Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: emptiness

  • MANUAL FOR SPOTTING A KNIFE

    By Jamie, not Cormac, McCarthy

    Manual for Spotting the Knife

    There’s enough rot in a regular person
    to fuel a thousand comment sections
    and still have leftovers for Sunday.

    You don’t need monsters.
    You just need people
    with slogans
    and something to protect.

    The loudest about mercy
    keep their hands clean
    by pointing.

    The loudest about love
    need an audience
    or it spoils.

    The loudest about peace
    sleep with one eye open
    and a thumb on the trigger
    they swear they don’t own.

    God-talkers rent God.
    They don’t live with Him.
    Peace-talkers rehearse it
    like a line they keep forgetting.
    Love-talkers mean approval
    and charge interest.

    Watch the ones with microphones.
    Watch the ones with certainty.
    Watch the ones who underline books
    but never bleed on the page.

    Watch the ones who romanticize hunger
    or mock it—
    both are tourists.

    Watch the fast clappers.
    They clap to hear themselves.

    Watch the ones who police language—
    they’re terrified
    something feral might get loose
    and name them.

    Watch the ones who need crowds.
    Alone, they evaporate.

    The average man isn’t harmless.
    The average woman isn’t gentle.
    Their love wants a receipt.
    Their love wants witnesses.
    Their love wants to be normal
    so it doesn’t have to be brave.

    And here’s the part nobody says out loud:

    There’s brilliance in their resentment.
    A precision.
    A teamwork.
    A choreography.

    They can’t stand silence
    because silence asks questions.
    They can’t stand solitude
    because it doesn’t applaud.

    They can’t make anything
    that didn’t already exist,
    so when they fail
    they blame the room,
    the time,
    the culture,
    the weather,
    you.

    They don’t understand art
    because art doesn’t ask permission.
    They don’t understand love
    because love doesn’t negotiate.

    So they’ll tell you
    you’re doing it wrong.
    That your grief is excessive.
    That your joy is suspicious.
    That your freedom is offensive.

    Then they’ll come for you
    not messy,
    not emotional—
    but clean.

    Their hatred is efficient.
    It shines.
    It passes inspections.
    It wears credentials.

    It doesn’t rage.zwzwq
    It executes.

    And that—
    that is the only masterpiece
    most of them will ever finish.

  • The Bowl Is Empty

    I recently asked Martha, my one-year-old rescue dog — and no, I’m not virtuous enough to claim I rescue dogs in general — but after losing Jack, it was clear she rescued me, in a sense.

    This dog is wise. Listens better than any bullshit therapist I’ve ever paid. She doesn’t nod, she doesn’t offer coping mechanisms — she just watches, breathes, and exists in a way that makes you question everything you’ve ever thought was important.

    She doesn’t speak. She judges. Silently.

    I talk to her about the world. The confusion. The masks behind the masks. And she stares — not blankly, but with that deep, old-soul stare. Like she was once a philosopher who gave up on humans and decided fur and naps were a better way to spend her time.

    I told her once, pacing the kitchen, that people will sell their soul for likes now. She licked her paw, unimpressed. They always have, she said, without saying a thing.

    Sometimes I think she’s God, if God cared more about naps than commandments.

    I asked her, “You think we’re all just pretending? Running on a hamster wheel built from lies we’re too tired to question?”

    She stared at me, then farted.

    Which, honestly, felt like the most honest answer I’d heard all week.

    I once asked Martha what happened to civility. She was chewing a stick like it was the leg of some ancient tyrant.

    “The uncivil don’t even know why they’re uncivil,” I muttered. “They’re just echoing slogans, barking at strangers, convinced their rage is righteous because someone on a podcast told them so.”

    Martha didn’t blink. Just kept chewing.

    She doesn’t pick sides. She picks sunspots on the carpet. And maybe that’s what makes her wise.

    I told her the government feels like a house of mirrors — every reflection distorted, every path leading to a deeper maze. “Who’s running this place?” I asked.

    She sighed. The kind of sigh that says, Why are you still asking?

    Jobs came up next. I said, “Martha, no one wants to admit it, but most people hate their jobs. Even the ones pretending to love them on LinkedIn. Especially those.”

    She scratched behind her ear.

    “All these posts,” I went on, “just little theater performances. Carefully crafted captions about ‘growth’ and ‘culture’ and how grateful they are to work seventy hours a week for stock options that’ll never vest.”

    She got up, walked to her bowl, and stared into it like it was a metaphor.

    “Exactly,” I said. “At least your bowl gets filled.”

    But this time, it didn’t.

    She looked into her bowl and just stood there. Silent. Still.

    And I swear, in that moment, it wasn’t just about kibble.

    It was everything. All of it.

    The politics, the performative civility, the jobs we fake-smile through, the lies we repost and retweet and rebrand as truth. The clout. The fear. The noise.

    All of it boiled down to one bowl. Empty.

    Martha didn’t bark. She didn’t whine. She just gave me that look — the one that says, You already know.

    Then she walked away.

    Like any self-respecting philosopher would, once the audience starts clapping for the wrong reasons.