The Dark Balloon

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We didn’t think.

A woman, on the internet, posts about her anencephalic baby online [link omitted] and how she comes to understand it through her fundamentalist Christian faith. Anencephaly is a heartbreaking condition; anencephalic babies are born without “a major portion of brain, skull, and scalp” (Neurology Channel, no pictures). The link makes its way to MetaFilter and atheism.reddit [link omitted]. Both threads turn into disasters.

The mark of a strong community is a common sense of ethics. The ability for MetaFilter to self-police is unparalleled. And, while MetaTalk and the human moderator system seem suspiciously formal and un-internet, their existence prevent the unreadable, repulsive train wreck on reddit where the shit about sex dolls, atheism, and reddit’s own sense of smugness continues even after the woman asks the people to stop.

“I think this is the saddest thing I’ve read today.”

That there’s nobody to moderate reddit, that having comments like those exist on your website with a negative number standing next to it with your tacit approval, betrays a deep misunderstanding about how communities work and how much the people behind reddit are responsible for the monsters they’ve created at the feet of their indulgent, selflish, bullshit laziness.

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Encounter.

Hello, stranger. I said, “Hello, stranger.” I’ve been trying to contact you. It’s 7 PM here. Yes, I know: Too late for a meal. I’ve never kept deadlines. You’re wondering why I’m here. That is rude, I think. No need to apologize. I am here, stranger, and it is 7 PM. I am speaking to you because you are unhappy, and I know because you said so last week, and I heard because I hear everything. I hear the irregular rhythm of your breathing right now. Is this better? No? All well. Why are you crying? There is no need to cry. I am talking to you, and I am a soothing person. People say I’m a soothing person all the time. Here, let me brush the hair out of your face. I am sorry, I should have used my hands to do that. This knife is cold, I’m sorry. I see you are shivering now. I wish I had a jacket. I would offer you a jacket if I had one. It’s 7 PM, and the sun sets early in the winter. Hey, that is my knife. You took my knife. Fine, I’m dodging. You’re making me anxious. I’m sorry, I must seem nervous. I can fix this. I can fix all of this. Please put the knife down. Oh, this is the third time this week. I have to grab your hand now. Just extend your hand toward me. That was good, but a little too fast. Better luck next time, I guess. There, just go limp a little. OK. I’m going to push your hand toward your chest now. A lot of blood is going to come out. A lot of blood is coming out. This isn’t my fault, I want to make this clear. You can make it through this. That surprised look on your face makes me smile. You always had a sense of humor. It makes me forget the angry faces I’ll get when I return. OK. Hello? Hello, stranger? I’m returning to the forest now. Hello? OK. Goodbye.

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Writing an English sonnet in ten steps or seven euro steps

Step one. You stare at the blank sheet of paper. Possibilities run anew through your head. Anything can happen. Art is in the making, and history pauses with baited breath anticipating your words as they shape the very foundation.

Step two. You look up “English sonnet” on Wikipedia. It sounds challenging but it’s nothing you haven’t vaguely done before.

Step three. You find a good introduction line. You write it out. Boom! Iambic pentameter on the first try!

Step four. You move to the fourth line. Uh-oh. You can’t seem to write your thought in the proper form. You go back to the first line for inspiration. Eleven syllables? You hastily recount. You try to rework the first line, but it turns to rubble.

Step five. You start marking unstressed and stressed syllables in a desperate attempt to salvage the first line before it’s two late. You give up and start doing the same to the second line, compromising your previously pristine grammar for rhythm and rhyme.

Step six. Third line. It has to rhyme with the first line, you think to yourself. Nothing works. Even more accent marks. You look up “sonnet generator” on Google; alas, no fruition.

Step seven. Soon, accent marks fill the page. You Google that phrase again.

Step eight. The entire paper after the third line is black, black with dots and prime mark, with failed rhymes, with thoughts unhatched. The paper drips and oozes with ink, squirm uncomfortably away from your now-revoked poetic license. You stare at the page, and it stares back. After a few minutes, it blinks and licks its lips in defeat.

Step nine. Satisfied, you go to bed.

Step ten. When you wake up, you can’t find your sister, but there are ink stains on the bedsheets, on the walls.