The Sewing of Venus (a rant on“beauty”)

There are vile entities guised as human that have slithered their wretched presence into this world. I don’t believe in a Abrahamic God, but I know their counterpart exists on account of these sepulchral swine that spew their dribble in deafening stupidity and whose benighted candor is flapped about as an emaciated flaccid cock, while toying with the emotions and self-worth of others in order to reaffirm their infirm credulity. They torment and belittle in some madly eager attempt to reach fulfillment, yet fall to the demise of corrupting others. Pitifully fucking children, they pull those closest to them down to drown in their make-believe sea of insanity. I speak of coarse of child beauty pageant mothers.

To surmise such inadequacy via one’s own offspring’s worth is inconceivable. Self contempt of the highest order is in place to encroach upon another life form, much less one’s own flesh and blood. What love is so tepid that it evaluates its own insufficiency through a child’s infancy; forgetting the purpose of parenthood for a prize won vicariously?

There can be no love in that, only selfishness. Bolstered and bragged in the wings of a stage set apart by a distinction of age, where motherhood becomes a vehement playwright blind to the rites of childhood passage.

Living on through one’s child by lessons and brilliance of experience is the ultimate triumph over death. But when these creeds are reduced to vaseline smiles and children dressed to tropes of adult beauty, there is no life after death, only corruption of another life; stealing a child’s innocence in the form of a synthetic expectation, no self respecting woman would dare adhere to.

The visqueen envelope meant for the male gaze is but a fantasy intended for a commercialized satisfaction akin to the figment of eros; the Aphrodite, the Venus, the untouchable perfection of the female form that should be celebrated in imperfection rather than the unattainable photoshopped crop conjured by rueful desire. We worship want more than womanhood. We impose these disbeliefs upon female counterparts and corrupt the children we rear. It is our faults as much as it is these despicable ninnies who choreograph the perpetuation of an insufficient female. Let us not forget the male’s self-conscious inward glare that demeans himself as well as others in the shadow of such “idealism”. A man who fears “beauty” and demeans truth is bound to hate himself and reality at large, begrudging women as things rather that entities. It is our gaze after all that has caused this aftermath of impossible expectation…

Earnestly I started to write this mad… but now I feel sorry for these despicable mothers for I know they too are the victims of our incredulous eyes. Fault passes on like an asshole merging abruptly on the interstate, we are all held back by such foolishness. And as such I’m not sure where to go from here. To blame the parents or their parents? It becomes a conundrum of chicken or egg…

We are all at fault. Constituents of a greater fear of the self and the shame we negate our own value with, their can be no love without loving one’s self. A dear friend of mine once said, “No one is responsible for your happiness but you”. Perhaps that is the definition of enlightenment. To release one’s self from blame and cast out all in-satisfaction… Among the first nobel truths of the Buddha is: Suffering is caused by desire…

Is it possible to forget, to shed the insufficiencies of our corporeal being as absorbed by social standard?…

I don’t know, but as long as we doll up our future generations in plastic and allow our young to perceive this as strength or perfection we’ll never know…