"A heart that sighs, has not what it desires."

"A heart that sighs, has not what it desires."

The thing about the Science of Sleep that appeals to me is that there is nothing that doesn’t appeal to me in it.

The girl in it is my ideal, she is creative, she is kind, she is realistic in that she shows no real intrest in the man who feels as if there is a major connection there.
For they both have Parellel Sycnhronized Randomness. That seems to be my life. Stephane is a dreamer, obsessed with controling his dreams, though he never can.
Work is never what he wants, and that is to be creative and intresting.

Vunerable, the two, both afraid, and he holds it as evident and virtuous of his humanity. She is of grand stock, but not grand enough to accept it with trust, choosing instead to demand a traditional earned love contingent upon his acting properly in the ways of courtship. Truly ironic this, as she herself says that it is that his work is strange which makes it wonderful. How can one’s work be strange and wonderful, yet the source of sweat and toil of the creative scape not truly be one and the same?

Perhaps this is why I have always wanted an artistic soul in my life.
If I could never make my soul be it, would another share theirs?
Or is it that subconciously my first love was artistic and I am chasing it forever.
The foreigners that create art and honor it highly perfer that to the ugly pragmatisim of the American, and in the same way they have distaste for work. I have never found a day of work that was bareable, but I have found great pride in the works of form, and not of function, that I have accomplished. Perhaps in this way I have the zest for art.
Maybe it is that every girl goes through an artistic phase and I am but a girl who won’t grow up.
Or maybe I want to be immortal, and if my soul fails my ideas shall survive.
Surely it is just a cry for help, for a pathology of pathetic pity, oh girl of my dreams see my tourtured artistic soul and weep silently, then make passionate love with me.
For certain it is that when the light hits the colors and your ears hear it, your eyes percieve that which the drum plays, and you can taste the metered strokes of some unseen mental paintbrush before one speaks, then all becomes true.
Truefully, it is with elitest hopes we can hold high our heads and dangle our deep seeded desires with three notes, a square yard of canvas, or the edited indie flick scene, in a way no conversation can convey.
Romantically.
Sadistically.
Troublesome.
Perfect.
Or…
If there was a form to all things, the form of Art, the form of beauty, the form of creativity. These would be the forms that hold our world up. Like the legs of a tripod, that forever stand us up, lest we fall down.

This is why I love that movie.

It is amusing.

I talked to my cousin today, she wishes to be a writer. She writes well, though she writes as a girl of her age. I cannot wait to speak to her after she ascends through the literary ranks of university. Her knowledge of the mechanics of great writing is limited, and her life seems strangely simular. Speaking to her, I realized it would not be that way for long, and I would charish the moments I still had to say things to her and have her take these bits as wisdom and not knowledge. I realized that she had what I wanted, the eyes of the future.
She looked at me with those eyes of the future, and they floated on a current of empty air. She knew not what I said, or at least she knew no meaning in the words.
I asked her if her travels brought her ideas, I asked if her trip to Germany in these exact words, “was amusing”.

“What do you mean?” She asked.

She, like most people, knew nothing about the enytomlogy of the word. It used to mean literally that it was a- muse –ing, or to induce a muse into a person through stimulation. That is, to inspire the artistic verve into a person through a muse or god of a particular art. So if something is amusing, it inspires you to be artistic in a simular fashion. However it has been bastardized, simular to the word sophistication, to mean a fraction of its orginal meaning.

She said she was writing about it, and I was happy to hear that. She said she also was writing a blog, and that it was just something she did when she was mad and angry about something, a medium in which to rant.

I thought about the story I wrote when I was her age, about George Bush leading to a second civil war for cheating us by stealing an election and being a horrible person and even worse president. I wrote this in 2001, and I know it was crap. The Creative Writing teacher told me as such. I still feel I was right, but it was not creative. It was hopeful, and it was hateful, and it was something a 17 year old would write. I was forever a 17 year old because of Bush, I hope now to move on.

I laughed inside, because she was me, and I was her. At least in one aspect of our lives, because of some common thread. I knew she would be alright, because the rest will fall for her. I hoped I would be alright, because I could always be her for that moment, for the rest of my life. And even though I would kill to change places with her.
I would be that person that did not know that Germany could be amusing.

So when I watched that movie, which I loved the first time. Netflix brought me a muse that was lost on me before.
The third French film in as many weeks, made me realize that I like the French more then ever, and that I would like to be amongst them. I want to learn French and go to Paris, and live amongst the union rousers fighting for their Sundays.

Or maybe it is just that all girls go through a wanting to go to France phase…


“If an idea is any good, it is on the verge of being stupid.”- M.G.

The problem with dressing yourself up.

I would hem all of my garments randomly with purpose. I would lock all of the fasteners down. I would drink up the style that suited me. I would sleep in those clothes until I woke up ready to use them. I would never need to wake up. It would be the perfect ending, to a day, full of hidden meaning and apparent disappointment.



just had the perfect end to an amazing day with an amazing boyfriend and all my best friends. There's a reason i love life. :]

You really have to stop it with this super happy shit.

why's that? i'm actually rather enjoying it.

I'll have to hide you, it makes me ill.

why? cause you can't ever experience joy?


Your happiness depresses me. I hear nothing but fingernails on the chalkboard, an incessant, never-ending saccharine to which my body responds purely in bile. I would turn my head and cough, if my neck had the range of motion or void of pain, and if and only if someone is cupping my balls and commanding it of me in while-labbed coat. This is not the case and therefore the acid just eats away at my esophagus and soul. I do not mean to rain on any parade, or parade like function, I just think 365 days worth of I love my life had a great day updates are tant amount to 365 days of me updating my status with I hate my life updates.

Which I do so all of this is moot. Perhaps we should both limit it to 150 days of I love/hate life status updates.

Burn it all down.

Picture by WILLIAM ARCHIE/Detroit Free Press

Summer is meant for heat.

When the embers rise within the sights of the meek, those huddled together speaking in their own voices about the scary nature of how things always have been. In that the way the possibility of calamity has become apparent, as it burns through the protection of oblivious nature and its inherent deniability. Of course the odds of this occurring are pretty low and even now that it has, and the smoke of fear floats over the masses as it separates from the flames, the voices make statements about how they worry about their safety. The voice drone on how there will be great inconvenience after the water washes it all away. I have yet to hear the words “oh alas poor driver, may God have pity on his soul and comforts find those who loved him and the other fallen.” All the overpasses shall fall. Let us remember that we all drive to the grave. I hope we navigate well.

If it needs to burn, I hope we burn it all down. Let ashes be ashes, and then we can rise from them.

The times you have to write are always the hardest.

There are things that happen, and they make a mark upon yourself. I like to press this mark against the paper and see what is left behind. Unfortunately the deepest marks cut, and blood will stain the paper.

This is obviously the hardest time to put ink down, all that blood just gets in the way.

I don't know what to write, what is past the line, what is too true, what should I tell. The truth is long, shocking, and oh so boring. The lies are just a diversion, to make a false front or fake impressions.

If I write what I want to right now it would't be fair to certain people. No one is going to read it anyways are they? I guess someone might read it...

I know that there is a answer, but I am too tired to find it right now.

Frustration: The story of Mars and Earth

We all have those times where everything rubs against the other moving parts in your life, causing friction, a heat and an uneasing shaking that makes the system flirt with falling apart. In a hundred trillion years everything will shake apart, those atoms can’t hold forever. I don’t have a trillion years, but I do have the shakes. Those vibrations in my nerve endings tingle, the vibrations in my stomach are causing an ill will of human fortitude.

I love the consitution of my body almost as I love the consitution of this planet. Surely the six thousand year bender would have brought me to my knees, most of the nightly benders do it to me. The planet wakes up with a fever now and again, and shows some along the plates, but it hasn’t started dry heaving yet. Yet those frustrations must be sitting in, just like they are for me. Those shakes hit the core, and surely California will pay.

There is something that I know will never happen to me in this life, in this dimention, in this universe, in this house, in this frame of mind, in this country, and in this beard. I keep after it because the frustration exists whether or not I try, and while a deep sorrow can overwhelm when the frustraion teams up with uglier things I have no fear or loathing. There are certain priorities, but the friction builds on irreguardless of the priority you set on careing for the system. You will flirt on until you seize and your engine rips apart. Or maybe you will just stall.

I think Mars and Earth were friendly once, they flirted for a while. They had conversations under the stars, made joes about the spot on Jupiter, talked jealousy about those rings, and really made a connection. They realized that they were the same, and it meant different things to them both. Mars took his infatuation and his desire for meaning and linked them. Proud of his identity maybe for the first time since Mars had memory, he would ask Mars to meet under the moon time and time again. Yet she never showed, though she would continue to be polite and friendly, even flirt. Unfortunately, this just frustrated Mars. Finally, it came to be that the frustration caused the fortitude to fail, forever fated to fall, he failed and the face, cried. The surface rusted in salty tears. Mars became less friendly, and became an isolationist. Forgetting that all the planets were made from the same stuff, and all the materials and feelings were the same as all the other planets, he let the surface die to reflect what the inner mantle resembled. He became dead like all the other planets, for all intents and purposes.

Earth would grow and remain lively, surround itself with those like her, those who care when convienent. Never really happy, living six thousand years in a bender. Every so often she would think about the good nights with who was more like her then any other. Mars was always there, but so far away. She kept the moon.
How long until her frustrations cause her to fall apart for good. How long until the ride stops? Or maybe she is just stalled on the freeway, waiting to get hit by an asteroid. If the Earth could only understand before it was too late for them both.

All of this is in the future, but still seems so ordinary that it must come to pass. All of this seems so extraordary that it must be true, can’t make that stuff up. All of it seems so Mundane that maybe it must be a miracle. Maybe, all of it seems so exciting because it is frustrating. The Earth, she doesn’t know, she just enjoys the summer days. For Mars all the days are Winter, hoping for the spring and maybe a harvest moon. Mars settles for itself, rather then settling for Venus, or having a fling with Neptune while it’s closer. Mars should just get a job.

At least he won’t remain blue like Earth, he has comfort in the black. The stars seem so far, but they all have their quirks, sometimes even quarks. Distance is the mother of frustration. If we all could get together, it would work out.

What he says.

I wish to be axiomatic, and while I axiologically analize eveyrthing to the point of being an axiologist rarely will anyone agree on the values placed upon the critiera utilized in examining the empirical world. Is it ironic that this has become an axiom, in and of itself? The only axiom that we surely can agree upon is I have to find someone else who knows what the fuck I am talking about.

This isn’t the Lord Prayer, it should be the prayer of the people. It is my labour of soul.

This isn’t the Lord Prayer, it should be the prayer of the people. It is my labour of soul.

I will preference this very carefully and succinctly as I can by saying, I wish I could have put this out before this movie did. Never has such beautiful statement of true humanity. At least from my life experience, and if it is true, of yours as well as long as your enjoy the night as much as the day as two sides of the whole.

Excerpt from Synecdoche, New York:

"Everything is more complicated then you think. You only see a tenth of what is true, and there are a million little strings attached to every choice you make. You can destroy your life ever time you chose, but maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out, just try to figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is it’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born, but while alive, you wait in vain wasting years for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes, or it seems to but it doesn’t really. So you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along, something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is, I feel so angry. And the truth is, I feel so fucking sad. And the truth is, I felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long. And for just as long I have been pretending I’m okay just so I can get along. Just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen."

Simply put, there is such sadness in these words, such death. Yet there is such life in them, because they are indistinguishable. We will all die, and that is what defines our life. We all will live in that shadow, and we all find even darker recesses from our explorations of the shadow. While this never highlights the amazing moments, when the light peaks through the branches of that tree, when the shadow on the ground moves and lives in dancing light and playful absence, it still embodies that moment. The moment where we can sigh in contentment and let those thoughts drift away. They are in that diatribe, they are in there as sure as they are in our lives. They are covered ad nausem within the other billion movies, books, songs, poems, and episodic small talk sessions.
Our lives are good, they are short, and they are cruelly ridged in that.

There is not a single word of that movie, written by Charlie Kaufmen, that I cannot endorse with 100% of my being. I have spoken them a thousand times with every combination of breath, silence, and body movement capable from my physical and spiritual form. Just as these words are truth I write in vain attempt to forge connections with those who are me, and not of me.
I know they are words that would suggest a cry for help to the normal person, but those who have examined their own lives, those with a depth know this is a celebration. Misery doesn’t love company, Humans hate isolation. No thought is lonelier then that, no hardship greater, no depression more severe. We are all identical in the fact that these constructs, no matter the way they manifest throughout our existence, are present.

I wrote this about a year ago, I decided it would be my foreword into the book I proclaimed I would write. I feel that this thought is applicable to all of my writing and definitely goes hand and hand with this topic. I would want the end of my book to properly convey what has been written to this point, and the beginning to resemble this foreword, but with more subtlety and nuance. So I feel today I will put on this blog the end of my feelings first through what you have read from a movie and myself, and finish with the beginning.

I’m just thinking right now that I am trying to put together something.Like so many others, I think I know something, as if my life has some meaning, something that is unexplainable. I have read the classics and it’s all the same. I’m just a guy. What is the difference between me and Hemingway or Kerouac? Interesting stories perhaps, but it’s all the same when it comes down to it. I am going to try to bluff as if I speak the truth. Take what I know is true and wrap it in a colorful bluff so it is the same, or at least I hope. I think I know what not to say, I just have to figure out what to say.
I would love to write something that someone could decode, I mean if skillfully done someone, and I mean a rare someone, could identify it understand and make that connection. You can sit alone and be alone, or you could explain yourself. Tell someone about yourself but you never learn anything from being told, and they will just look at you as if you are crazy and then you might as well be. That is the isolation we all seek to shatter, that is the immortality that we seek and poorly by most standards. Echo throughout time not a name, or a motto, but knowledge about the truth. Simply put the only thing we know in truth is ourselves, and the only way to share that is to find you in someone else. Or, at the very least, put yourself out and hope someone finds themselves in you.

Peace, Love, and Understanding.... the universe.

My mother read an update on my facebook page from some girl who decided to badmouth me indirectly for the manner of my status updates. She suggested I tell her off, or remove her as a friend, and so on to various degrees. I admit to thinking how to make myself sound justified in doing these things even before she suggested them, but I seem to have evolved beyond it. I said I do not need to spend anytime hating anyone for something so minor, it is much easier to just let it float on by. Simply put I try to worry about what is in my world, and respond with a bit of love and understanding.


French Philosopher Henrik Bergson said that the Brain does not perceive the universe, instead it acts as blinders that allow us to block out the overwhelming amount of information in the universe so we can handle it all. Because we are all interconnected, the universe is one and the same. We exist alone because this is how perception is. Like the electron flying through a cloud aimlessly, it exists in all places except when observed. That observation is our existence, and while that sounds boring I find comfort in it. How can we possibly sink while observing? We exist in all possible locations, so how can we want?
Really, it all seems inconsequential if you think about it all as an ebb and flow of consciousness across a unified singular existence. All except the overlapping mundane existences, that is to say where we interact with others with a small window of perspective. There are numerous psychological factors we understand from our interactions, from hating someone for not having the same point of view, or attributing poor interactions with someone to character flaws on their part, to loving someone for having the same perspective.

This culminates in the several types of love that exist, platonic love and undying included. If we all are cut from the same cloth, sharing a unified existence only holding a unique perception or window we use to look upon the universe, then the only thing that is not mundane is when we are blessed enough to look out on the same thing with two sets of eyes. (or more)
This is the only time we are not alone, when a shared perspective is found. Who hasn’t been in a room full of people and been lonely? Most likely this is because we are not sharing the same experience, or at least not cognizant that you are sharing an experience in the same magnitude. If we watch a movie or other artist medium, we usually have as much pleasure telling a friend about it, selling them on how good or bad it was, and the penultimate is showing them the art piece and hearing their opinion. We bask in happiness when their verdict is identical, and become frustrated when it is diametrically opposed to yours.

Now we are revealed to the part of the story where to the erudition that I am optimistic romantic. It seems to me that platonic love is at its zenith when we share the same perspective and we enjoy sharing experiences because of that commonality.
For your consideration from Wikipedia:
The triangular theory of love is a theory of love developed by psychologist Robert Sternberg. The theory characterizes love within the context of interpersonal relationships by three different components:
Intimacy – Which encompasses feelings of closeness, connectedness, and bondedness.
Passion – Which encompasses drives that lead to romance, physical attraction, and sexual consummation.
Commitment – Which encompasses, in the short term, the decision to remain with another, and in the long term, the shared achievements and plans made with that other.
(coincidentically, I love Wikipedia)

This means the best relationships do have based on a friendship, and when we share that level of intimacy, we are happier. I have always associated that intimacy closely with love. Commitment just seems to follow by my perspective.
Passion seems to be the real lynchpin of the whole thing. This is the only thing that has nothing to do that shared existence and really confuses me. Perhaps it is because my life has been devoid of any passion. I will talk about this topic more in the future.
I think this means that love is the most important thing in the world because it is the only concept that existentially supersedes the mundane nature of our existence. It allows us to bridge the gap of our limited mental prowess to truly exist on a higher level, a shared universal level. This gives meaning to every single speck of dust in the universe, only if you find someone to agree with you on the meaning.
I think there many be many different ways for you to obtain that level of love you need to make a universal existence possible, and obtain happiness. Though I still hold out hope that there is a way to get those three components extremely high, and find that one love that makes a prefect mate to people watch with while experiencing everything that we can find in the universe. Or at least fucking watch some 30 Rock with. I do want to go to there.

A highway to hell isn't as bad as a bus to Barrymore's

When eight kids of the tween persuasion started singing horrible songs with horrible lyrics in a horrible tone by horrible girls in horrible makeup and one horrible boy who was most likely thinking horrible thoughts about those horrible whores, I was horribly annoyed.

My Ipod couldn’t go high enough.

Yeah it's overwhelming, but what else can we do? Get jobs in offices and wake up for the morning commute?

Well I am still somewhat alive though, my brain healed fast enough even though my mind surely will suffer fatigue over time from all of this reality. I am waiting for the good life to come back as I am not sure how fucking long the bad will last, but I am positive that life has been as erratic as a Mexican jumping bean.

Maybe it is that there is too much pressure on the big things in life, the landmarks. Such as the team you spent your entire lifetime devoutly following triumphing over evil. Perhaps it is finding a social partner and the implications to your self-identity that follow from it. Or even if it is as simple as the unexpected 500 Dollars in expenses that show up unexpectedly.

The maelstrom stirred upon my life over and over, but never did my ship never sink. The captain must have gotten good marks in regatta school and his mother is oh so proud. If I don’t go under after all of this, I too must be a captain of clever and measured cut. Life seems tough, but my callus is tougher, and I do not have any problem looking beyond the dark folds in my life, and more patience to look beyond others as well. It took me 26 years to get here, but never has this life been hard enough to destroy me because I have survived.

I think I will share my secret with you, but only if you ask nicely. The real point is that I found a garden in my soul, and it is a passive place, which rarely has visitors, but is open for company for the summer.



The seven days of shiva (spelling prob. wrong) on weeds made me laugh and I have determined that more funerals should do that.

Alliments and cures common of rock and roll.

“I thought I saw somebody drowning in the clear waters of Lake Michigan, I threw in a life perserver, but preservation is always only temporary. See I can offer you my hand, but I cannot save you from innevitablity.”- The Silent Years

Never should one think like this, that there is an negitive innevitablity coming. Sometimes the onlything innevitable is the path of your thoughts. The sky is not about to fall, but everything is falling apart aside from the azure. There is a rumbling in the ground, forboding in chilling intimidation. Errors in faith we have made, as the good times seem to be running out. As the winds change I know a huge stone will roll down the hill soon to crush me. My confidence wains as I look up and notice that the stone gathers moss, my state of mind shall be intertwine with the soft green and imbedded in the hard facts. These things will continue to roll down hill with all the other shit. I have no desire to push this boulder uphill for the rest of eternity, do I go for a ride?

Never was there a short climb to the summit, where no stone from above could crush. Yet I still climb the long hard side of the cliff, bones smashed beneith me. I could predict what happened give or take the particulars. Yet the feeling I had the last time I saw my friend and was to preocupied with supressing tears to treat him correctly, with or without knowing his ultimate fate, flooded my mind as my ears went numb. The bell tolls for thee, and hense all the ringing that followed my hearing around. I know the path held out to me is a long hard climb, but I climb because I know that jumping is too hard, and the rock will find me a home amongs the moss before long. The feeling of being gathered upon the rolling stone.

No award for the effort,

No commendation for stepping forward one night a year,

None shall stand by you while you stand by yourself.


There are things that I know and things I don't, things that perplex and things that comfort with simplcity of absoulte understanding. Of these things for which certainty can be certain, is music makes everything better. I am sure that there is even a song out there that makes assrapings tolerable, though not as markatable as the average love song.... The things I don't get how a person could be so afraid to let the heart drop a rythym of its own, that cannot be envoked by any percussion that rattles the flesh and bone. These are the things that make me stand and wait, at least for one more encore song….

Looks like were going to have to jump.

I knew from the very start that somewhere in the middle I would have to find an ending. The final never comes before the ending, except in art house films.

Finality follows certainty. Is there not something cathartic in that? Jumpers soaring for an indefinate amount of time find a smile placed permanent upon their cadaver. Personally my thoughts on the subject is that there is no escape from gravity to the featherless fowl known as the meloncholy, and the unavoidable destity is accepted without the bullshit that usually blocks the serenity with letting the things fall where they may. The sights and sounds, not from excitement but acceptance.

It is certain you are hitting that ground young meloncholy bird. No time to think about what will happen if you break though the earth to the otherside.


Reason you get hurt is the entire mass of the Earth will act upon your body, The reason you will be fine is your soul will bounce, the rubbery substance is the elasticity of the certain man. Sublime.

I sometimes thought about what would happen if there was no more thoughts and instead just acceptance. First I would have to jump. Although I do not want to crash into the soft embrace of concrete, I would perfer the hard hold of something unfamilar yet pertantly consistant. My Catharsis is cold, better put it on the backburner.

Another day goes by, I wonder if I will run out of days before we run out of oil, artic ice, weathermen?

“We should drink less, we should eat more, we should get outside. We should drink less, we should eat more, we should be living better lives”-Psapp



I had a decent day in the land of pencils and hormones. The damn Yankee children said they were not cognizant of the skills, they complained and I explained. How do you do that, when they should already know. A spoft spot, their brains rot, I hate the wail, despite my efforts they all fail. Fucking brats learn to factor, or at least factor in to shutting the hell up.

All things considered it wasn’t all cunts and fuckwads, it is redeeming to find the few kids that you could see having a beer with in like 10 years. These are the youngings I can laugh with and talk shit to. I know why I love my dad. He hooks me up with an easy sub day, where I spend my time either helping kids factor or reading the best blog ever during one of the many breaks in the day, though I nearly got in trouble when I was scrolling by and there was a picture of someone on the toilet, NSFW is needed on your blog JJ, you are perverting young minds. My father made the day all the better when relieves me off the mound for the final hour. Fathers used to be considered good by virtue of the backyard toss, now it is how they can defraud his employers for one hour of free pay for his son to buy gas.

70 more dollars will find their way into my pocket, though I spent a good ten percent of that on my meal post mordem. This was a good choice by me, while it wasn’t the most filling, it filled my tastebuds with wonder, did they die and go to heaven? Maybe I am overdoing it, but that grilled chicken sammy on a parmasean bagel was so damned delicious, I had to make sure I was not sans one soul in some unwilling deal with the devil.

The back got cracked by a trained professional and I had a laugh at the fact I was walking vertically large.

The weathermen would take my fun away, as they broke into my place and raped me. My cries went unheard and my innocence lost to the fact that I am unable to play hockey since nearly a week before. I will testify against the weather channel and their schizophrenic cavelcade of “forecasters.” Just give me a doll to illustrate to a jury and I will give you tears.

Thusly I settled into a quiet evening in which I would forget the pain in my ass, by focusing on the soon to be pain in my ass, Sidney Crosby (who coincidentally also knows about crying and being bent over) So I watched game six of last years romp in the a city built on steel, but without the resolve to back it. This made me go through the gammet of emotions, I laughed, I cried, I learned. I know that it isn’t going to be easy to win especially with a script in place curteous of Gary Betman entitled The Golden One, starring Sid the Kid. However, I remembered that Osgood and company are way classier, and the movies always have them winning in the end. Four wins and I will be happy until next October, and if Sidney wins I am going to get the weather channel on his ass. Jim Cantore can start storm on him, we will call it Hurricane Trashstash.

I sit here, and wonder….


How the hell did he change his clothes so fast?

I always said give a man a match, he can start a bonfire. Teach a man to match, and he can become an arsonist.

A new friend recently said, in paraphrase, that her heart has been ripped out and set on fire.
“Hearts on fire you’ll learn, end up with heartburn”.-BNL


I know the feeling but I tend to go about it differently. I like to get a nice friction going; much like a scout uses two sticks to create a spark. I go to it the only way I know how and usually see some sparks and sometimes I get ignition. My heart burns a bit, but I never rip it out. No one ever does, so it goes out and smolders ad infinitum. I need a cool drink of water, but really, I need someone who knows about fire prevention. Or perhaps I need a fire breather to show me how to get that fire out. Either way I enjoy the feeling of heat as it lasts.

I found a match again. Strike it up, I hope to. How long will it last before I can put it to kindle, what warmth could be found if shared to hearth. I hope this match is an easy start. I hope this match has a long life. I hope this match knows its worth, and mostly I hope “hope” isn’t combustive.

A short story.

Transit across the near frozen blue, salt stimulates three senses while the sea dulls the other two. Ivory and various other trinkets needed to get to the unnatural location where they will find their new shelter. In the closet of those who forget such treasure once existed intrinsically in these items, but are now lost forever. What greater fate then to join the company of the miserable symbols of wealthy conquests? They said that he had a solid head on his shoulders and a thick neck connected it to a stout body, which had no doubt the upper body strength to pull hard on his bootstraps. His fortunes brought him the ship and business was his white whale. He counted his coins in the form of boxes in the hold, locking the door to keep the slaves of wage out. The man had hired his navigators and captains, and trusted in his system as he focused on improving every angle of the acquisition process. When the fire broke out in the engine, the captains quelled screams, promises were created that things were fine as they began sending good men into the blaze in hopes of suffocating the fire. The man and his square head took his inventory and dreamed of the ledgers growing, his growing estate followed in mind, and a new horseless carriage to impress. The commotion grew until it could not be ignored, the tails fled towards the holes in the vessel. Fluids in extremes, or hell in flame. Either way the ship was going down. Ring around the porthole, brass, alienates the square-headed man now trying to follow the rats to safety. Shiny, yet soon to be tarnished. Square thoughts were pouring out as water poured in. The dollars he had were meaningless. The crates began to float in the cold water but would never float higher then the ceiling; they would find new depths along with this man and his worthless bootstraps. The sky was not falling, his ground was sinking. Forty minutes stuck in the hold, bleeding from the negotiations with the stubborn hole. Swears and prayers, God obviously prefers rodents. Above the life rafts floated away with the navigators and captains, set adrift by the ship workers who fought the blaze, whose work ran the ship, who were not to blame for the sparks, the ship they maintained collapsed into the abyss. The pragmatic square thoughts drowned with in the square head of the man who owned the vessel known as the American Dream. The rats swam to the Caymans.

I hate how things come around to hurt me in whimsical fashion because I know this comment has nothing to do with me, but wishes it did. It is like serendipty but inversed, mean spirited barbed wire wrapping around like a tattoo, but not to impress white trash but instead to sever ones arm to make the heart pump blood out making you the human teapot. Surely it wasn't in response to what I said. Even if the timing seems to be more then coincidental. It seems like what I said in ones and zeroes, bouncing off the internet hoping to be noticed, was picked up and decoded. The only response that could possibly make my all senses blur comes across, and I have no faith that it was meant for me. It would be too perfect. It would be far too perfect to believe.

Reading is Fundemental.

We need to read some of the greats again.... Sun also rises... or Sex, Drugs, and Cocco Puffs? Or I could finsh the Beatles Philosophy book. Decisions.

Sunday has a meaning.

I always wondered why they list Sunday as the start of the week.

It is the end of the week for me because after the hockey there is not much to do but wait for Monday. The interaction period is over, all the people who like to endure themselves to you with insults and light ribbing are done. It is unlikely Sunday night will bring any epic notes in the memoirs of your friends i.e. nor your own when living vicariously through others.

Sunday is for rest apparently. Only no one knows how to rest anymore, I think this is why the week starts on calanders with Sunday, because we want to start with rest. However we only really rest when we can right before diving back in......

Weddings are also pretty common on Sundays. Is this because the start of the rest of your life needs to coincide with the start of a week? Or is it because you are laying to rest your independent and youthful life, as no doubt the cynic would agree with. Perhaps it is that we love the day of rest as we do a well trusted lover? Most likely we hope that we can rest assured that life will finally begin properly, in a partnership that will endure the work of the week until weekend can begin. Maybe it is just that airfare on mondays is cheaper?


We know the hardest worker in the house is the mother, and this is apprently mothers day, I know because I have been guilted three times the normal amount today. Hallmark aside she deserves a rest, I just do not see the value in flowers or cardboard.

As my friend once said, "work is the only four letter word you don't know..." I consider it a good thing, as well as true. It is also quite the coincidence as when I have to work I often let fly with every other four letter word I can think of, I learned that from my mother btw. Sunday is the day that people tend to agree with me, with the excpetion of the followers of the cult of "the Home Depot."

If I threw this all down on paper on a Sunday, that means I am working, perhaps it means I am getting a jump on the next week? Or I might be giving my brain a rest by taking the weight of these random thoughts out. I think I am ending my week on a good note.

Or maybe I am resting thoughts of falling in love at first sight, by redefining that as the end of a relationship as Sunday is redefined as the end of the week. Or at least it should be, I want to find anyone besides a calender worker who thinks Sunday is the start of the week, and has an IQ high enough to suggest the capacity of independent thought.

I would be lucky to have a love at first sight that continued on like the week continues on, but I think that Monday is the start of the week and I fall on a Sunday.

"If I promise to go to church on sunday, will you go with me on Friday night?" -Green Day