Who cares?

The depth of humanity does not lie within the brightest corners of their mind, but rather the darkest.  I once heard a quote that stated something along the lines of how a person can eat dinner with someone every night for the course of their entire life, sharing conversations about every aspect of their lives, but if they truly wanted to know someone's core then they'd hang them over a volcano.  I believe that there is quite a significant amount of truth to that.

So when you meet someone who has the ability to walk through life's trauma as easily as they could stroll through a park then you've clearly met someone who is quite amazing.  That is, perhaps, the most empowering thing to watch someone do.  You see, at the end of the day, the things that one person can accomplish in their lifetime is something that thousands, or even millions, could have also potentially done.  Of course, because no two lives have been lived identically, those capable of such powerful lives may not ever get the chance to express them.

A person who currently resides in a Brazilian favela, as an example, could have potentially been the next Einstein had they been born in another country and to a far wealthier family.  Instead, their intelligence is reserved to the day to day survival of, essentially, street life.

Another person who is born into a wealthy family and with all the opportunities in the world may resign themselves to only valuing themselves based on the car they drive, or the clothes they wear, or their social status amongst their peers while otherwise being a person without substance. 

So, of course, it goes without saying that those who survive their struggles to come out the other side will learn things that others may never have the ability to learn.  A poor person will know far better on how to survive off of basic meals while a rich person would scoff at the notion of eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  The protein in peanut butter goes a long way when you're a growing kid.

It extends well beyond that, of course.  You give a poor person a ten dollar bill and it is far more likely that they will do everything in their power to make it up to you.  You give a rich person a ten dollar bill and they'd likely set it on fire by buying something of little to no meaning.  The amount a person can value something depends strictly on their understanding of what the value is.

So of course, when a poor person gives you the shirt off of their back then it is likely all they really have to give.  A rich person, on the other hand, could just go to the closet and pick out a nicer one. 

No doubt, of course, that there are plenty of rich people out there who have a deep appreciation for the poor.  There are also a plethora of poor people who are only poor because of their bad choices in life.  There is just a portion of me who really wishes that the world could understand that all people - rich, poor, and indifferent - could understand that we're all capable of good or bad equally and use that knowledge to learn to appreciate everyone. 

-Dustin S. Stover

Ranting

There's an abundance of evidence within humanity that it has never been the researched proof that dissuades personal beliefs, but rather, that emotions guide personal bias. Abortion is a prime example. Racism and prejudice in general. One could even go as far as to claim the plethora of religions as yet another. Whether someone believes in climate change or not. The support of politicians, and which side of politics you fall on. To be a human is to be perpetually lost within your own insignificance. Allowing one to invest significance in what justifies their own personal feelings is just a means to bring value to their lives without putting in substantial work to create the value. It is also quite the perplexing notion that those with the most conviction for their personal biases are also the ones most angered by those who disagree with them. Except, their's nothing perplexing about it once you consider that they've placed their entire value into their personal beliefs, thus leading to feeling insulted when someone disagrees with them.

-Dustin S. Stover

Knock

It started out as a humbling drive into the sunset but emotions grew, and before he knew it he was well above the speed limit.  In a world of automated cars, people who find simplicity by having the technology do all their work for them, and priorities have shifted to pleasure long ago it becomes an act of rebellion to be perceptive.  That is where the hero, or villain, of this story will reside.

His car is of a vintage nature, a time when there was a such thing as a driver and a driver utilized three pedals and a stick between the seats to control the speed and acceleration of the vehicle.  It was small, only having two seats as opposed to the modern cars with cabins of bed-like seats, and was built with the intention of putting a smile on the driver's face.  Now only a few would know how to turn a steering wheel as anything more than a novelty.

While cleaning out his great grandmother's home, years ago, he came across a collection of books.  He didn't even know what they were - it had been decades since the last one had been printed and now people just listened to books selected for them by the state based on their age, gender, and racial background.

Among the books were the likes of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus.  His grandfather, still remembering the old ways of reading, taught him the words within the book and talked to him about their meanings.  While this behavior was not strictly forbidden by the state, it had been almost exclusively pushed out of societal norms. 

Now our hero has found himself at odds with society.  Upon re-reading The Stranger by Albert Camus he began to see himself in the character - not so much the kind of person who could kill a person and then show no remorse for it, but a person who perceived the world through a detached emotion.  Another thing he began to notice was that everyone around him held no distinct emotion to their experience, no unique experiences.

His car, which had been handed down to him from his father whom got it from his father whom got it from his father, was weaving between the automated machinery.  Each vehicle altering it's speed automatically to allow him easier access - a design feature programmed by the early programmers of automated cars to ensure those who still enjoyed driving wouldn't be held up while they were breaking various laws.  It was also a way for the state to monitor people who drove themselves - see too many cars in a location altering their speed and you know you have someone driving themselves.

His wife, whom he shared conversation with before this drive, had proclaimed him mentally unsuitable for children due to his perception of the world.  To him, this was not only an insult but an absurdity.  He knew the people of the world were lost.  They are lifeless, thoughtless, selfless shells of the humanity that had existed for hundreds or thousands of years. 

He remembered when he first read Camus' classic, how it made him feel when he read about that fateful gun shot and ultimate murder.  He felt conflicted.  He knew it was wrong for that gun to be fired, he knew it was wrong to murder someone, but what else could he have done in the situation?  It was the first time our villain of this story realized that people could have choices, and from that point forth he begun being paralyzed by choices.  He didn't want to same soup for dinner than his wife cooked night after night.  That old car that had been passed down between the generations suddenly looked like a viable means to get from point A to point B, at least if he could learn how to drive it - so he did.

He saw the different races of people, whom he had never really had any real interaction with before since they were forced to go to school together, take the same jobs as one another, and eat the same foods as one another - all dictated by the state, of course, because the state believed it knew what would suit everyone best.  Suddenly, however, he wanted to try the other ethnicities foods.  What about that round thing that was shared amongst an entire family?  What about that steaming hunk of meat that would be sliced into several slices, each going to the children, mother and father?  He didn't even have names for these things as the only thing he had to eat was soup - night after night, with the same ingredients. 

The conversations he had with his wife about other ethnicities, trying different foods, and how odd it was that these people did not share things with one another is what led her to believe him unfit for children.  In his society, little did he know, it was always the wife's job to report abnormalities within the household to the state. 

In his rear-view mirror he saw flashing lights coming towards him fast, but he had no idea what this represented.  All he knew is that each of the other cars on the road were moving to the side and stopping, automatically, while his car kept right on moving.

At one point, he stood at the door of another family of different ethnic background, but he couldn't bring himself to knock.  He just wanted to ask them a few questions about their lives.  He had heard once, in passing, that every ethnicity spoke a different language.  He just stood at the door, he never knocked, and they never knew.

There was a loud THUNK into the back of the car.  A moment later the engine died, along with all the lights, and the fuzzy sound coming out of the radio.  The flashing lights came up on him fast, it was several cars, and surrounded him on every side.  Guns pointing directly at him.

"Your wife has told us how you think, what you feel.  You aren't allowed to think.  You aren't allowed to feel."

His final thought was about standing at that door - how he should have knocked.

-Dustin S. Stover

If you enjoyed this short story and would like to read more of my work, or would just like to support me in a small way (but really, I'd prefer if you purchased to read) then feel free to click the links below to buy my collection of short stories, Happiness in a Void of Darkness.  And thanks again for taking your time to read.

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The Perplexing Condition of the Youth and the Elderly

A child, young enough to be a great grand daughter to the old man, tells him a story about how a chicken makes a “po” sound. The old man sits confused as this is the most perplexing thing he has heard. “No, child, chickens make a 'cluck' noise.”

Noticeably upset, the child gets louder, as though the loudness will make the old man change his perception. It doesn't. The old man, worn from old age yet still defiantly stubborn, refuses to raise his voice as much as he refuses to change his mind.

The argument continues on like this for quite some time – the child now red in the face and flustered as she continues to convince the old man as to how wrong he is. The old man, having lived a great deal longer than the child, also knows her to be wrong, but as he tries to explain to the child that it is simply a matter of geographical understanding that has led each of them to the different perspectives the child interrupts with the explanation of just how wrong he is.

The old man attempts to change the subject now. Perhaps music would be a more appropriate topic, he thinks. Of course, the child has opposition to this as well. See, she is hip on all the modern music and the old man, well, his prime was decades ago. He couldn't possibly understand what constitutes as musical today.

He tries to explain to her how sounds have textures, how they create emotion with the various depths in which the instruments get played, yet modern music has little of this. Timbre, he calls it while describing what it is. Of course, the youth don't care. They know what sounds pleasant to their ears without the critiquing aspect. In a way, the old man is jealous at the simplicity of the little girl's life, yet he knows that eventually she is going to have to grow up and face the harshness of reality. Teaching her depth about the pleasurable things in life is just his way of trying to prepare her for the world to come - to look at things from a deeper perspective without suffering consequences in the process.

Then the child plays the old man a song – some new song that has a diabolically simple bass line with a few blip noises to hold time. She dances like a mad man as the old man sits back wondering what it is she is dancing to. It makes no sense to him as there is no rhythm to dance to, but he lets it happen anyway. He has gotten to that point where he understands resistance is futile and trying to understand her is worthless. Being perplexed stays, though.

He has to ask anyway, “what do you like about this music?” The old man asks in a very sincere, non-offensive way.

“I just like it. I don't have to know why,” the girl answers quickly.

The admiration of the simplicity fades into an annoyance, yet remains enough for him to still wish he could be so simple.

That, however, is when politics enters into his mind. Remembering the past, having watched so much happen that has led to the point they are at today – socially, economically, politically. The simplicity in ignorance is what has led to such a catastrophic state. The unemployment numbers may be down, but the average income is extraordinarily low compared to the cost of living. Slavery may have ended, but it has arguably changed to prison labor instead. Political parties work their damnedest to divide a country while neither side is working to benefit the society as a whole. This is the world this girl will have to face and the old man fears that if she can't even understand that her admiration for the song is nothing more than because of how familiar it is then how will she ever have enough comprehension to know that every action is equal parts good and bad – how will she know that the politicians she votes for, if she even votes, are going to use her lack of understanding to ensure they get her support?

The old man has lived too long, he feels, as he sees now that he is alone in paying attention. The rest of the world is like this small child – trying desperately hard to enjoy things as superficially as possible, and finding hope in the promises of those who would manipulate them for their own personal gains and the gains of those they support.

Teaching someone of any age to care is difficult, but a child? That is downright impossible when they feel they know better. Of course, the old man knows he can't live forever. He just wishes better for the future.

-Dustin S. Stover

Money is Survival

As though it wasn't enough, we have an entire society that worships money and all means to obtain it.  Now, there's the pitch.  The game is all the ways in which humanity cons itself to obtain it.

Why, though?  This question is equally damning for morality as it is a perplexing philosophical meandering into what happens to humanity once it's need for survival is replaced with the fruits of their labor with an idealistic piece of paper or an account controlled with a piece of plastic.

When I was a wee little tyke, elementary school is the earliest I can remember being taught this, I was told humanity needed three fundamental things to survive.  Now, even at the time I found one of them to be a rather arbitrary survival trait that was more dependent upon where the human was existing than anything else; however, those three items of necessity were food, clothing, and shelter.  For the sake of simplicity we will assume water falls under the food category.

I imagine, and research agrees, that before mass civilization existed those fundamental things were provided for in the small tribes, lacking in currency of any sort and essentially, if trading did exist, was done in a means that traded goods and items as opposed to using currency.

Currency changed that, of course.  No longer did someone have to give up their supplies or goods in order to gain someone else's.  Currency became a tool to enrich lives.

Again, for the sake of simplicity, I will leave out thievery and other nefarious means of accumulating currency and focus on the positive side of currency.

Tactically, this worked well because if two neighboring tribes or cities wanted to trade in this manner, it broadened everyone's lives with things they were not otherwise experiencing.

Now let me attempt to bridge this gap.  When times became hard and a farmer's crops didn't render enough food, currency alleviated that by ensuring that food could still be had.  Likewise if farm animals began dying off from some disease.  Currency then doubled as a tool for survival.

Now, in today's society, currency, or money, is our means of survival.  We don't have the land to grow crops on to eat, and even if we do most of us wouldn't know the first thing about growing our own food (or have the time).  Money is the requirement to put food on the table.  Without money we become homeless, we don't have shelter or clothing.  Essentially, those three necessities are now reduced to one singular necessity - money.

So what happens if one has to live off of such a small amount of money that they can barely afford those necessities?  Well, the easiest thing to do is attach a desire to wanting more of that money because, at that point, more money equals more survival, or, at the very least, better survival.

That leads us to our modern day.  Over 40% of the population in the USA can't afford the basic necessities.  Forty percent of the population in this country is struggling to survive. Forty. Fucking. Percent.

It is actually closer to 43%. (a quick google search will fill in the rest of that information for you).

If that many Americans are struggling to survive, imagine how many of those are wishing for more money.  If that is what they wish for, it is only natural for it to turn into a worship.  Afterall, the whole premise of things being worshiped is the wish for something else - in religions case, for a better world in the form of an afterlife.  People worship celebrities because people wish they were said celebrity.  Worshipping money is, like the other forms, an extreme form of desire.

The worshipping of money, though, is also what has created the idolizing of figures like Donald Trump, who exudes the image of wealth in everything he does - or at least attempts to.  That is also where the big con comes in.  Official record now states that he has told over 5,000 falsehoods and untruths since he became sitting president.  That isn't even in two years.

Better yet, a look into his history will show you how often he has conned people our of their money - a fake university, convincing city government to give him a substantial tax break for something he never returned on, all the way down to paying a company to make over an ice skating rink and then take all the credit - this being after he guaranteed they'd get their due respect.

And why has he done all this?  I can't imagine to answer the full depth of that question, but one very obvious and equally prominent answer is money.  Except, he doesn't need all of his to survive.

Of course, the average person isn't a con artist - they just want to survive.

-Dustin S. Stover

Humanitarians

We approached the big, brooding building.  It struck me the way an old plantation owner's house would strike a former slave, and perhaps that was the point.  No one buys a house like this without the intention of proving to those who gaze upon it that they are more important than everyone else around.

The giant white rectangle stretched three stories high and what felt like half a mile from one end to the other.    I'm not sure what I've done in my life to be affiliated with such people, but I find myself to be quite uncomfortable now.

The things we do for love, knowing it's futility and inevitable decline into the mundane, should always be a perplexing notion.  Here I am, though, walking towards the big double door entrance into a former slave owner's home.  A representation of every founding principle of a country that claims to have been for freedom.

The woman who answers the door, of course the mother of my fiancee, looks the part - a home maker wife of wealthy proportions with the most important decision of the day being what she will have sitting on the table when her all too wealthy husband gets home from fucking his mistress after a long day at work.  Or, perhaps, just the mistress's apartment he pays for.

Jamie never told me that this was the type of house she grew up in and, perhaps, that is why it bothers me so much now.  We met at a distribution of wealth protest on Wall Street.  Her and her well worn clothes and good weed, we spoke of how fucked up society was.  I was raised on the opposite side of the spectrum - getting a job at fifteen to help pay for rent and food for my siblings and mom, as her job didn't pay enough to support the rest of us.

That was years ago, though, and since then we've established a good routine of responsible adulting along with a healthy coping mechanism of occasional sex and limited communication, the way that married couples find themselves.

"Well good evening, Jamie.  I'm so glad you kids could make it for the weekend."  Jamie's mom gives her a hug and just peers at me while her head is behind Jamie's.

"It is good to see you, too, Mrs. Andrews."  Even the name sounds like she'd own slaves if she could.

The first thing I notice as we are walking through the massive, open entryway that stretches clear to the roof - balconies lining both sides with pillars supporting it all - is that there are women cleaning things.  Their french maid outfits look just innocent enough to be sexually submissive, but being fit upon black women seems quite an odd thing.  It isn't often, after all, that one sees African American women wearing french maid outfits in porn and where else does one see french maid outfits in today's society?

The deeper into this house I get, the more I feel like I am taking a trip back in time.

Jamie's attitude and demeanor instantly change with the scene.  Her flowing dress and unkempt hair now looking even more out of place on her body than I feel inside this building. 

One of the maids is sheltered off in one of the corners - a baby bump forming a relatively noticeable in the black and white dress she is wearing.  At least she isn't beaten for getting pregnant.

"Ah, kids.  Welcome, welcome.  Make yourselves at home.  I won't be long."  Jamie's dad, Roger, sits inside an office adorned by two big wooden framed glass doors, one of which is opened allowing the odor of cigar smoke to pour out of the room and into my nostrils.  Roger sits on a luxurious leather swiveling chair with a phone in his hand - an old phone that is still connected by chord to a box with physical numerical keys, hold and forward buttons.  I have no idea where he would forward a call to.

"The old fuck won't even know what hits him!" Roger's voice is boisterous and full of bravado, which leads directly into a cackling laughter before he says his good byes and hangs up the phone.

Out back there is a porch with an overhang and spacious seating.  It overlooks the yard which, in the distance, features a massive pond that is almost big enough to name.

"Do you have any new work coming in, poppa?"  Jamie says with a polite and subordinate tone.

"Oh, my little girl.  Don't you worry about me.  You know I'm always on top of the world."

"Oh, your dad, Jamie.  Never one to be humble, you know."

It is like I am sitting in some parallel dimension .

"Of course I have more work coming in!  The work comes to me!" 

The lemonade on the table seems more interesting than where this conversation is heading.

"What do you do for a living, sir?"

"Sir!  That's it, my boy.  I am a sir!"  Roger cackles with his boisterous laughter.  "I make deals, my boy.  I make deals happen.  What are your plans?"

"Me?  I was planning on starting a non-profit to help at risk children get off the streets and establish a new life."  Roger's boisterous laugh is more prevalent than the times before.

"Oh to be a youth again!  Wild dreams, wild dreams.  Let me tell you something, son.  You can't help other people.  You've only got to help yourself."

"You definitely help yourself a lot," Margaret, Jamie's mother, says under her breathe.  It is quickly ignored by everyone.

"Maybe, sir."

"Oh, daddy!  You have to show Kevin your collection!"  I swear that the Jamie I know was abducted once we got here and replaced with an identical copy.  The one I know would have scoffed at the idea of collections.

Roger leads me back through the massive open hallway and down into the cellar.  "This, my boy, is worth more than what most people will make in a year."  He pulls out a vintage wine bottle as I am noticing that the collection he is so proud of is a wine collection.  He holds out a bottle of unopened wine with what looks to me to just be old, but I'm sure he is right. 

"Wow, sir." 

And on it goes, Roger pulling bottle after bottle and telling me information that easily slips in one ear and out the other.  "This really is a remarkable collection you've got yourself here."  Maybe an hour has passed, or more, when I finally tell him we should get back to the girls.

"You go ahead, my boy.  I will be back up in a few minutes.  I've got to use the bathroom."

"Are you sure it is his?" Jamie's voice is weak in the distance, but still understandable.

"Yes."

"Hey, ladies.  That was quite a collection your father has, Jamie."

"Yeah, he has been collecting those since before I was born."

"Let me show you kids to your bedroom."  It comes as almost a shock that they wouldn't be forcing us to stay in separate bedrooms, but then again it is two-thousand and eighteen.

"What were you and your mom talking about?"

"Oh nothing, Kevin.  Nothing you need to worry about."

"I am going to go for a walk."  Jamie nods in agreement and gives her approval, but stays behind.

As I'm walking around the giant pond I am contemplating how easy it would be to get into the car and drive off.  The only things I've unpacked have been my toothbrush, soap and shampoo.  I wouldn't even need to grab those things they are so cheap.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir."  I was so lost in my own thought that I hadn't even noticed I had stumbled into someone else's thinking spot.  It was the woman with the baby bump.

"No, no.  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize anyone else was out here.  What are you doing out here?" 

She peers into the water without a response, but she had to have heard me.

"Do you mind if I sit next to you?"  Her hand gestures to the spot close to her.  I notice that this particular spot is shrouded in shrubbery to be unseeable from the house.  "Are you out here hiding?"

"No sir."  Her voice frail and fickle.  The lie is as clearly read as a children's book.  "What would you do if you got someone pregnant and you didn't want to keep it?"

"I mean, I would talk it out with the girl I got pregnant.  If she decided to keep it then I would do everything I could to be as best a father as I could be.  The act of creating the child would be equal part mine as her's and it isn't her choice to be born as the one who would carry the baby for 9 months like it wasn't my choice to be the one who doesn't."

Her eyes squeeze so tight that her face shrinks before a drop of water falls down her cheek.  The drop turns into a full stream as her body bobs as she is gasping for air.

"What if... what if she decided to have an abortion without... without you?"

I tilt my head back to the sky and take a deep breathe.  "Ultimately, I would hope I'd be a consideration in that whole ordeal.  I would really hope, but ultimately..."  A let out a sigh.  "Ultimately, it is her body."

"He says he will have me killed if I don't have an abortion."  Her voice is less frantic as her tears and gasping for air slow. 

"Is it your boyfriend?"

Her eyes squeeze tight like before.  "No, sir."

"Please don't call me sir.  We're all equals here.  Sir is just a bullshit word to make someone feel more important than others.  Even calling Jamie's dad 'sir' is my little way of mocking his smug ass."

She chuckles between gasps.  "It's his."

"His?"  I turn my head to face her.  Her face still pointed to the water, eyes closed with tears still flowing.  "Roger's?"

"Yes.  He rapes me.  Now he is threatening to have me killed if I don't abort his baby."

There's nothing I can say.  There's nothing I can do, but I know I have to try.  I put my arm around her and pull her close to me.  "I'm so sorry."

We sat there like that, not saying anything, for long enough for me to feel like someone was going to start looking for me soon.  "I know there is nothing I can do about this situation.  I am just so, so terribly sorry."

Jamie lays sleeping on the bed, but I shake her awake.  "Jamie.  Your dad.  She got one of the maids pregnant."

"He does that."

"What do you mean he does that?"

"She isn't the first one.  She won't be the last one.  Why do you think they all walk around wearing those outfits?  You think my mom wants to see short skirted black women running around the house?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Look, this isn't any of your business.  This is my house."

I look at my suitcase, still packed and ready to go.  I get my keys and grab the suitcase and begin walking out.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" 

"I'm going home.  I'm going home and I'm packing up all of the shit you have there.  You're not the girl I thought you were."

"Kevin, what the fuck?"

"Jamie.  The woman I fell in love with was someone who believed in equality.  Someone who believed that no matter what your social status was financially, you should always be regarded first and foremost as a human being.  Your dad raped a woman, got her pregnant, and now you're defending his actions by telling me that this is your house.  If you can't see the irony in that..."

"Any woman who takes the job here knows what it involves.  She should have been on birth control.  She is just trying to take my daddy's money."

"Fuck this."  I close the door behind me, but it wouldn't have mattered either way as Jamie was clearly not following me. 

As I approach the car I remember what started the whole argument in the first place.  I remember the look in that woman's face as it shrunk and began to cry.  I remember holding her in my arms and why my shoulder is still soaked.  I shove my bag into the car and run back to the spot I found her at as quickly as I can, using the light from my cell phone to guide me.  Not even a candle lights up anything inside the house.  The light from Jamie's bedroom is still as dark as it was when I walked out. 

I arrive, but no one is there.  Nothing, not even a trace.  I think about how it is perhaps the wrong place, but no, this place is shrouded from the house.  Nothing remains here.  I look all around for any signs of human life, but it is too dark and too late to find anyone.

Defeated, I turn and make my way back to the car, quickly, but no longer as fast as before.  Once at the car, I open the door but before I can get in I hear something faint. 

"Take me."

I look around, but it is no use.  It is still too dark and the light from the car door isn't illuminating enough. 

She crawls out of the woods beside the car, the woman from the pond still wearing that ridiculous maid outfit. 

"Get in.  Get clothes from the suitcase and change out of that bullshit if you want."

She slides into the back seat of the car as I start the car and drive off.  Her head rests upon the suitcase, her eyes closed, and her body looking at peace - a peace like she has never known before.

-Dustin S. Stover

Burdens

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
to avoid.

The state of the world
is to believe
it is better
than change.

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
and avoid.

It is an easy desire
to behold,
and become
beholden to.

Especially when one
cannot fathom a change
or to even imagine
a better world.

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
and, of course, avoid.

The tactic that allows
the world
to become worse
and dictated by those who would benefit most
from that corrupt future.

But some of us
must feel the burdens
of your escape,
your running,
your hiding,
and your avoidance.


-Dustin S. Stover

Why Should I Care?

Everyone wants to complain about how the world is, but none of them want to admit that the reason it has gotten to here is due to their ignorance of the events that led to this point.

And there lies my problem with society as a whole - at least in the USA.

Our parents feed us toys and entertainment throughout our childhood as a means to reward us for good behavior and give us a cheap babysitter.  We grow up idolizing those who entertain us as though they are somehow more human than we are, or perhaps something other than human is a more accurate way of phrasing it.

Of course, some of us grow up to realize they are simply human - full of flaws and suffering the same as the rest of us, and to some affect, in ways we can't imagine.  I know I wouldn't want to live under the microscope.

But I digress - our lust for ignoring life outweighs so greatly our lust to change our lives for the better, and it happens in such a manner as to allow a joke of a human being - Donald Trump - to become the president of the United States of America.  It allows the completely generic sounds (and messages) emanating from "bands" like Chainsmokers to make number one selling hits. 

We build our society around such a generic sense of humanity that we don't even have humanity left in the over arching masses.  How can we truly expect anything other than a glorified reality television celebrity to be the president?  Of course, that is negating all the obvious signs of racism, bigotry, and fascist notions he shows on a near daily basis.  I don't even have to mention how his attacks on proper journalism is wholly attacking democracy at its core - if you can't have honest journalism then you can't have an informed society, plain and simple.

This came into fruition most prominently, for me at least, recently when someone told me that people just listen to music to have fun. Even if that were true (which, I most certainly don't believe). it doesn't mean that fun has to come at the cost of actual artistry.  It most certainly doesn't mean that the music has to revolve around generic lyrics and a group of people sitting around trying to figure out a means to create a number one hit for the sake of money.

Realistically, however, music is the easiest form of art for people to relate to.  The sounds are mood inducing or mood reinforcing from the start.  The lyrics can work extraordinarily well to make the listener feel less alone - and let's be real, we are all alone.

It reminds me of lyrics from the Interpol song, Leif Erickson - "If your life is such a big joke then why should I care?"

And that's precisely it then, isn't it?  If someone doesn't even take their own life seriously then why should anyone else care for their problems?  The problem, of course, is that because so few people take their lives seriously (and then whine and cry about how bad their lives are) that it runs into everyone else's lives.  If you don't take the most minor things seriously then the big things will be overwhelming to deal with.

By the time things get so serious as to having a fascist, racist, bigoted, compulsive liar as a president - well, all the average person can do is sit back and say, "what am I supposed to do about it?"

-Dustin S. Stover

Emotional Choices

Let me start a discussion about the justice system.

I've known, and seen, for quite some time that the justice system favors people with money - especially if the one with money is white, but there are some severe flaws in the judicial system for a number of reasons.

The first reason I will touch on is the most obvious, yet perhaps the most overlooked problem.  Humans.  We rely on humans, who are presented with facts, to act according to what they discover from a court's proceedings to rule for or against someone.

This is simple.  Human emotions, however, are extremely far from simple.  They are easily played and preyed upon - hence how Donald J. Trump became president of the United States of America. (Get as pissed as you want by this comment, but if you weren't personally biased towards him/the Republican party then you'd be shitting all over yourself like a newborn baby trying to figure out how people could have elected him, just like the rest of the world is doing).

I will use an example - I was called in for a jury summons.  The case I was summoned for was a shooting.  A young black man was accused (don't ask for his name as I won't ever remember).  Another person who was summoned, just as I was, began talking to me on a break between the attorneys interrogating those of us who were summoned and the conversation went pretty much like this - the person discussing it will me proclaiming this young black man as being guilty, absolutely without a doubt, he was guilty.  This was perplexing to me especially because there was no evidence presented.  Just a name of the accused and the crime he was being accused of.  Just that simple.

Even more than that, however, was the overly cock-sure attitude this person had.  Not only was he guilty, but the person in the room sitting at one of the tables - mind you, this is where the attorneys and the accused were sitting - was the one who got shot!  Now me being me, and always more interested in discovering what makes a person think the way they do, I continued to listen to this theory of his.

And boy, it was a baseless theory.  His entire theory was based around the young black man being on the road it took place on, and why else would he be there?  And that poor guy in the wheelchair!

Turns out that the poor guy in the wheelchair was defending the young black man as his attorney.

I have no idea how that trial played out.  I wasn't selected to follow through with it all, but the process of selecting the jurors and the interactions I had with the people there was enough to give me great insight as to how they choose people - which ones will be sympathetic to the attorneys cause.

And it goes even further than this.  I couldn't even imagine to deduce the amount of juries who have been persuaded to place someone in prison for a crime they didn't commit just so the attorney prosecuting can line their pockets, but I have no doubt that if there were a way to truly deduce the amount that it would be staggering.

That is just how it goes with human beings.  It is all just a show.  If you learn how to tap into another person's emotions you can convince them of anything - every war has been backed by emotions just the same as every homeless shelter has been built by them.  Every religion thrives because of emotions just as every decision we make is based on them.

Think about what you're going to eat for dinner tonight or tomorrow.  You run through a list of things to eat and you find yourself saying how you don't feel like making that or that food sounds good.  The very basis of what you eat is how you feel about the food - whether it is the process of making it discouraging you or the restaurant you choose being a favorite spot.

Even the political arguments we get into - if we truly looked at statistics then Democrats and Republicans would die off in favor of no parties at all, just people who truly wanted to make the country we live in better.  Instead we have Republicans relying on religion to gain support and Democrats relying on fear of the future.  Emotions and the emotions attached to what the party is saying.

Perhaps the only way to overcome the emotions when sentencing someone to 30 years in prison is to start by acknowledging how our personal biases affect us in every choice we make every day of our lives.

-Dustin S. Stover

The Explanation

I have always been terribly interested in why someone would cut themselves.  I suppose that deep down I understood it - a physical interpretation of the pain one feels inside, a frustration that needs an external release in some fashion and the pain doesn't run off into someone else's life.

I've just never been one to follow suit in that type of performance art.  My personal belief is that there must be some other type of expression that leads to far more productivity.  And, you know, not having to explain the scars to anyone else is always a bonus.

But, I suppose that in itself would be a test of sorts.  If a lover can see past the battle scars of externalizing an internal problem then doesn't that in some kind of way prove that love triumphs?

The hypocrisy, however, is hilarious.

Everyone has the problematic affairs that we are dealing with.  From the man who drinks incessantly to the woman who buys herself into ruin - or the woman who drinks incessantly and the man who buys himself into ruin.  It is all just a means to deal with the internal struggles of life's existential problems that no one wants to face up to.

And as I'm laying here, I grow increasingly tired, exhausted.  Like the life is just seeping from my veins.

I believed that if you had unlimited money then the world's problems didn't touch you, when I was young.  It was like the penguins having water just run right off their body.  A type of bullet proof vest that made it impossible for life's turmoil to trouble you, but that was just young naivety.

The rich find themselves equally as troubled as the poor, but that is also when it came to me that it isn't a class problem, it is a societal one.  A society that wrings the life out of every person placed as a cog in the working wheel can never have room for a society in which the human life has more value than the productivity of their job, and being rich still leaves no value in the individual's life - just a dollar sign sitting next to a name.

And that is why one must stand in protest.

As I'm doing now.

As my veins drip the remaining drops of my blood upon the floor, and with it my ability to be another cog in your systemic decay.

The systemic destruction of the human condition.

And this is my...
explanation...
for these...
scars...



A morbid short story by Dustin S. Stover

Irrationally Fearful

This is quite personal for me and, as such, I'm going to get quite personal.

I will preface this for those who do not know - I am married to a Brazilian woman.  One who has not yet received her green card, but will legally hold it in the near future.

Now, before Donald Trump was elected, she could buy a plane ticket and get special permission to fly back to Brazil to visit family and then come back here.  This, the United States of America, is where she will be living her life for the foreseeable future, as she has absolutely no plans of moving to any other country - I, on the other hand, will be working diligently to convince her to move with me to some other undetermined European country.  That is irrelevant.

My wife has not seen her daughter in over a year, a sacrifice my wife made to come here because she could make more money cleaning houses than she could working in her home country, money she could then take back with her to create a better life for her and her daughter.  We met and fell in love, got married, and now we're working towards getting her daughter here.  That, however, requires time.

A couple months ago my wife booked a plane, immigration lawyer stating that there should be very minimal problems - a few questions when she arrived back here in the States and she'd be on her way as they would have no reason to deport her.

Now, all that changed.  With Donald Trump's recent ban on immigrants from the seven Muslim majority countries, and even though my wife is not affiliated at all with those countries, our immigration lawyer has advised her to cancel her flight entirely.  This is not done for fear that she'd be confused to be a Muslim, or from the Middle East.  No, this is because now there is a stigma drawn on every single immigrant in this country.

So now you may be saying, "but Dustin, your wife worked here illegally.  She didn't pay taxes!  Shame on her!"  Maybe you're saying to yourself, "this country has too many people in it already!  She doesn't belong here, she should go back to her own country!"

Yeah, I'm not going to change your mind on that.  If those are the way you feel then next time someone offers you 20 bucks to drive them some place turn the money down, or 50 dollars to turn a wrench, 100 dollars for a sucky-sucky job - turn them all down.  Guess what, you've worked illegally, too.  We all have.

As for her being from another country, if you go back two, three, four generations then your family was from somewhere else, too.  Maybe it was a bit longer than that, but go back far enough and not even Native Americans are native to this country.  Get the fuck over it.

The point is that when you place a ban on people coming into this country, you're not preventing the bad people from coming into this country.  Sure, an ISIS operator could be sneaking in with those Syrian refugees, but statistically it isn't happening.  Those rapists you're so worried about from Mexico?  Yeah, statistically, more rapes happen by legal citizens in such a large amount that it isn't even worth bringing up foreigners as a whole as rapists by comparison.

The same logic that the gun-toting conservatives use with the whole banning guns won't get guns off the street is the exact same logic that can be applied to banning immigrants.  So long as it is easier for immigrants to make more money here than in other countries then they will be finding a means to cross that border.  So long as we continue to bomb countries in the Middle East, we will have terrorists - unless, of course, we kill every other country.

All these bans do is encourage more problems, not less.  Now those refugees who desperately need help are going to see that we're closing our doors to them, the most powerful country in the world, and they are going to grow bitter from that.  A country in which has more guns than any other country.  A country which has 11.1 MILLION people who have a concealed carry permit alone.  A country who has a police force so well equipped that it would rival the military of the countries on the ban list.  This is, by definition, irrational fear.

And because of this fear, this irrational fear, my wife now has to go even longer without seeing her daughter.  We were officially told my the immigration lawyer that it would be a bad idea for my wife to go back to Brazil to visit her family (note: the lawyer did not tell her not to go, but rather just that it will be very ill advised to go).  That is simply not a risk my wife or I am willing to take.  This is just my wife, though.  The immigrants all throughout this country are in the same position, whether they are refugees or otherwise.

Now I will ask you, if you're so willing to force someone to go a year without seeing their children, when will you go a year without seeing yours?

-Dustin Stover

Politics and the Curse of Conformity

I've been trying to get my mind on writing.  Well, that is to say, writing about something other than the political atmosphere.  Even the short stories I attempt to write in my spare time end up being about a compulsive liar who bullies his way into getting everything that he wants.

That is to say, all of my writing has been ruined with this smear of crud so thick that it is impossible to see through, and so hardened from the sheer amount compressed on the window that it can't be chipped away at, either.

So, I suppose, I'm just going to write about it.

I'm not upset at Donald Trump being elected.  I had assumed he had a relatively fair shot at it, even if I tried to avoid the thought.  I've not been a Democrat nor Republican ever in my life, but it is easy to see how voting in a Republican takes steps back away from the things that enhance human life - that is to say, science, distribution of wealth, and civil liberties.

I often times neglect just how religious over half of this country is.  I suppose that being an atheist and having to separate myself from the masses in regards to religion has that effect on me.  I understand how harshly I get judged for just that singular belief when everyone around me believes so readily in something that has absolutely no evidence.

And I suppose that is the thing about it all.  The people who voted in this bully as President of the United States of America are very readily available to believe things with no grounds of fact or evidence.  A person who says he a wholesome Christian man can get away with also saying that he grabs women by the pussy, could shoot a man in the street and get away with it, and also convince the masses that conflicts of interest won't be an issue because his sons will be running his businesses.

It is also easy to forget that the President of the United States of America is, in fact, just another fallible human being who is subject to the same mistakes and complications of everyone else's life - all while making choices that impact the entire future of a country.

The problem, of course, with Trump is not that he is human, but he has surrounded himself with people who are paid to agree with his ego.  No matter how wrong he is on a subject, someone is standing there to tell him that he is right.

I fully understand people's concerns about the future for the average American.  I fully understand that the amount of support that Donald Trump was awarded was because of his rhetoric about the average American making a living doing manufacturing jobs and the jobs that evaporated up as the country scrambles to make jobs for those people in other fields, and generally failing.

Those same people have told me that they are going to be watching Trump closely to make sure he does what he says he is going to do, but when the only evidence of his doing what he is saying he is doing is his word on the topic, well, again, it boils down to that word I've yet to mention in this post - faith.  Faith, by definition, is the believing of something without evidence.

Now we've got an entire presidential campaign that was run on faith.  The difference between this and every other presidential candidate of the past decades is that we don't know the history of the candidate in politics.  We knew how Hillary Clinton was going to run the country because she has history in politics.  Even Obama, with a relatively short stint in professional politics, displayed signs of how he would be President.  Now we have someone who has run businesses with the entire basis of his actions being guided by self interest - how to make more money for his businesses.  Faith is, of course, required to believe he will act in the interest of the masses as opposed to himself as he sits behind that big desk in the oval office.

Every President of my lifetime has done some horrible things - from Clinton's agreement to let jobs go over seas (or his getting a blow job by an intern but I fail to see how doing that with a consenting woman is any worse than forcibly grabbing a pussy), Bush's campaign to collect every piece of data on the Americans he guided, and Obama's drone strikes in the Middle East.

I find myself struggling to support any President as a whole, but all have done really great things as well for huge groups of people - Clinton's economy was the strongest I've seen it in my life time for the average person.  Bush helped with the AIDS relief in Africa.  Obama by legalizing gay marriage, finally giving those people a right that they have deserved their entire lives, but never been granted previously.

It is easy to say, "I'm a Democrat" or "I'm a Republican," but that is just the first step in being blind to the bad side of the party you follow and ignore the good of the opposing side.

When Obama was nominated as Democrat for the election in 2008 I said some things that I still stick to - the best hope was for him to do exactly as he said he was going to do in four years, then they needed to elect a neutral party for the following four years.  That didn't happen and now we are faced to deal with the consequences of that not happening.  Again, no one wins.

There is also a piece of evidence in all this that is staring everyone in the face, but overlooked quite readily.  When was the last time the Democratic or Republican party has served longer than eight years?  That in itself should be telling you that this system of election isn't working for the people.  If the Republicans were better than the Democrats, they'd win far more frequently.  If the Democrats were better than the Republicans then they'd win far more frequently.  Neither party is doing a good job, they are just doing a good thing here and there to keep their supporters firmly in place.

-Dustin S. Stover