Long time no C.

Y'know it occurs to me lately that political debates by one-sided media organizations with agendas are not worthwile ways of metering who will be a good leader. In fact, it is a terrible concept. Last night, I watched a large segment of the Republican debate for the nomination for the party candidate on Fox News, co-sponsored by Google. All of that in itself is a mouthful and I'm still sorting out the intracracies of the conflagration of associations there, but regardless. The primary purpose of discussion is the format of a political debate where these unknowns are asked a series of questions that journalists, pundits, Mr. Joe America, or the candidates themselves have somehow triggered by their revelations in our interconnected world. It's a terrible format, foremost for the undecided masses and then for the candidates themselves.

The undecided masses, and they are huge. That's the whole purpose of the debate, to elucidate, clarify, and all together draw all of those who don't have a clue who is the best choice to lead the free world into the next four year period via a system of arbitrary questions that attack talking points designed by media gatekeepers.

It's a terrible system because there is no constraint for the potential President to actually 'answer' a question posed to them. Instead, through a subset of doublespeak that routes any definitive answer off on a patriotic tangent answers to questions all assume an amorphous grey cast, and none of the clarity of who is a worthwile candidate is actually given.

Perhaps it is a good idea that there are a series of debates in this format. However, why  are high-schoolers held to a standard of rules, time limits, and scoring when they are forced to debate. Shouldn't our potential leaders be held to those same microscopic standards of efficacy? Instead we give these unknowns the liberties of money, ease of explanation, and luxury of obfuscation to curry the favor of our mass of indecision.

We stand on a precipice where the inactions of the individual have lead us to a crux of consciousness. The rights of man over his own body are at issue in this United States of America. It is under attack from the corporations which we turn to for convenience, healing, transportation, nutrition, and many of our other body needs. Our medicines come with the price of side effect, our food with the cost of chemistry, and our choices governed by constraints consigned by detached bureaucrats.  We have fallen far from our once great ideals of equality, of brotherhood, and righteousness. As a nation, we have allowed this fall and welcomed it in a haze of gadgetry, ease, and dilution of perception by our chosen masters of programming and propaganda. We have turned to a complacent mass of bibulous gelatin, instead of the fire-hardened sword that our forbears paid for with all of their sweat and blood.

If we are not conscious of the trials of the past, and the diminishing boundaries of our liberties in the present, we are doomed to a dour and diminished future where our bodies are not our own, our minds are the properties of corporations, and our spirits are the dictates of dogma designed to direct our daily lives to a digital subjugation of will.

Put down your iPod, your iPad, Kindle, Android, and PC; Turn off the television, tear out the cable, the phone, and the Yahoo. The world of our fathers is floundering amidst this haze of convenience with costs unseen, the lives of  our children  being mortgaged for percents and derivative goals of detached bankers. Where has the wisdom of our age gone?

Coincidence barking

Well, it's happened again. An odd random brush with the infinite. So, I'm working third shift lately, okay? My days and nights are all screwed up. So, who's business is it if I'm having a beer at 8:45 in the morning after work but my own right? And, who really cares if I have another beer after that one, and maybe one more around 11 am? But all of that is purely incidental.

In my little corner of the world, I'm fortunate enough to have a neighbor across the street that has 8, or maybe 9 little barking dogs. I don't know if she has a puppy mill, or is raising them for food, but they definitely make some noise.

So now you know where I'm at and what I'm up against every day. It's not glamorous, but it's what I fight with when I'm trying to get a little sleep in the morning in this neighborhood. It's a cacophony out there when all 9 of those little dogs get the other neighbors larger dogs going over some nonsense passerby, or someone coming outside of their apartment. Never mind the guy who is trying to sleep.

Anyway, I'm there in my apartment around 11 am on my third and final beer, finally wound down from a long night of tedious work, and having alread suffered through one 15 minute barkfest. So, I'm being loudly proclaiming in my apartment, "Oh yes! More barking!" and such nonsense.

When suddenly, I get this loud rapping on my door from someone unknown. I know that none of my immediate neighbors are here, so my "joyous exclamations of barking dogs"  hasn't directly offended anyone who really matters.
It turns out to be three unknown people filling up my entire peephole, ragged, pestilent ridden, and unkempt, I still open my door to them to find out exactly what it is that they happen to be knocking so loudly upon my door about.

"We're from the New Life Bible College and we were wondering if you needed any prayer?" They said to me nervously and inexperienced.

  I was taken aback at first with their very presence after I'd already been so sarcastic in praising more of the barking from my neighbors dogs that now I have these people asking if I needed prayer at my door.

I said, "No, I think I'm okay today." Mostly wanting to get rid of them so I could return to painting a drawing that I had done earlier. They said okay, and wondered away somewhat beaten. But, almost with an afterthought,  still jarred from their audacity to knock so forcefully on my door coupled with the barking dogs across the street I opened up my door to them again and told them, "If you want to say a prayer to shut up these barking dogs, that would be awesome."

One of them said to me, "It's probably because so many of us are walking around in the neighborhood today."

But, after a couple of minutes the dogs stopped barking.


You can interpret this a number of ways of course. You can say, "Oh wow, an answered prayer!"  Or, you could just chalk it up to a pure series of coincidence. Further still is the fact that all of the New Lifers got out of the sensor range of the offending yapping dogs at long last.

Marvelling at My Media Mailin' of the Mighty Mjolnir

Special Edition #2, I hardly knew ye.

  So, I sold some of my comics,  about 40 issues of The Mighty Thor on eBay. I learned several lessons from this particular transaction. First and foremost, I will never sell a group of comics at once again. I really lost my perceptual ass on these comics, and only netted about 22 bucks for all of them. Secondly, and this is the most frustrating, the post office doesn't consider comic books for the media mail rate because they are 'not educational' and 'contain advertising'. After a rather involved conversation with the postal supervisor who admitted that without comics he wouldn't have developed an interest in reading, and whether to refer to them instead of 'comic books', but rather 'kids magazines' that this particular parcel could be shipped media mail instead of regular or priority mail.
  How incredibly ridiculous I felt defending a piece of 'media' in the face of a bureaucratic policy change to save a few dollars where the USPS can. I know that they're up against the wall, in the face of all of the competition for delivery dollars, but seriously! Comic books are printed matter, and educational in some respects, and well, it's just silly. If you're going to split hairs and say that 'media' has to be 'educational' before you can ship it at this lesser rate, then for the sake of all that is natural and good in this world, call it something else instead of 'media mail'.

  It did feel good when they finally saw my point however. But, in the future, 'comic books' are 'kids magazines', remember this if you ever find yourself in a similar situation.

In the crevasse

Write through this. That's what they say. But, what do you do when you're so unfocused on anything else other than what is staring you right in the face 24 hours a day. You wake up, it's there. You go to sleep, it's there. You dream, it's there in your nightmare. Does it require a revolver to set the times right. A sleek cool barrel of a gun to quieten the maelstrom of mind. Doubtful it's worth all of that. But, time is a killer. Time will eventually kill all of this, this madness, this hurt, this doubt, and this confusion of soul.
   I should know better. I know to walk along the straight and narrow path, but at times, the venues off to the side are so enticing and desirable. It's worth it to explore them occasionally, but typically I find that they lead only to heartache. I'm having a hard time climbing back up on that ridge that runs along the hillside, it's a steep slope I've toppled from and I'll be damned if I can climb back up there. There's too much stuff down in this ravine, too many sharp rocks and too many little flowers that I just want to pick and hold onto forever.
 It all happens when you're least expecting it. Whether you're inebriated, not paying attention, or on track for something else, suddenly you've fallen into a ravine and you're struggling to climb back up to the path you were on before you got yourself down in a mess. Sooner or later, you find a way out of it, usually with a great amount of difficulty. Usually, you're scarred up from climbing back up that hillside, all gashes and bleeding, scars that won't be healing up for a long time. I guess it's better than you fall off the path sometimes, better that you are knocked outside your comfort zone just to see what things could be like if you find a nice ravine that you can just live inside of forever. Maybe there's a little cabin down there with a nice warm fire that you don't ever want to leave. Or maybe, just maybe you topple down into a ravine and you're able to climb out of it unscathed and stand beside another who has fallen themselves and knows a bit about picking yourself up and dusting off and moving on down that path further until the next time some rock in the path dislodges and you fall into the unknown. 

All good and bad things.

This too shall pass. It's sometimes the only thing that can bring us any comfort, knowing that the rough patches in this existence are transient and will be over after the passage of time. All of those patches however are what wear us down, smooth out the rough edges of our humanity, giving way to some perfect creature which lurks just below the surface waiting to walk forward into the sunlight.

Graveyard shift in the cube farm

There's a strange noise in here. I think it's ghosts shaking pencil cups in someone's cubicle on the other side of the office. This place, it's strange at night. A host of odd noises, click-clack of the HVAC, a stray 3 am fax, and the occasional uncategoriazible disturbance from some former worker likely murdered in their cubicle from a remote voodoo ritual.

The cup-shaking seems to get closer, then retreats.

I come in at night, and say 'Hello' just to make sure that no one's in the office. I never know if someone's working late, it's seldom. However, one night when the parking lot was totally empty and I arrived, I swear someone said 'Good Morning', back to me.

"We don't go into Cubicle 3 anymore. Not since June 2003. That was when Mary Jo got the collections call from the hoodoo guru. Yep, suddenly she was havin' fits in there, all foamin' up at the mouth, and her eyes wild. Then, she just dropped dead in her cube and cockroaches came out of her ears. It's been roped off for years, don't go near it, don't borrow a pencil, or touch the stapler.."

It's a good thing that Cubicle 3 has been disassembled now and moved up into the attic. God only knows what else is in that attic. Likely, a repository for uncollectable debtors, at least their bones all dry like chalk in little urns marked with their account numbers.

 It is creepy here some nights in this ancient department store converted to a cubicle farm. I still remember coming here when I was young. Just over there was the shoe department, there was glasswares, linens, and menswear on this side, over to the right was the womenswear. Lots of history locked up in this place, thousands of people passed through here and they've left a lot of impressions on the place.

5:22 AM

Out of touch, adrift in the middle of the night.
The silent parking lot, darkened storefronts, and quiet stone of trodden sidewalk.
Noontime will be all aflutter, like bees in a hive.

The distances between me and you
Separate by degrees, minute-hands, calendar years, a decade plus.
The distances between my heart and yours
Nanometers of spirt, space between the electrons snug in a nucleus.

Lost in this web of non-connectedness
pondering the next steps toward a future
plodding through rocky trails, landmines, and obstacle courses.
Looking for the light, the sunny grove, avoiding the shadow and pitfalls.

A pair of birds sitting on the nightlines
singing out before the moon is bisected by wires
one bird flies, one birdsong continues

A rock in the path

Benton Mackaye Trail

It begins as a lark. You just meet. You find out about this person. Then it winds up as something more. You've not figured out yet, just what it is. That comes later, afterward, when it transforms to it's next state.

The amorphous feeling of infatuation is intoxicating. It's strike can be deadly and leave you in recovery for years to come. Be warned of it, it can lead you down a road from which you may never return.

At least without the help of professionals.

I have fallen, and gotten up. I dust myself off, and move along down this path when I stumble upon a rock unseen. The trail is lovely and filled with wonders. Flowers scent the air and butterflies tumble to alight softly, pause, then vanish in a flutter of wings. The stream, background noise gurgling Doppler effect, changing slightly in the depths of your hearing as you travel past.

What miracles lie ahead beyond the ridge,  terrors of overturned rock trapped in geological process, or other slithering hidden magic. Traveling the path ahead is rigorous climbing, the loose gravel shuffling underfoot.

Step lightly, and tread softly with patience for the summit is in reach.

The Wolf is always at the Door

Nothing makes sense at times, but there's always the simplicity of bliss.

We move through this life, doing our best to find some ultimate happiness. If we are lucky, we find some transient bliss that will carry us through the long spans of time when there is none. We have it within us to live within memories for our entire lives, sometimes this can be a benefit, but others it is a handicap.

The bliss, when we find it can be transformative and comforting, bringing us back to life from the long slumber we fall into in response to the pitfalls of daily living. Schedules, responsibilities, and the mundane business of making in this world today all have worn us thin to bare threads, financially and spiritually. Today, we are even more in ill-repose to our blissful lives, we are desensitized by media, our attentions impacted by technology, and our hearts hardened by the constant stream of bad news blaring from every open port.

But, there is a richness in the undercurrent of living which bliss can bring to us. Whether it is the comfort of friendship, the caress of a lover, or the sanctity of a marriage, all of us are craving completion whether we will admit to it or not. Some try to fill the voids with work and personal accomplishments, eventually, they find themselves alone with a wealth and richness of the self, but lacking the simple bliss that another person can bring to their lives. This world is better when it is shared with another, I can vouch for that.

If you find somebody to love in this world, you better hang on tooth and nail. The wolf is always at the door. -- from "New York Minute" by Don Henley.

Llife cycle of the December mosquito

This is a very rare species of mosquito. Seldom seen, it shows up usually in homes in the earlier parts of winter and late autumn. The mosquito begins life typically the same as other species of mosquitoes, until the eventual disruption of their habitat by dumping out collected water in flower pots where they breed. These mosquitoes are abnormally slow moving, likely due to lowered temperatures. Typically their lifecycle ends by a vicious swat against a wall with a magazine, newspaper, or in desperate instances a bare hand.

I started wondering why I was ocasionally seeing a mosquito langourously roving about my apartment. When, to my surprise I found they were breeding in my houseplants, recenly moved inside ahead of the impending frost. I had to end them in their larval state, flipping about in the standing water, their rarity, and their last gasp of summer's bliss.

Tomorrow is your yesterday today.

Lately, finding it quite difficult to tell what day it is. I've switched to nights, and when I fall asleep and wake up, it's effectively the same day, but it seems like tomorrow to me. Despite the fact that I'm sleeping through the most active parts of the day, I still feel like I have more time. Trying to get myself back into the writing habit, so maybe I'll be updating this little corner of the internet more often with excerpts of wisdom from the antipodes of my mind.

Profits

You know, it's dumb if we have the capabilities of utilizing alternate energies, why aren't we? It's way past time that we drop the whole 'profits' argument and make all of this about something much bigger.

Laquinta, Larieka, la, la, de, doo, be doo

Sorry folks, but we have a strict code when it comes to pronounciation, grammatical use, and diction. Don't be sitting there thinking to yourself when you're naming your kids and trying your best to combine your names together that you can simply ignore some of the basic rules of pronunciation.

Otherwise, you're damming your child to a lifetime of confusion.

All of this ridiculousness is coming from my daily interactions with individuals with non-traditional names, you know, like Bud, Charlie, Cindy, Wilma, or Earnestine. All those are earthy names and you can hang your hat on those. But today, we're getting a plethora of ridiculous names which don't make any sense whatsover, ie. "Sparkle Titsworth" or "Peanuts Huckabone".

Who would subject their offspring to such a life that must be endured, and not lived?

This message brought to you by the foundation for a brighter tomorrow.

Creative anchor

I have too many projects in my mind. I think I have ADD. I get all of these ideas, I want to do them all at once, but in the process of starting on one of them, I get another idea that I start on. My end result?

A ton of unfinished projects.

Reflections on terrible meals

I have a terrible habit of giving second chances. Today, for instance, I visited a local chinese eatery, Kim-San. It had to have been one of the worst meals that I've ever had. I'm fairly certain that it was microwaved, the broccoli was not fresh, it was rubbery, the chicken was chewy and not firm, and well I'm paying for it now with indigestion. I knew from previous experience that there food was subpar, but that was several years ago, so yes....still their food is subpar.

It still can't compare to the worst lasagne that I have ever had. That, was courtesy of my ex-wife. It was her recipe to not cook the lasagne noodles prior to building the lasagne and baking it. It was so bad, and rock-hard. At least, it didn't give me indigestion, since it was inedible.

What is this LIfe thing?

What the fuck is this Life thing all about anyway?

Some people are all "Hey, you should get a life." But, those people that are being told to get a life probably already have one, that some passive-agressive schmuck is judging their life against yours.

If I were Andy Rooney, you could hear me saying, " Life, what the fuck is it really about."

We're on this rock a good 80 years, if we are lucky. Yeah, for certain in that space of time we are going to make a few mistakes.

I know I've made my share of them, and I continue to make them, much likely judged by this posting. As well as my current need to critique my need for posting a retractionary cautionism. You're right, that is not a word.



Despite these idiosyncracies. This abberancy of genetics, heredity, ancestry, and  astrology I am but a human being and prone to make many mistakes.

I think often, should I take back some of those mistakes which I fell have played such a large factor in determining my present state of questionable-being.  I come to a split resoloution, and I'm able to see both outcomes in crystal clarity, and usually at the penultimate interpretation of my own myraid facetiousness, I come to the conclusion that it's better to have made the mistakes, and benefitted from them.

Whether the benefit is a specific person in your life, a house that you might not have gotten, a child, or some other product of a road perhaps not-taken; without mistakes we do not advance ourselves spiritually or mentally.

With my own hindsights, I can see choices which I made that had specific outcomes. While, many of those choices have come to very undesirable outcomes, others have brought me great joys. So, while it's entirely feasible, we are all the products of our mistakes, it does serve the spirit to revisit some of those past mistakes, and find our own peace with where we are as a result.

So, I suppose I could close this up with the central notion that we're really the product of our mistakes. We all have things we'd rather not have done, places we'd rather not have gone, or any patchwork of adverbs and ennuendo, but really if we wouldn't have been to all of those places. We would have never have got this this, the illustrious now.

Try not to screw anything else up today.