I decree.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emperor_Norton

Yeah I want to be this guy when I am older.

Conversations with a friend on labour-Capital relations.

I was having a conversation with my friend about the research he was doing on a strike that happened over 100 years ago. We were brainstorming and it got me excited for my ideas, so I thought I would put a bit up for reading. The ideas may be expanded upon in the future on my blog and in my writings.

10:07pmMe

The blame for the violence fell on the homestead strikers and public opinion swayed back. The government moved harshly against them, and the mill simply shut down ending unionization on that particular plant.

10:09pmMe

Not surprising as Marx himself had the viewpoint of Government that coincided with this.

Pretending neutrality to maintain order, but serving the interests of the rich. Not that the rich agreed among themselves: they had disputes over policies. But the purpose of the state was to settle upper-class disputes peaceably, control lower class rebellion, and adopt policies that would further the long-range stability of the system. -Howard Zinn in The People’s History of the United States

While many unions continued successfully with their struggles, in this steel business area the combined might of capital, and the politicians they owned, proved too much for Steel workers.

The gap is growing still. The recent court decisions, union membership, and trends of southern states to become right to work states, has lead to a realization. The government still seeks to settle disputes between capitalists, not workers and business. Giants such as wall-mart crush the unions before they form all the same. In many parts of the country to speak of unions, is to speak for socialism, a word looked at with disgust.

10:14pmMe

The government does nothing to aid labor in making a place as equals to capital, instead it is always the subjugated to rich white men.

10:15pmMe

You know what

I have to stop

I could actually see writing a good paper on this myself...

Untitled.

I'm hungry, hurt multiple times, sick, procrastinating, battered bruised, hardly ever amused, thinking of migrating, the heats to thick cannot move without perspirating.
I'll eat some crackers and wash my mouf outwit listerine. That stuff is harsh but now comes in tangerine.

Drive full blast the stereo and air please, down to the doctor to help with my disease. He said I cannot help you with the voices in your head, or the feeling that you'd be better off dead. I can give you four pills, one to help your dick up, one for the dizzy spells, two more to ease the chills. So what if you are underemployed, or hardly like the company of those who you once enjoyed, you can still beat off, and stand up in the breadline.

Only I can do a double bypass.

Did you ever have something so great that you could not hold onto. You search to replace it, you find a way to and you squeeze even tighter to hold on to the replacement only for it to slip through even faster. Each time you try again it becomes harder to hold onto. Pretty much everything you hold onto begins to have the feeling of Crisco to it. Then you are just left with slick empty hands.

No good for heart surgery.

I try to wash my hands of the whole thing. There unfortunately is blood in the water.

Our Normalcy Bias

I woke up sick. The head on my neck was a soaked rag falling apart at the seams trying to cover up a grinding stone. My body is so tired and sore, it worn thin from the previous day and the work of laying still. I rolled onto the shores of my bed as oil, with twice the consistency and half of the attention. Still as damaging. The day before a hurricane, I moved things around in my life with bluster, just trying to make it closer to the mainland and someone who would look me in the eye and smile. Instead, emotions flooded and the citizens fled.

There is a war or two, at least where I use the big guns. I blow things up, watch them blow things up, and then try to rebuild so we can blow things up together. Collaterally speaking, the casualties are low, by comparison. This is our war and not your war, the goals are fuzzy and we cannot begin to consider victory with lips silent or functional. No one can relate but those with nothing in this moment but a battered, empty, and used flak jacket. Don't give me any flak.

I hear shouting in the distance, hushed by the fireworks. There is no hope. There is hope, just not here. I can hope, but it is no change. What is there to believe in? What about the markets? We need some jobs.

The men scurry like ants, carrying grains of sand to build a mound. They do this for no reason of the queen, nor of drone, nor of army ant. They work for that tunnel, and even though it can collapse under foot of that kid and his sticky shoes, they want that to be their own.

When the poison rains down upon them and the landscape is tore asunder the chaos continues. They scatter, and will rebuild, if they can. What value is an ant then? What value in a tunnel? I never once heard an ant scream.

I do not build tunnels, I do not build anything. I just listen for the scream of an ant. Hope that we all wake up better, or at least wake up concerned about what has happened and why it continues to happen.

Disaster is the new normal. 24-hour coverage will continue until someone shuts off the channel. If you wait in the fallout shelter, you will die just the same.

I woke up worse than when I went to bed.

I cut myself on puzzle pieces that would not fit. I hurt my back hanging my head, and my neck by holding my head high. The shoulder from trying to slap that puck too hard, and my ankle was rubbed raw just like my emotions. My heart was inside so I could not survey the damage. I imagine it was like an earthquake in Haiti. Those who lived in there, now live on the rubble in tiny shacks waiting for the rich to care enough to actually give them some tools. It is your misfortune I hear them say.

If the ice melts, we will have more water but fewer beaches. No one cares about the bears or the penguins. Why should they have a place to stand when I have nothing to stand for? They can always live on the continent of garbage.

Maybe the drug addict you love needs to be put on the street, maybe the depression will kill him or at the last second, they will turn towards salvation.

I just tend to think disasters will never happen, because we already live in tornado ally. We shall all get our bailout but can we ever rebuild? As those memories get scattered across the counties I wonder what memories can we make by making another home here.

Disaster is the new normalcy. I seem to have a bias towards it, and you do too. I say fuck anyone who tells you it will change with vague words. There is no wisdom for those who live in a desert and cry of thirst besides leave. If they can leave they might not, if they cannot they will not. We all trade the beach for our lives when the coast falls into the ocean. That will never happen except it already has and will continue. In 2012, it will be worse, as it was in 2000 and it was every time the moon blocked the sun. A moments notice, a disaster, and then it is back to normalcy. Disaster is the new normalcy. Sometimes we have to have a service for the survivors. I would cry for you, if you would survive me too.

Time for a lunch break... eww pimento loaf.

Disaster is the new normal.

Normally I would never let this hurt so much, but the people that understand me are fewer still after the last plague. Swine flu did them in. I hate to see you leave, I hate to have another person not read my words or talk to me with less enthusiasm until they drift away, kidnapped perhaps on some pirate ship. Truth is there are too many things going extinct to worry about the rare species of creature that can put up with all of this and all of me. The sky is falling chicken little but you told us too soon. We developed a normalcy bias, now what do we do?

Chicken Little said, "we must go tell the president!!!" Foxy Loxy said, "dude, fuck that guy he won't do anything but steal from you, that commie bastard."

"Just as well", said Chicken Little, "what is the point now that she left me, and every girl I try to replace her with is flawed. Even worse is the parts where they are better than here are far between, and when I get settled for less it is on these few qualities I build my excitement for. Of course they leave and now I don't even get that.. So the next girl has even more to live up to... I think the last one at least understood me even greater than the first girl I loved..."

"Maybe I should cut my wrists," said Chicken Little.

"If you cannot pull yourself up, then fine. But your parents will be hurt and you will go to hell," Said Foxy Loxy.

"Oh, well, I suppose I should read a book or something."

"Why don't you get a job, you lazy ass. I hear they are looking for construction workers in New Orleans."

"I wonder what is on the internet..."

What a disaster.

Trepidations

I sat in a chair looking for the world to find me again, and got quite mediocre at it.

It was what everyone else was doing, though some more mobile than others. I realized that everyone was hooked, tobacco had nothing upon this. There were those who started with live journal like it was drinking in high school. We all started drinking at MySpace State collage. Indeed, some of us experimented at this college far beyond what could be considered safe while listening to some really crappy bands. Then it seems as if all that experimenting was leading towards making progressively worse decisions, eventually culminating with moving on to the hard stuff.

I speak of course of Facebook and Twitter. Which will be known from now on as crack and meth, respectively. Sure it sounds like a great way to meet new people, yet the people you meet seem so distant, most likely because they are all floating along like you are in your drug crazed newfound existence. None of this is readily apparent to you, because all experiences seem new and heightened. You make excuses, like this is what everyone is doing, and I am just fitting in socially. You try to make it look like it makes you so much wiser and deep. Status updates that sound like song lines, or even worse using song lines as metaphors for existence.

All it takes is a little encouragement, someone likes what you have to say might as well take another hit.

Then you see a response and they pass the needle around, shouldn't have to worry about where this is going...

Before you know it, you are sneaking crack and meth at work, paying big bucks to be able to pick up your phone and get it quick. No big deal, it makes getting through the day easier. However hard you try, it starts to get in the way of your work. Pretty soon, the thought of what is going on with crack and meth consumes your world. Maybe you will take a hit under the table at dinner with your parents, or while your boss is in the other room. Then it comes to the point where your real life relationships become strained by it. Slowly but surely you lose touch with real people, though some check in from time to time, mostly so they can gossip about you and hide it from you. Others seem to be on top of their addictions. She doesn't seem to be abusing meth. Crack makes him interesting. They just do it to get ready for parties. Why is this hitting me so hard, am I somehow broken?

Well, then it gets really bad, and you then go far outside your circle of friends looking for people who can make you feel good again. Shady characters hooked on this stuff themselves share inauthentic. Before long you are strung out and you have nothing to offer the meth/crack heads. You just float along stinking of shame, teeth rotting out behind a new profile picture, incoherent ramblings of impending doom on a virtual street corner, and you become territorial while begging for someone to give you some hint of normalcy through the drug that you still deny is at the root of your problem.

I sit here like I did for so many days since I took up these filthy habits of electronic social medium. Trying to suppress the urge to look to see if anyone noticed I was gone from the corner, to see if taking refuge in a church nearby or dead in a gutter. I sit shaking from withdrawal, I sit fearful about my future. This is the thing about the drug, it will change how you think and feel. The good and the bad will never have the same context again. I sit and wonder what I can salvage, and how long I can stay sober. I just do not want to be tricked again by my eyes. Trepidations.

This new interpretation leads me to think Hall and Oates were evil.

Subconscious turns to machinations. Perceptions just plausible enough for me to deem that not only have these developments manifested to bring aspiration and elation unbound to my tired soul, but that these events are substantial and substantive. I suppose this is why they are called dreams, though it seems more like my brain is teasing ever part of me, rubbing it in that it can reject reality for 20 minutes of REM sleep every morning. Worst yet, my mind has studied well and can postulate that it is far more manageable and devastating to make the tormenting part be when I am awake in bed. Falling dreams are no longer the penultimate of nightmares, dreams where the world opens up and lays at your feet a modest and most welcomed set of achievements marked happiness (paid for with dues) have usurped the mantle. You never hit the ground in dreams, at least experientially, when you wake up it is a different story. Thank God that someone put this mattress here, otherwise this might have hurt a trifle more.

If you see me today, there will be a smile worn on a tired face. Optimism and meditation to drive back the subtle waves on the rocky shores has changed the course of my life. Still looking for the lighthouse, but at least I didn’t nick anything. Soon I will go to sleep again. One-day in-between the daylight and the twilight, there shall be my face staring back at me mischievously. I am going to slap that sunnavabitch right across the cheek. For if my dreams turn to putting nightmares on the precipice of my new days, I will just steal the aspirations and sanguineness from deep within. It is far too sunny and warm outside for it to stay inside.

I know my mind has taken notice, someday you will too…

Chicago, never bleed red forever.

I am quite upset with the number of "hockey fans" in the area are rooting for Chicago in these Stanley Cup finals. Never mind the fact that Pronger is on this Flyers team, or that Philly fans have the fans behaving badly market cornered. You cannot root for Chicago if you are a Wings fan, not only for our past but for modern day dealings with the team.

Does no one hold reverent the fact that they are our rivals? Does no one in Michigan draw ire when their crowds chant Detroit sucks? DOES NO SON OR DAUGHTER OF BLUE COLLAR SWEAT AND TOIL WANT MISERY FOR HOSSA FOR WEARING OUR COLORS BUT NOT BLEEDING THEM!!! To those raised in the moraines, by the factory stacks, on the shores, or any who actually care about Hockey in its purest form and of its roots, do not root for Chicago. Even if you have enjoyed their majestic city and their hospitality whilst collecting your tourist money, root not for Chicago not on ice, for they would not do the same for you.

We have rebuilt their city with our timber, we have built the cars that travel all the roads that lead through Chicago, and we have all pulled for their Cubs to be freed from embarrassment as we would for the Lions. They would not even undo the selfish acts that threaten the lively hood of our lakes with Asian carp and various invasive species, and still there are amongst us those that root for their success. When it comes to our histories, we have ebbed and flowed with them in importance and glory, to which they have emerged superior for now. Yet ON ICE, we SHALL NEVER YIELD TO THESE HAWKS!!! 11 is greater than 3, and even with the leagues desire to see that number grow to four we shall out number them in all aspects of the game. As they try to steal our system, our players, our management, and our success, they cannot steal our sportsmanship, honor, and glory.

Most of all we shall out number them in class, as we never chant Chicago sucks. Class is important to me, and our organization is rich as such. Class is not an issue here, we true fans of the house Howe built, we who know Ted Lindsay was a true MVP, and we who know that while many might wear the C or 19 only one man can be called Captain, we know Chicago is not our friend. Hossa deserves no cup, Kane punches cabbies over 60 cents, and Toewes can NEVER be Yzerman, we know not to root for those Blackhawks.

Indeed, we know that there is NO ONE that they shall play to make us root for them to win Le Coup de Stanley, except Sidney Crybaby, of course. You have been schooled, and if you doubt me, go ask Dr. Cox. The Second City is no Hockeytown, let them stick to blowing Winds and meatpacking. There are those who try to argue this with me, and I say what would your grandfather think assuming he enjoyed hockey. What would your father think? What would you think if you watched the last twenty years of Red Wings hockey without being fair-weathered? The answer is that for someone that Detroit does not suck, nor does Chicago. I do not expect them to root for us, and I do not expect you to root for them.

If you don't believe me

http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://justinharger.com/images/Detroit%2520Sucks.jpg&imgrefurl=http://statestreetsports.wordpress.com/2010/03/10/detroit-sucks/&usg=__OsFBcvnRuzwn-DE251EeIfIHyF4=&h=600&w=800&sz=143&hl=en&start=1&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=XntNcBNyHJMd6M:&tbnh=107&tbnw=143&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dblackhawks%2BDetroit%2Bsucks%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26tbs%3Disch:1

Memorial Day Redux.

I remember a time and place when the winds blew and the thunder pounded. The skies darkened and opened up their souls upon the merriment of the humans. I sat there in the rain and shivered. Join me now in that memory, put yourself in my thoughts. Return to the crashes and heavy droplets. Let me stand with a brave woman and see if lightning can strike again. Be my rod, then would all truly be divining.

Hatred is a simple rude statement out of misunderstanding.

I tend to do the wrong thing, but only in social means. The advice of a friend once given to me makes me ill, “…never try to fix things immediately, and never talk to anyone every day.” If we are social animals, then I am most assuredly the wretched and lowly scavenger. I go out each day for whatever I can find of social feed. I often get an upset stomach from it, as I imagine a raccoon would. I however transform into a bear with a honey pot when I find conversation as sweet, sitting quite contently in a single spot with my snout messy in the thick of things.

I find it odd that I am not the one to get sick from such a life style. Indeed, it is almost exclusively others who find themselves without the stomach for it. Perhaps it is some sort of vulgar display in their eyes. However, I continue to gorge myself upon it.

I try to give back to those who provide me the feast, those bashful bees. I am generally a supportive person. Sometimes when you try to hold up an animal and try comfort it, they will bite you out of fear. We are all social animals, and when do not understand something we fear it. I promise that I will not bite for I have removed my fangs. I know when you bite, it is because no one can fathom a man who can talk endlessly at one point, and has nothing to say at another.

Scavengers do not eat everything; I tell you I am thin for a reason. Someday I will eat for years. I hope that until then, all of those bees that allow me to stand central to them whilst they buzz, shall continue to dance for me. I know that conversation leads to many things, and I want more of those things. I want everyone who ever made me laugh, smile, cry, or best of yet left me speechless to continue doing that for the rest of my days.

Thanks to the dandelion, a snowstorm at 85 degrees to reflect my soul.

Thanks to the dandelion, a snowstorm at 85 degrees to reflect my soul.

At the point of eve, I gave up on myself. I wallowed wanting to go to bed, wanting to be in a coma of sleep for years. I sat bruised and skinned, with marks added to injury and emotions causing the most discomfort. I reached out in bed to a former best friend who somewhat skirted the role of conversation partner. I made efforts not to illicit pity and just let it be known that I existed. My eyes watered.

I returned downstairs to sit in front of the computer. I texted another former best friend. No efforts were made to escape the fact that I felt like crap. I wanted to let him know how much I appreciated him and just wanted to walk away at that point, but he made an attempt to redeem me. I talked to another friend who I was trying to make their role expand, giving effort to stay above the water.

I contacted my very best friend in times past, a girl I loved as a cousin and a friend. She had little to offer. I thought she was someone she no longer was. I laid it all out on her and she made little effort to empathize and offered very little in consolation. Yet it still felt more genuine than any other. Our talk was short and I confided that I missed her greatly.

I made a comment on Facebook. It was about the interconnection of the problems of others, and I made no effort to bring my woes up. “I want to say a prayer for an old friend who needs it, and a new friend who wants it. A prayer for someone who isn't a friend any more and a prayer for someone who might end up being a friend. All to be given a path to better days.” I didn’t want an old friend to die. I didn’t want my confidant and religious supporter to lose faith in what she believed because I needed to draw upon her kindness so much. I didn’t want someone I loved who didn’t talk to me to hurt anymore. I didn’t want someone who I could see my fondness grow, to take the abruptness that contributed to my sadness and throw out what connected us. I also didn’t want her to be sad, even if that meant she went ahead and got rid of our opportunity to be friends in lieu of the love she lost.

I wanted them all to be happy. Mike would say that no one would believe that this is true, that someone could selflessly want others to be happy. More than one of those folks ignored my attempts to wish them well. I hoped he was wrong.

In the morning, I woke up in a sweat. I could not control my dreams in the lucid morning, so I woke up. I spoke to someone a week prior that I never have sex dreams. That morning I had one that was strong, and I forced myself to wake as if it was scary. I was actually upset in my dream about my conscious desire to be with one girl. I felt guilty and ashamed just the same as if I were to look at a girl and think dirty thoughts about her in amidst a depression over wanting to be loved.

Ironically, I awoke to think about dreams in a different sense of the word. Could not control these dreams when I am awake either, at least they move slower. Every effort was turned to surviving. Eventually I was able to join up with friends for some bullshitting. That led to a bar run with another set of friends from years past and more bullshitting, which lead to me seeing two cousins and more bullshitting.

I was pretty happy for that moment.

There was a girl who joined us who was with one of the guys there for many years, and they broke up. That and the other aspects of her life overwhelmed her. The tears were familiar, but she said softly. “I was in love with him, and I will likely remain so for a year.” I thought about a year from now, what would find her? I thought about what would find me. A girl worth her weight in gold, might have to wait for a year as well and might still be hung up, will she give anyone that chance? What about the girl that refuses to be in love? Will she ever feel that pain, or will she hide inside of her current pain?

Life is Messy. That was a brutal way to say a true statement and tell someone to buzz off. I don’t want to make anything messy, but if I want to stay alive, I might eventually have to. Until I find someone who wants to clean up with me, I will hold my mess together with my magnet. I seem to have myself on board, but when can I become persuasive. Without the tongue of the sophist, will my feelings ever be accepted as fact? I haven’t played the drums in weeks, my heart doesn’t play the beat to drive my feet.

Yet I prayed, and in some fashion, all of the parts were answered. Much like an injury, those people will never be 100% again. We never will be 100%. I just hope all the people I have held in my brain with esteem will at least get to above average. I will always love, just like I will always cry, just like I will always worry, just like I will always over think, and just like how I will always believe I could do better. Let us all do better.

I cannot decide if I am the leper or the lover.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wu2TPvtOTEw

I kinda feel like both.

Sometimes, the only reason to blog is to respond to another blog.

The pain of knowing in your head that you will never have that life, the one that coined the term Rockwellian, reverberates within your head when the weight of the world pulls you down. You can only focus on that life, even at the expense of your own. This life is so real, because plethoras of others have achieved it. A life where your concerns are no longer that of yourself, a life where joy is external because you have created something so internal that it transcends your inner existence and mortality, a life where your achievements are necessary beyond your self, a life where we can be more than an island is what we all crave.

I find that those who take all avenues towards this goal are the ones who are happier in the path. Those who run towards it are the ones that are disappointed when they get there. Those who build their lives towards it are the ones that cannot go one when it falls apart. Those that say they do not want it find they have it already in their compatriots, or are too afraid to be vulnerable because if they fail their lives will fall collapse back into singularity. No human shall ever be an island because the beach is always made up of more than one stone.

If your thoughts are elsewhere; if they are about getting good grades, making it to a personal goal, losing weight, or earning a better job with better pay, you will find yourself more successful in a pragmatic sense. I, however, believe you will find yourself poor of spirit. I believe you will never be truly happy, although you will say you are. You need to be able to do this for yourself at some point in life, to get by. Yet you have to realize that the internal joys of accomplishments are lost to you because you are worried about that picket fence and those components of what could be.

The individualist who stands with two feet on the ground and the dreamer together, it seems as if that is required of you to succeed. When I get the most done, I get it done for the people that matter to me. I worry about getting the chance to teach my son how to shoot a hockey puck, or if I will ever be able to buy my wife a gift just because it is Tuesday. I know that there is a chicken and an egg, but which came first is perplexing enough without trying to have to make them yourself. A friend runs, not to run away but to find herself. Another runs to avoid finding someone else, another stands his ground to scare off others like they were crows after his corn, and even more do not know what they move for.

I have many theories on many things, and most of them would take a lot of time and understanding to see. You ultimately are not required to know any of them, but are required to take care of yourself and work towards that social level of acceptance. A Saturday morning watching your boys play football might not be when you want it, they might not even be playing football when the time comes, yet if you observe it then it will happen. We just tend to be messed up on the details, and sometimes we just do not know when to be about ourselves and when to be about someone else. When it starts to rain again, I will stop worrying about fire and start worrying about floods. I hope we can be there with some sandbags, together.

Conversations with a classmate, years past in contemporary.

The winds picked up and I just could not bring myself to attempt to propel my self against the bluster. I did not have the intrepid spirit of Winnie the Pooh, but I had the head smarts of a grizzled sailor. Perhaps it is just a justification of my laziness, but I could have played hockey, so it follows that I was indeed of more veteran cloth then I projected.

Never mind that I have already had a conversation with a friend, whom is a year my junior, about in-laws and baby care today. I tried to skirt the issues of my current life with him, but questions about how I work and live were brought up, unavoidable as breathing. Substitute teaching every so often, I explain how the system works so he knows that I am not really working but once every few months. A clever little excuse, which leaves me in the same bed of my youth.

I tell him about the efforts of playing hockey more often, and in some small token this really seems to impress most people. I like to think that whenever anyone actually attempts to do what makes them truly happy, that they can sense it and experience some sort of genuine joy. Perhaps our shared experience of dreams and the effort towards experiencing their realization is the only way empathy can truly be achieved.

He responds to me by saying I have, quote, so many talents man. Is there a veiled attempt to make me feel better? Did I just come off as complaining about my meager existence? I hope not, I was trying to do the opposite. Wallowing does not become me, she said.

“You’re fucking smart as hell! Or at least I remember you being smart and funny, but funny doesn’t get many people far. So smart would be the rout I’d take.”

“Smart and funny doesn't get you too far, but the alternative surely helps less. The degree to which I am both, is highly exaggerated.”

“lol. You remember our history class together where we would lose our minds over the dumb shit we would hear?”

“Haha, damn straight. One thing I always liked about you, although I am sure we probably never would see eye to eye on a lot of things, you called out some bullshit straight as anyone and would have a good laugh about it. Those were good times. I need a bottle opener.”

“Lol, true.”

“I miss those days. Kids think they know everything these days. Just like our days, save we were right, of course.”

“I always liked the fact that no matter what the current topic was in those days, we could piss off the teacher with our views.”

“I still tend to be the devil's advocate.”

He continued, “Because you and I would smash any other view of any other student in the class until they shut the fuck up. Made them feel stupid with the 15 min of info we got from CNN the night prior.”

Laughing, “I don’t remember it like that, I feel less heroic in my exploits then the paining you are selling. Do not get me wrong, I think I'd buy a frame or two from you. Perhaps It was nothing more then being a bit of an opinionated ass hole.

I realized then that I am still more or less very opinionated. However, in my decade of maturing, it seems that I have lost that edge to call people out on bullshit, and generally have become even more quiet and agreeable. My outbursts are limited to less then one a day, and while I still seem to be the devil’s advocate, Lucifer would most likely seek out alternative council after I just let a few things slight to avoid a headache.

I have not even yelled at her for ignoring me for, what feels like 30 years. Instead of having a fight, and giving up all that moxie all those Great War Vets were crazy about, there was a bit of angst and some slights followed by somewhat of a return to the status quo.

He excused himself while my mind wondered, had things to do beyond waiting for something to happen. With a take care sir, we parted.

There were a few bits of fruit in the refrigerator that were maturing. I figured in a few days they would be thrown away if they were left to sit there to gather mold in the darkness, occasionally glanced over by those in the outside world. Unless, I sank my teeth into them.

Suggestive Music.

Do you think that Reno has a dis-proportionally high gun violence rate due to Johnny Cash? If so, being a cop would be easy there, all you have to do is arrive on scene before they bleed out. The paperwork would be a major downfall.

A great week.

I’m getting by in an interesting week.
Feel really good about what I’m doing,
but all the other stuff is wrong.
It’s hard to explain,
but everything I’ve done this week I have been proud of.
I’ve been rewarded with more bad luck and more questions I’m at peace,
but also in turmoil,
and another road block has been put in my way.
My trust has been met with a shread of mistrust,
only testing me by planting doubt.
If I can shake that feeling right now,
I’d feel better.
If I could heal,
I could make a move,
and if I were proactive,
I might have a chance.
Time, that’s all that will work.
Time, confidence, and luck.

I remain myself, the trust won’t leave until it is taken.
If that happens will I be changed?
Honestly, it will be the honesty that keeps me natural.
Silence is what keeps me innate.

"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.