Piles of Flesh
2004-01-07 � 1:59 a.m.

Amusement is all well and good. I mean, I am often amused, fleeting though it may be. In fact, I spend a great deal of time keeping myself amused � probably far more time than I reasonably should.

But amusement only goes so far. And by that I mean that there are limits to the kinds of things that are acceptable activities to use to amuse yourself. There are constraints. Boundaries.

Or there should be.

In the past I have, to my shame, amused myself at the expense of others. I think I have admitted that here, and elsewhere. It's not something I take any pride in.

However, if the karmic wheel does indeed roll around, it may be my turn to be on the bottom getting my face pushed into the mud and muck. Not surprisingly, the wheel is very heavy, and submersed in the grime, I cannot breathe.

Popular wisdom � i.e., my own � has it that I do these things to myself. It's true, to a certain extent. I set myself up for failures, I wallow in disappointment, I make myself available to be used by the wrong sorts of people.

A man to whom I have been speaking lately asked me, after I admitted to fearing people, why I would react to them in such a way. I couldn't answer, even though I knew what I wanted to say. I played off the question, even as my mind churned and railed and quailed at the thought of having to admit out loud to Another Person what I believe to be true.

People are Evil.

The man to whom I was speaking, and many others, would reject this claim on the face of it, citing evidence to the contrary. But for every piece of evidence you bring up to show that people are good and caring and worthwhile, I could name you FORTY that show they are mean, cruel, disgusting and self-centered.

I know I am.

And that doesn't even matter. What matters is that my life has taught me that people are evil. I haven't had it as bad as some, not even a fraction as bad. But I can feel it there in my distrust: people want to hurt me, and they've done it before.

They'll do it out of neglect. They'll do it out of fear. They'll do it because they can. They'll do it because they like to. They'll do it for a million different reasons, but they will do it.

And maybe being able to really live means being able to ignore that and go on dealing with them in spite of the fact that you know they're grinning evilly and hiding knives up their sleeves while you aren't looking. Maybe that's what truly trusting is. Maybe that's faith.

If so, I haven't got it, and I don't remember when I did.

Does this mean that I am weak? On the one hand, well, here I still am. On the other, I can't claim that I am able to function like a real human being even a small part of the time (though why I should want to is beyond me, hating them as I do; nonetheless I do).

I feel like there should be some kind of support group I could join, a kind of AlAnon for those who can't trust or love, who move through the world in cheap masks made of terror and tears.

"Hello. My name's Preston, and I am a liar and a coward and a fake. I can't feel love or goodness, only their absence."

[chorus] "Hi Preston."

"Abash�d the devil stood,
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely."

It scrapes and tears, this life. No rest for the wicked indeed.

Indeed.

-t

Currently Aurally Inducing: The Cure, Harold and Joe
Selection of the Lyrical Vocabulary: "Nothing ever loses me sleep, and nothing ever wins my heart."

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