I initially thought these were ferns, but they’re really clever impostors. Canadian lousewort, or wood betony, is found all over the East Coast in a wide range of habitats, although the ones shown here seemed quite happy in their cozy forest home.
Unlike ferns, lousewort produces flowers, which are apparently quite popular with pollinators. I heartily approve.
I had to wake up insanely early for this shot a couple of years ago—in July, the sun rises at 5:30 a.m. over New York.
I couldn’t believe how clear and haze-free the sky was that morning: just like a cold winter day.
I found a quiet bench where someone had left a pair of sunglasses, and popped them on to watch the show.
It wasn’t an innocent time, but the world felt less constricting then, and for a moment at least it was a little easier to catch my breath and find some optimism.
There will be more golden days ahead, but I’m steeling myself for the long, hard slog to reach them.
This is, after all, what I was built for.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
The clock runs down as the dinosaurs ravage each other in a blaze of fury and spectacle,
Looking less like the masters of an apocalypse than the two-bit players of a cheap Vaudeville act.
The age of the fossils is belching its last noxious breaths,
And in due course, the aging reptiles with childish dreams of domination will be swiftly forgotten
As enough of the spectators — though not all, of course — finally admit they were never great to begin with:
We just put stupid old monsters on the stage for our distraction.
Then they overstayed their welcome…
One year from now, it will be a brand-new world.
Those who wish to control everything outside themselves won’t like it a bit,
And the people who subsist on fear and bullshit are presently withering into their graves.
There have been harder times than these,
And the sun still shines its light on everyone.
Viewed from the distance of time and space, this is but a passing moment, albeit a pivotal one.
It’s time to dance in defiance of the doddering demons who play God so badly,
And dare to hope for a better future.
Those who seek to suppress and dominate
Are the ones least in control themselves —
That truth has made itself abundantly clear.
The only thing you can ever manage is your own soul,
But you find that difficult, boring, and scary —
You’d rather fuck with everyone else’s instead.
Your toddler games fool no one:
You are an infantile fool lost in fantasy;
Your moral imperatives are a clear deception.
You may distort appearances to fit your fancy
But the laws of reality will never bend to your delusion,
And in no way will you ever command the soul of another.
For each life you think you’ve successfully restricted,
Another hundred, somewhere, are defying your madness
With their every breath and movement —
All power to them.
Your narcissism has been indulged for too long:
It’s time to attend to your own demons,
And stop playing the part to everyone else.
As your wrath and rage have been vicious and unsparing
I will spend the remainder of your existence
Mocking your arrogance and lunacy in equal measure.
The world was not made for you,
And your life is a passing fart,
So pull your head out of your rotting ass.
Of course, you’re stupid to heed wisdom,
And only in your last dying gasp are you likely to fathom
That you utterly wasted your life on nonsense.
Shut up and slumber, you loser titty baby.
Fuck me harder, Daddy,
I’ve been so very naughty.
Whip me around and slap me.
Scare the ever-loving shit out of me
So I can feel alive.
Tell me you’ll kill me
With your tiny hands around my neck
Then change your mind at the last moment,
Because I love the adrenaline rush it gives me.
I’m on my knees begging for you
With tears in my eyes.
I’m all yours, Daddy,
Completely surrendered to your will.
You hold my life in your hands,
And I tremble in your powerful presence.
I can’t do anything without you, Daddy.
Control me like your little bitch.
Bend me over and thrust me deeply
Until I’m red, white, and blue.
Is it a White person’s shit or a Black person’s shit? Maybe it’s the shit of a Hispanic or Asian.
Did a woman crap it out? Or a man? What if it’s the feces of another gender entirely — such a shit show!
Perhaps a Republican dropped this dookie, or maybe a Democrat pooped it out. What if some fucking Independent plopped it in the bowl?
Did a fabulous, wealthy person pop their turd, or did some lowly poor churn out the butt sausage?
Surely this is the crap of a purebred American — but what if it’s the dump of some illegal foreigner?
No, I suspect a Christian dropped this deuce…but maybe it was a Muslim. What if an atheist did it? Dear fucking God, it’s so difficult to know.
In the end, it’s all bullshit, and it stinks.
Just flush the fucking toilet.
Many people love dogwoods—I don’t.
Sensitive to the changing climate and highly vulnerable to disease, dogwoods are now rapidly becoming extinct in the forests of the Southeastern United States.
They’re also increasingly difficult to grow in even optimal conditions, and apart from the few weeks when they bloom each spring, I think they’re homely little trees.
I do, however, mourn for the birds, pollinators, and other animals that subsist on them, and I hope they can adapt more successfully than the trees have.
Many things will go extinct in my lifetime—the dogwood is likely one of them.
This is my tribute.
He wasn’t a nice man by any means: coarse, gruff, surly, and prone to cussing out clients and co-workers.
He wasn’t that much older than me, but looked ancient — a good fifty pounds overweight, bulging beer belly, balding head, and a thick, graying beard.
He had a wife and several children and clearly resented the role of family man, bitching about them constantly. The way he talked about women’s titties all the time, I knew he wasn’t getting any either.
On Mondays, he’d boast about being a deacon at his church, struggling to recall details of the preacher’s message. He liked the bits about punishing sinners the best, although he admitted to occasionally falling asleep during the sermon. As he blathered on about being a holy man, I’d secretly roll my eyes.
He was skilled at his profession, I suppose, but dumb as a rock about using a computer, which he masked with typical bravado. I sat near his desk and observed the same scenario many times:
He’d peck slowly at the keyboard, struggle to understand some basic program, mutter and sigh a lot before blurting out, “Something’s wrong with this computer. Must be a virus.”
That’s how he got into the habit of getting me to “fix” his computer. “It’s slowed down. Need you to clean it up,” he’d tell me, before barreling out the door. All I ever did was clear his browser history, making note of the porn sites he’d been visiting.
I guess he liked having someone as a wingman, so he started bringing me along to different work meetings, always hauling me around in his giant pickup truck. He’d rant and rave about the state of the world and talk about himself a lot, rarely asking anything about me. At some point, he started sliding his arm behind me while he was driving.
He usually took off early on Fridays, but one Friday afternoon, we had gone to a late meeting, and he still had to drop me off at the office — he didn’t even know where I lived. When we got into the truck, he suddenly said, “Going out with the wife tonight. Need to change my pants.”
Before I could respond, he was crawling into the back seat, his ass passing in front of my face. I knew in a flash what was happening. It wasn’t an invitation — I knew the kind of porn he liked, after all — but more a cry for someone to validate that he still had it.
Ok, I’ll play along, I thought. Somehow, I’d developed an affinity for the guy.
I watched in the rearview mirror as he took off his dirty jeans, awkwardly shifting and positioning his crotch so I could see it better. His thighs were wide and surprisingly pale and smooth.
The bulge in his tighty-whities was unremarkable, but the sight of it was no less jarring.
His breathing was labored as he pulled on a pair of tight black jeans. Then he opened the door, slammed it shut, and walked to the front.
As he sat down at the steering wheel, I shifted my eyes toward him without turning and said, coolly: “Looking good.”
“Thanks, man!” he beamed with a wide grin, zipping up his pants. I think I made his year.
