Some Whole Wheat Words

And Other Up-Lift

Archive for August 2007

Acid Wash

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What is it about this bookstore and the people we attract here that makes me so terribly angry all the time? I just completed a conversation with someone about The Secret and the “law of attraction” that apparently governs the universe, and I almost threw up on my sneakers.

I think that, when discussing metaphysics with Self Actualization junkies, I should be allowed to bring up the Holocaust. If reality really does conform to our every (properly manifested) conscious whim, then were Europe’s Jews just not thinking happy thoughts? Does karma really explain a monstrosity of such incomprehensible size?

If you’re going to lean on corrupted pop-Buddhist values and bring up Deepak Chopra, lady– to suggest that we all must be thankful for where we live, focus on our own lives, and leave the rest to God– then I want you to repeat this phrase out loud, to yourself, and see how you feel.

They had it coming, because that’s how they chose to be born.

Sounds kind of extreme, doesn’t it? Maybe a little old-fashioned? Say, Romans versus Barbarians? Say, the ascendant, God-given right of the White Races to rule over the Dark? But there it is. This is a law of the Universe that we’re talking about here, right?

They respond with a wide-eyed, willful sort of sudden stupidity. Suddenly, the workings of the universe are no longer easily controlled through happy thoughts. They are now mysterious and unfathomable, especially to the unbeliever. A slight, knowing smile creeps up, a rueful cast in the eyes, chastisement for asking such a simple and obvious question. It’s a sort of performance believers put on, a smug aside to an invisible observer, odd physical framing to the reflexive rejection of contradictory evidence.

In Grade 10, one of my best friends converted to an evangelical sect of Christianity, and suddenly, he had no more questions to ask. A virulent sort of metaphysical apathy had taken root in his mind, and his responses to existential questions were reduced to that wistfully insulting half-smile and a few rote party lines. Automatic self-censorship is one of the hallmarks of a cult, as it derails lines of thought that deviate from dogma and suppresses individual will.

The self-actualization movement is selling salve for itchy middle-class egos. It is a religion specifically marketed to those who believe themselves to be above religion. Its world-view is autistic, seeing each and every human being as an isolated island unmoved by any outside force.

If you’ve ever sat down and shot the shit with me over a coffee, you probably know where I stand on this one. That people, legions of people, actually believe the universe to be an enormous dream-machine configured by the very hand of God to give them whatever they wish hard enough for is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I defy you to posit a more arrogant view of reality than I am the centre of the Universe.

After a while, her eyes clouded over and she slowly lost momentum, like a dying Walkman. She went off somewhere to get a coffee or something, and I wrote this post, my stomach slowly dissolving in a soup of impotent rage.


Written by wholewheatwords

August 11, 2007 at 4:48 pm

Posted in bile


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Written by wholewheatwords

August 5, 2007 at 9:35 pm

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Joe D. Bundlejoy

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Ahh, who am I kidding? Cars move slowly, and brake for me as I walk into the afternoon. It’s Sunday. There’s earnest Jazz in the street, not too loud, and the rhythms from passing car radios play gently with one another. The Ethiopians sing from my store’s speakers, quiet and sweetly mournful. Writing is what I love best, and I’m doing it with some frequency. I’m moving into the city in the fall, into exciting new social groups and interesting challenges. The idea of it makes me happy as I sit here and consider my words and chew this excellent cornmeal muffin.

I can be a pretty self-absorbed jerk, and not just sometimes. People say I apologise too much, and I agree, but I feel one is owed, in particular, to the awesome women that I’ve met in the past two years.

I talk a good game, but I’m still mostly thirteen years old. You guys make me really nervous, because you’re all gorgeous and interesting and smarter than I am. In the middle of our conversations, my brain starts going “What are you doing here? Run!” and I start trashing popular things like Facebook or Harry Potter. Solution pending.

See all of you soon!

Written by wholewheatwords

August 5, 2007 at 3:00 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Joe D. Misanthropic

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I detest your flawless, rotten skin. I am nauseated by your shining incisors, and repelled by your chemically-augmented grin. Our ship is sinking but I will be staying aboard, to observe and to intercede; to hold you by the neck under the salt water and not to let go until we both feel sea floor biting the hull.

So polish your tits and do as much coke as you feel is necessary, spread yourself to the guts. The highlights of the cruise have almost passed, things are peaking; the air is salty pure and the waves are a little choppy. The water is cold. There is an iceberg around; you can see it in the corner of your eye if you focus on other things. Jabber and flit from place to place, an animate receipt tattooed with stylish purchases. I can wait.

After the water floods over the gunwales and dissolves the cake, carries strings of runny meat away from the buffet table, stains your jeans and ruins their colour, we will sink. I intend to have a long conversation with the fish. What about you?


I don’t really hate people, or mean most of what I say. I’m a babbler, is all. I feel better now. How was your day?


Everyone excited to be getting back to school? I sure am. Here’s a question for all the readers of this blog: what do you do to distract yourself from the realisation that your life will a) end, and in all likelihood, b) be forgotten quickly? I’m kind of running out of options.

b) Pretend I’m better than everyone else.

a) Ignore as best I can.

b) Try reduction of terror through Common Plight.

a) Think about until I feel like throwing up.

b) Rearrange letters into pleasing forms and trick myself into regarding this as work.

As a consequence of reading odd literature as a younger boy, I became obsessed with creating something irrevocable. It occurs to me now that death is perhaps the only human act that no-one can dismiss. It is final. Death’s surface trappings, method or circumstance or what have you, can be criticised out of fear, but the abandonment of a physical shell by a life force is universally terrifying.

Some people my age, people I’ve talked to, have told me that they do not fear death. I suppose I don’t fear the Blackness. Fear is a product of thought, and can’t really be applied to states devoid of consciousness. It’s the five or so minutes that precede death which scare the piss out of me.

Entry into an irrevocable act is a weighty thing. Those last five minutes, I imagine, must feel a little like breaking a window for the first time. No child can fix a window; the act can never be taken back. When those five minutes of desperate thought have passed, you realise that the window has been broken, has been broken since your eyes first opened and you screamed your introductory scream, and that you broke it. Worse, it’s only a window. It won’t be fixed, but there are millions more just like it, commonplace and easy to come by. After a quick installation, a substitution of new for old, everything’s back to normal.

Written by wholewheatwords

August 5, 2007 at 2:29 pm

Posted in Uncategorized