One does not kill the Spirit of Gravity with anger, but with laughter.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

 

All their stories ended with "happily ever after" but nobody looked very happy. Of course, it's hard to be happy when you live your whole damn life tiptoeing around sleeping giants. Maybe in their dreams they were giant-slayers, but everybody laughed like they were whistling in the dark—not a victory laugh or a conqueror's laugh, it was a laugh that said, "I don't mean any harm." And that was the problem, everybody else was so afraid of "meaning any harm" they couldn't do anybody much good, either. So I had to laugh that day when I remembered my giant-dream.

I was stuck in traffic and all I could do was sit there looking at the back end of this VW bus. You know the ones I mean, they always have rainbow stickers, and "free tibet" stickers and crap all over them. So I'm looking at all these "free this" and "love that" stickers that were made by some company that doesn't give a rat's ass about loving anything or about anything being free—and I saw this one that said "practice random acts of kindness".

I was still stuck in traffic and I was about to start leaning on the horn, but I had to laugh because that "practicing random acts of kindness" stuff ? That's what guys like Ted Bundy count on. It's easy enough to say "free this" and "love that" on the back end of a Volkswagen, but really being free scares the shit out of most people, and what most people mean by "love" won't help you if you meet up with Ted Bundy. But I knew from my giant-dream that it is possible to live happily ever after—as long as you understand what a random act of kindness really is.

When most people talk being kind, what they really mean is "polite", and people are already too damned polite. That's the kind of stupid shit that made me want to be a counselor in the first place—that, and seeing how fucked up the whole profession was. Like, they teach you that no matter what a client says, you're supposed to keep this poker face on, you're not supposed to look shocked or disgusted or anything. You're supposed to sit there and say shit like, I see, and how do you feel about that, which is the biggest load of crap I ever heard...the people who write those books must not be getting the sick fuckers I have to talk to every day. Last week there was a guy in my office telling me how he got high the night before because he was having fantasies about doing his two-month old step-daughter. There's nothing kind about a poker face there, and I didn't need to ask that guy how he felt about it; he was almost crying for me to tell him what he already fucking knew.

So I just tell these guys who tell me something really sick like that? I say, Dude, that's really sick, you know that don't ya, and of course they do. They're either saying it because it's true, or they're testing you to see how straight with them you'll be. I learned all about this stuff when my cousin Connie and me were teenagers, and our parents sent us to that shrink about what Grandaddy did. Which I always thought was stupid, because Grandaddy was dead by then so what were we gonna do, dig him up and kick his ass.

I told Connie later she should have said the reason we were smoking pot and had that acid was because we wanted to—I mean, what could they say ? But I don't think she thinks that fast. Instead, she brought up all that stuff about Grandaddy to have an excuse and make it seem like she was trying to blot out some "terrible memory of abuse blahblahblah", which was a big fucking lie. That was just the reason our parents needed because they were trying to tiptoe past one of them giants. Connie and me stole that pot and that acid from our parents, anyway.

And I don't remember Connie complaining about it at the time; Grandaddy gave her candy and presents just like he did me, because I let him do it too. You can't exactly say, and be honest I mean, that "as children, we lacked the capability to understand blahblahblah". We understood, in a kid way, that if anybody knew Grandaddy touched us down there, or asked us to touch him down there, somebody was gonna be in trouble. But we figured nobody would want to know, and we were right too. Later they tried to say, you can come to us with anything, which I might've believed except they couldn't look me in the eye while they were saying it.

I was 8, and Connie was 9; I was an only child, and my mom and dad were married less than a year when they had me. They were young, and it was the 60's, and they would send me to Grandaddy's house some weekends so they could have these pot and acid parties; they still had partying to do, I get that. And my aunt, Connie's mom, was at those parties so I think later they just felt like shit because they were partying while their kids were being "abused". But that's what I don't get, why they had to call it that. Maybe it's different for other kids but I'll tell you the fucking truth about me and Connie.

See, the first time, the very first time? I did feel funny. I remember thinking, what if somebody sees, or what if when I go back home, my mom can see it on my face or something—you know, dumb kid thoughts. But then Grandaddy said he'd give me these tassel-things I wanted for my new bike, and I'd been talking like an idiot about wanting those purple tassels for the ends of the handlebars. So I figured it was a fair trade, and I took my panties off for him and he opened his pants and then we watched T.V. I remember because the "Little Rascals" was on and I liked that show, and then they took it off because it's supposed to be "offensive"—everything that used to be okay, all of a sudden it's offensive, fucking stupid if you ask me. If you hide from stuff just because it might be offensive, everything turns into some big sleeping giant you gotta tiptoe around. And the thing that really didn't make any sense about that stuff with Grandaddy was, I wasn't scared, and Connie wasn't scared—but when we tried to tell our parents that, for some reason, that was "offensive".

So okay, maybe the first time you kinda felt funny, but you did it because you wanted some present, or like me, I wanted those tassels for my bike. But after you find out it feels good when someone touches you down there, I don't care what anybody says, you're not just doing it for candy or presents or tassels anymore. You're doing it for the same reason anybody does anything—it feels good, and if you get candy or presents or tassels besides that, that's just your good fucking luck. But you try telling that to the people who write those counseling books. Or try telling it to those guys with all the letters behind their name and pieces of paper on their wall. They start using words like "compensation" and "cognitive dissonance", just so they don't have to deal with the fact that not every part of being "abused" or being "molested" is bad. The worst motherfucker in the world touches you in the right place, the right way, and it's gonna feel good; no big fancy word or magic phrase is gonna get around that reality.

But most of those guys with the letters behind their name don't want to talk about that part of it—so if you didn't have the giant-dream, like me, how would you know that you don't have to feel bad about it feeling good ? That's what I mean about why I wanted to help people, because I could see those dickheads wanted me to be like something out of a book they read, or some idea they had—and they were just gonna end up making everybody worse that way.

Connie was ready to cave as soon as we got in there, of course, but I wasn't gonna let some guy tell me what was what just because he had a bunch of letters behind his name. So when he came in and started trying to talk to us I got up and stood next to the wall in his office that had all his diplomas; I looked to see where he graduated from, and how many were in that class, and I said, oh class of so-and-so, 300 hundred in your class, what were you, 297, 298? just to see what he'd do. Connie almost fell out of her chair and looked at me like, Don't, we'll get in trouble. I couldn't figure out what the hell kind of trouble she thought we were gonna be in.

Right away he started telling us how we were "free to say anything" with him, like he fucking knew us from Adam. And you could tell he was pissed that I didn't act all grateful—everything he said had something to do with our "feelings" and our "needs", but his voice was tight and sharp and cold. I knew he cared more about letting me know just where in that class he did graduate, little missy.  But I didn't need him to give a rat's ass about me, anyway.

I knew me and Connie weren't gonna be in trouble, but she was just like our parents; it seemed to me like they were all so scared they couldn't think straight, and couldn't see things the way they really were. They sure thought they did though, and for some reason people who are afraid always want you to be afraid too. But I had the giant-dream, so I knew how it really was.

See, when I was five I dreamed this giant lived in our backyard; we had a big big backyard when I was little, I thought it was as big as the whole fucking world. In that dream I was going out to the backyard because you could play if you were real quiet, and didn't wake the giant up. Then out of nowhere there was this loud BLAAAALLLARRM sound, like somebody stuck in traffic, leaning on the horn.

Of course the giant woke up then, and when he saw me he was so mad he picked me up by my feet, and turned me upside down; he took his big giant-hand and scooped my face out, and then he got this big bowl and held me by my feet and used me like a spoon to eat his giant-food.

It took me a while, but I figured out that the giant was everybody-else, or everybody-else's fear. There's nothing wrong with fear as long as it's something you feel, but for most people, fear is something they become, and when that happens ? Everybody-else can treat you like a spoon or a fork or something to wipe their ass with, if that's what they need you to be.

See, I didn't say "And how do you feel about that ?" to that guy who couldn't stop thinking about doing his two-month old for the same the reason I had to laugh at that "practice random acts of kindness" bumpersticker; I didn't become a counselor to show that guy how to tiptoe past a giant. You have to go where the giants live and find out what they eat.  Then you have to take their food away and set their homes on fire. The only random act of kindness is that deliberate act of violence; once you understand that, you'll live happily ever after. And you can laugh at everybody else.