Judment is silence
Fine. Let’s go.
Me, I can go years without saying a word.
P.? Haven’t spoken in thirty-five years.
M.? Maybe two.
Others ? It goes back even further.
Judgment is silence. And silence is death.
When you stop talking to someone, it’s like they died.
And yeah, it works the other way too.
Which means we die more than once in a lifetime.
Every time you turn your head away.
Every time you turn a corner.
That’s why—on this precise point of silence—
we’re all killers.
No need to act surprised.
At first, I didn’t get it.
Or I got it wrong.
Or I just didn’t want to get it.
I thought silence meant someone was mad at you.
Sometimes, sure.
But it’s not just that.
Sometimes they’re just silent because, to them,
you don’t exist.
Maybe you existed five minutes.
Fifteen for Andy.
But they didn’t want to hear more.
Maybe you made them uncomfortable.
Maybe they didn’t get it.
Maybe they didn’t give a shit about not getting it.
Maybe it was all of that at once.
So they turned around.
Disappeared.
Never gave a sign again.
Killed you, plain and simple.
No headlines.
No dramatic music.
Just—that’s it.
They don’t give a fuck about you.
That’s the truth.
You don’t believe it at first.
You hold on.
You think there are rules, ties, some kind of community.
Family, maybe.
But family’s like school. Like the workplace. Like church.
A nice storefront for control.
You think they care ?
You’re wrong.
You’re just a LEGO block in the shrine of their ego.
Useful as long as you fit.
Then—trash.
The basement.
The oubliette.
We wrap it all up in culture, in morals, in democracy.
But really, it’s this :
there are assholes on one side,
and on the other, all the lost souls asking :
Is this okay ?
Can I do this ?
I don’t know…
This morning at 8 a.m. sharp, I blasted Bikini Kill.
Kathleen Hanna ? That’s me too.
I threw the window wide open.
Let the neighbors deal.
Reject All American.
Reject all fascists. All dicks.
Sometimes I think, like her—yes, it’s worth it.
Fucking with the neighbors is a form of self-care.
Like :
- still jerking off at sixty-five,
- knocking back three whiskys before lunch just to say yes, I’m bored,
- tossing weird obscure words into random café convos,
- rehearsing being the freak,
- flipping off some bourgeois lady who expects me to hold the door.
And :
- never answering the phone,
- even though I have one,
- and never call anyone anyway.
I read something this morning.
Can’t remember exactly—
something about bad writing.
Like :
If it’s bad, don’t show it. It just adds pain to pain.
Seriously ?
Fuck that.
If it’s bad—show it more.
Throw it at people.
We need more good-bad to wipe out the bad-good.
Oh—and Kathleen Hanna ?
Apparently, she stripped too.
Just like Kathy Acker.
No idea if that matters.
But I’m writing it down.
(Okay—it matters.)
Rage isn’t exclusive.
Why should rage belong to just one kind of person ?
That’s what I was thinking
as I hit play again. For the third time.
Sunday. Eight a.m.
To remind the world :
I’m not dead.
I can make noise.
Author recruitment.
Well, more like a spontaneous submission.
June Abattoir.
Born in a motel on the outskirts of Houston,
on June 13th, under a tornado warning.
Raised between a bingo hall and an abandoned library,
she started writing at the same age other kids discovered glitter glue.
Trained in the school of cutting narratives and loaded silences,
she published her first pieces under fake names
in post-industrial feminist zines.
Her work oscillates between muted scream and sudden laughter,
intimate trash and the fine lace of the real.
She currently lives between an ashtray, an empty glass,
and a Wikipedia tab open on emotional taxidermy.
Visual : pure Riot Grrrl.
