it here in the open. It’s the image that counts in politics. See? Comparing this to a playground situation, let’s say that one asshole kid wants to be leader, and then towards the end of the day in the playground, one of the other kids decides to try and shove a mental dildo up his cocky ass by saying that all the kids who have been leaders are the same. Note that he does not fuck about by saying that the leader as of now is the redundant bastard. So now this leader kid replies that no, I am different and nicer, which is generally what the other bastard leaders did. See the point? To put it plain: Defending yourselves verbally ain’t gonna do shit. Prove me wrong by acting on it, and then the public will get at you. I’m giving you a free pass to use my article to boost your image, and yet you guys choose to tank me on this instead of making the public see you for yourself.

I am just here to speak and speak and speak. I’ve built an image so that people around the internet forums respect my ideas and such. Now I’ve given you the chance to use my article as a springing step. Hell, I even cursed a lot in the article, making this shit almost like trash. You could’ve bought yourself an eternity of worship by proving me wrong with this and that. Instead, you tried to attack a more simplistic concept, the concept that everyone is different and that you yourselves are innocent to the accused topic (which was pointed at the general direction of the candidates [not naming names] and not the current running officials). This just proves my point that the campaign in about image, and that majority of the people wouldn’t care or even read this goddamn reply. Good day.

(c) Anachrony “The Dog Feed 2012”

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The Dog Feed Article 1

The Dog Feed

So we get a couple of pretty candidates to run for Student Council Office…

I suggest that all political parties just talk, and not advertise themselves, or go out to shake hands with passersby, telling them to vote for you. Earlier today I received handshakes from my friends who were members of the Buklod (UPLB Political) party as I was going about my schoolwork. On most days they would give a friendly wave or smile, and we walk past each other as if we each had our own distant world to conquer. I’m not saying I do not appreciate it, nor am I saying that I’d like to ruin friendships, but let’s step back a bit. (I’ve voted for Buklod before.)

We are Students, not the average junkies or squatters and bums who roam the streets poor as fuck. We’re not cavemen either, nor are we people whose minds can easily be fucked with. We can think. We can speak. Not to brag, but we do this better than a shitload out there. Now here’s the point I’m trying to make. Let’s not be gullible, nor let us be swayed by the simplicity of free food and other trinkets. Look and listen to the candidates, but never do it one at a time.

You see, language is like a whore. It can take many positions to satisfy different people. Pleasing in good ways for some, bad ways for others. That can’t be helped. Some people just won’t like the choice of words of this specific candidate. No, I’m not telling you to be open minded about the words. As I’ve said, words can be shape-shifted to mean this and that at the same time to different people. Now, if we mix the words with the body language. Disregard the fear and the shyness, and you can see who really means what they’re saying, and whose guts are in the right place. Watch your candidates, see if they feed that lonesome dog near LB Square. Look at your candidate when he/she is not campaigning and listen twice as clear then. Siphon the bullshit and you’ll get what’s what of the candidate.

Politics (election campaigns in particular) should not be so trivial. It should be gut. If everything was trivial, then we might as well have hired robots to finish the job for us, since we humans cannot be trivial 100% of the time. Nor can we manage to be relative for others while maintaining triviality. The essence of election campaigns is to win the public over. Now in what way do I suggest people go about it. I suggest people dispense with the bullshit, dispense with the plans and forms and structures and fucks. I suggest they stand on that podium, and talk about themselves. The best judge of character would be the reaction among friends and family, classmates and teachers. If people would just shut the fuck up for a while and talk like a regular person, and not like a candidate, then people would be able to choose.

It’s not the problem of the voters, who vote for the candidate of their choice, it’s the problem of the candidates. They lie, give false smiles, shake hands with no meaning to it, and do all sorts of fucked up things that end up making others see an obvious plastic mask distorting what was once a friend. Fuck. Right? Now I challenge the candidates, when they go about school, not to wear their Candidacy ID’s, not to wear the shirt of the party they represent, and not to wear that mental mask. I challenge them to go out for one day, and campaign to the people like the people. Talk and walk, cut classes, rush with people, eat with people (don’t buy them food), and just look at the lives of your voters and see what is really fucked and what is really trivial.

I may not be a candidate, and I doubt I should ever be one, nor do I have a feeling I want to, but I think that this is how a candidate should go about his/her campaign. I’m just your average insane bastard walking among you. Good night.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012 “The Dog Feed Articles”

Dear (A Letter)

Credits to Anachrony

Dear,

I can’t say that this world, and this letter, would mean something, something more than love, but inevitably, my mind had conjured up such disturbed thoughts I think I need to share with you, and only you. I’d felt heartbreak, my dear, for quite some time; many times. Each time was different, although it was inevitably the same. As I wandered through my playlist, knowing that the words of my everyday music could not soothe me the same way, I looked up some of my favourite piano instrumentals. You knew the type. The one’s that I had indeed professed my heart to. I had no soul, was the term, quite apropos to the thought, more of memory. Befitting… I had none I believed, but I was sure I had a heart, kept somewhere within the depths of my mind’s perception. Of course those beats that plunged my chest into the physical realm are not what I had meant. I intended for something ineffably more. It was somewhere in my mind, and I knew my brain had something to do with these, these, pieces of shit that couldn’t have brought about more trouble than a generation of criminals. I’d changed my playlist, anyway, since then, and listening once more to those songs. It brings me back to the visage of elysian fields. It just brought about the trouble that is this letter. Fuck, my dear. Just, fuck.

My brain did its job and so rose the heart; emerging from the depths of my mind, like a snake to an Indian flute. It popped up, peeking. Peering if there was anything that sought to cause it harm, and when someone played my flute, it would always respond in the same way. The same fearless and trusting way, as if only the true piper could play that song. I knew how to play it, of course; I own the snake, the flute, the basket, and the tune, heck even the field that was my body. I still do. I could play it well, and bring about my heart to slither into my fingers, releasing the venom in the form of ink. Every time however, when another person played, my snake would be hacked at, not by the pied piper, but by the onlooker who saw my snake as a worldwide liability. The venom was the source of the illness, and most never understood that the venom itself was also the cure. Fucking idiots… It wasn’t that hard anyway, to think of. It wasn’t hard to imagine. That was, of course, in theory, but my statement was what I’d only wanted to believe. Every time, of course, it was not… No. It was never the onlooker but it was the piper who sliced. The piper did slice away at my venomous love snake, and each time, the piper was told to do so by an outward force. It was as if god himself, if ever he even existed, had commanded this horde of flute-players to my mental basket, and each time, the order was to trick it out and hack away. It was a demeaning thought, but as I’d said, my dear, I’d felt this heartbreak a million times, and a million times I shall feel it over, until that one piper defies god and takes pity on my battered snake. I can’t say god damn, I can only say, damn god.

Going back to the music, dear, those fragile pieces and tid-bits of music so inspiring and difficult, yet so lightly played by those who had composed it. Fucking esoteric bastards, they were. I recall those times, happier times, when such songs I could treat as water, simply changing figure with each new container. Each new instrument held the music as if water in a glass so translucent. It was guaranteed that it was trouble, but, again, a common misconception. It was not the music that was troubled, it was the listener. It was the listener, so affected by the sound, that it rallied emotions to its apparent worthy cause, thereby giving the physical body a little more than enough to work with. The body indefinitely gave consent. How couldn’t it? IT WAS the brain, after all, who assumed the transparency of the fluid from that translucent glass. I just couldn’t see that yet, dear. I was content with the joy I found in portraying the music in the way that pleased me. Words… Never-the-fucking-less, it was a happier time during the course of my life. It was all too pleasing, and shit, I’ll be damned if you, of all people, do not understand this. Meh. Those composers knew not what they were capable of, or they simply didn’t show they knew. Either way, their actions could have been summed up in one word; apathy. Selfish in their ways, they compose to their heart’s delight. They had venom, too, and they used it to their advantage. Only theirs, and theirs to own; those audible drugs were medicine for their souls. Those drugs were just street drugs to others, pleasingly poisonous. The paradox that is their venom existed for themselves, but shared with others wore a different effect. Would they care about those who heard the music? Would they care about the bums in the street? Would they care about the rich, living splendidly in lavish homes? Would they care about you? Me? US?!

That’s the point, isn’t it; us? You, me, and nothing else, my dear, would have mattered if not for the music. Oh, and forgive my streetwise grammar. I’m a dumb fuck who writes to you from a vacant space, lost without thought of time or purpose. Remember that time when we had gone to the docks and you dared me to jump into the waters because I described it so poetically? I fell into the waters not for you, but for me. Like a snake, and any other godforsaken animal on this planet, I need to feed. Forgive me for my latent confession, but I had fed off you. I’d fed off your life, being, purpose, soul (if you, or even all of us, had one), your eyes, lips, tongue, body, your joys, sorrows, horrors, and basically, your existence. It had given me my venom, protecting me from my own snakebite, embedded as a scar on my scales. I’m no zoologist, so whatever. I’m no swimmer, either, so you had to drag me out to shore. Me being the strong one, and you being, you, should have switched places, and like a comical movie from the 1930’s, we never switched places. I was mad, for a while, but how could I bite the hand that fed me? You played for me as I lay on your couch that night, wrapped in one of your towels. Your fingers, ever so wonderful, depressed themselves on the air holes, changing the note with such fervour, echoing your voice with each breath. It was the music. Nothing else would have fucking mattered if not for the damned music.

You played your song, and it called more than one snake. He came to the charm, like a spell-induced, drug abused, animal. Ravenous, poisoned, bewitched, he was slender yet firm. He had the fresh venom, but he was a python, more common worldwide, and I was, like those fucking composers, a bullshit king cobra. He was taller when he rose, but I could have easily outreached him if you had learned the right notes to my song. Almost undoubtedly the same with mine, your song was wonderful, and I’d rose, knowing that there was something familiar about the song, but it was not exact. It was not precise enough to bring about my whole. It was just that there was nothing perfect, especially if there was no god. If there was, your song would be his, resonating within each snake you meet, moreover with one as young and naive as he who had responded to your song’s call of duty. Just more commonly uncommon, though. Motherfucking-fuck, these-these, goddamned oxymorons. I’m intensely sorry, my dear. The music precedes my sense of decency and I didn’t intend to force you to turn an eye awry (though I can be sure you didn’t knowing you’d spent many a night with me like this).

Well, that’s what this damned letter is about, no? I’m sorry. My dear, I truly am. I’m just a snake, and well, there’s nothing else I can do about it. You did do something, however. You changed me more than you really do know, and I’m sorry that it was hard. I’m sorry that I took so long to contact you. I’m sorry that it took all these years. I’m sorry it felt like an eternity, waiting for something like the music, to force me to let you know that I am still alive. I’m sorry I made you suffer through the agony of the wait. I read the newspaper of our old place every day. I had a copy sent over to where I now stay, that I may read about the weddings, obituaries, and whatever information I could find on you. I called our shared friend every month, still do, actually. Tells me you’ve stopped playing the flute, and I ponder on asking why, hoping for a reply that might never come, even if I’d wanted it to. I won’t say who the friend is, because I know that with just a tiny piece of information, you will know my whereabouts (and that you might kill him/her in the process of finding out). I’m actually writing this from the view of my desolate hotel room somewhere in Asia. I figured it was a perfect place, time, setting, and song for me to write to you. And I’ll be damned, because this is too fucking coincidental to discredit some supernatural force out there. You’ll never know where I really live, or at least I won’t let you. To the best of my ability, I won’t. I wish you the best in life and in love. I wish that you’d play the flute again, at least for some special people in your life, be they your children, parents, husband, or whatnot. With much pain, sorrow, emptiness, and a world of regret, I’m sorry. Take good care, now, you hear, my dear? Take care of those two; Jane and James. I know you named one after me. Thanks for that, but they’ll probably never know where you got the name anyway. I know you won’t say. They deserve that song of yours, though. They deserve it more than I do. I just have one more thing to say, though, before I leave. Forgive me, but it goes a little like this:

He came knocking at your door that night, and who was I to know what you’d done, much less, why?

 

I will always have you in my heart,

Sarah-Jane Nothdruft