Oh Fraptious Day, Calloo Callay! (for animal rights)

This article is from PETA. Obama won and Proposition 2 Passed! Time to Celebrate Human Evolution. Cheers to all today.

Nov05

A Landmark Day for Animals From Coast to Coast!

Posted at 05:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (28)

PETA took these pig displays to grocery stores around California to get the word out about Prop 2

We are so pleased to report that—thanks to your hard work—two important ballot initiatives passed yesterday, making history for animals. California voters approved Proposition 2 by a large majority, which will ban some of the worst cruelty to animals who are raised for food in that state: keeping egg-laying chickens in battery cages so small that they can't spread their wings, keeping veal calves in crates for their entire miserable short lives, and keeping pregnant pigs in crates that are so small that they can't take a step forward or backward or turn around. Animals on farms in California will be given these basic necessities by 2015, but we will continue to spread the message that the best thing that people can do to help animals is stop eating them altogether.

On the other side of the country, Question 3 passed, which will ban greyhound racing in the state of Massachusetts by 2010. Dogs who are used for racing typically spend 20 hours per day confined to cages measuring only 32 in. by 42 in. by 34 in. Many of the dogs can't even stand completely upright. The animals are also highly susceptible to injuries, including fractures, dislocations, lacerations, and amputations. And because they're no longer of use to the industry after they are injured, injured dogs are often simply killed.

The impact of both of these important initiatives is tremendous for the millions of animals whose lives will be affected by them. Our heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you who worked toward their passage. We really are making a difference.

He Understands Advanced String Theory Too

Here is our little boxer taking on the dangerous coils of a rainbow colored slinky from his high look-out tower. You may not know it from the cute expression on his muppet face, but Lucian was related to great warriors in his last life. He also shares an spiritual bond with boxers like Muhammad Ali. Eat those butterflies and don't get stung by the bees.

Quotes from a William Blake Scholar

Withholding knowledge is more then rude; it prevents friends, family, and tag alongs from a small piece of personal enlightenment. That's what I thought while leafing through my notes from a really stimulating class (one of the only stimulating classes, Literature wise) at Humboldt State.

A preface before these notes:

Since I love people so much, it's relevant to note that the mouth that these words came from is just as interesting and inspiring as the words themselves. This professor was supposed to be one of the top authorities on William Blake in California. But he gave up his Blake seminars long before I took him for a Practical Criticism class. The man has legal died (according to him) three times from alcohol consumption. He received his education by court order: which is to say he had the choice of joining the Navy (where he met a Harvard graduate and studied every book in the Navy ship's library) or to go to jail for hot wiring and stealing cars. He was a "D" student in high school. After his Navy experience he took some IQ tests and found out that he was exceptionally smart. Also he is completely nihilistic and a little crazy. Here are some of my class notes:

-"There are no messages in literature. There are only aesthetics."
-"Humanity is the connecting link between time and eternity."
-There are three levels of LOVE according to Ptolemy:

1.) 'the gold casket' (which is just physical sex)
2.) ?
3.) 'transcendence of the physical world' (platonic love)
-The above has something to do with a complete circle, or "the music of the spheres" (geez I was a bad student!)

-The North Star in older poems is a metaphor for fixed love. This is the star which we all navigate.

-The symbol of a Nightingale in Romantic poems represents a story of a woman who was brutally raped. Her voice box was cut out and she transformed into a nightingale. Here beautiful song symbolizes the anguish of a raped woman.

-"Tragedy is watching someone pay the ultimate penalty for being born."

-"There is no devil in the Old Testament" (My brother says this is untrue. If you look at the story of Job you will find the devil mentioned.)

-"Love redeems Sex."

-----------------------------
That's all of my notes, sandwiched in between history facts, scribblings, and my favorite: quotes from eccentric students. My mind is not a steel trap for these facts. I spent a great deal of time with this professor after the class ended. But he kept his healing knowledge to himself, as if it was not that important. He explained to me how to hot wire a car though. He shared his drugs with me (a long time ago). And he taught me how to theoretically kill a man by hitting him in certain vital points. Most of my education comes after class with these professors, and this particular man was one of my favorite teachers.

A Celibration of Life

This song most closely resembles my favorite poem:

A Song from the Highest Tower

Let it come, let it come,
The season we can love.

I waited so long
That I forever forget.
Fears and sufferings
Are gone to heaven.
And the unhealthy thirst
Darkens my veins.

Let it come, let it come,
The season we can love.

As the meadow
Fallen into oblivion,
Grown, and flowery
With incense and weeds,
At fierce drone
Of dirty flies.

Let it come, let it come,
The season we can love!

-Arthur Rimbaud

End of Summer Days

I walked to the ocean's edge and took in the salt air on a cloudy, surreal afternoon. Afterward we went to a nice restaurant, The Plaza Grill, and chose our dinner carefully. I had tomato basil soup with one raw oyster. He had clam chowder with yam fries. While looking over the drink menu (yes my drinking days are basically over, I know) a menu item shocked me to attention: Absinthe. Ambrose had a $200 dollar bottle once, bought from the Internet. Susan Sarandon smuggled it from Europe in a green listernine bottle and presented it to a young lover in a recent movie saying, "Tonight is an absinthe night." The exotic Italian actress Asia Argento was in a car accident causing a fatality and absinthe was found in her possession; a fact that made her country dislike her even more. And of course Vincent Van Gogh was famous for his love of absinthe, which was believed to have influenced his paintings, including the psychedelic swirls in "Starry Night". I thought it was contraband in the United States.

For ten dollars a shot, from an absinthe brand called, "Lucid" you get a crystal goblet, a single sugar cube, and a tin cup of water to pour on the sugar, one drop at a time, to allow the sweetness to cloud up the green hue of the liquor. I took a sip. Going down my throat warm and fuzzy I swear the punch of the drink hit me immediately. Daryl's eyes turned a deeper green, the noise in the room became a distant static, and I felt...content.

Afterward we checked out four DVDs, gathered pillows and blankets for our fold out sofa, and vegged out to the rantings of Timothy Leroy (usually I would NEVER rent a documentary on him) while cuddling.

I document this day here because it's one of the last 'free' days I have this summer, 2008. Soon responsibilities will constrict both my time, and Daryl's time. Hustle mode comes early this Autumn. So here is a record of our lazy and adventurous Friday. In one day it seems nothing is accomplished, but does it need to be? I don't need to cross off a list to be happy and know that I'm alive. There will be time for stormy weather. For now, I can spend a day inhaling the smell of the Northern Pacific Ocean, taking photographs, and hearing Daryl's beautiful guitar strumming. I am trying to be present in every moment. That's my secret to happiness.

Lionel Richie: God or Antichrist?

This is my favorite image for this time in my life: an artist leaping into the void (by Yves Klein). Jumping into the unknown. Before I explain how this relates to me, and anyone reading this, I want to jot down the most beautiful religious myth created by THE man: William Blake. Blake created a mythology where there was only one God- a man so perfect and angelic that there was no problems in his domain but one: loneliness. So this fictitious story resumes with a perfect but lonely man who decides to form a partner. God created his perfect partner: another God with the image, form and grace of a woman. Then when he stood back and saw how beautiful this woman was he fell to his knees and wept. His tears were so monumental and his joy so overwhelming that as he fell to his knees he, and his woman, shattered into tiny little fragments that landed like stars, covering the world. The moral? We are all shattered Gods on a unified quest to collect ourselves and what is beautiful in each other. Blake's the man. But the Professor who told me that repeated just a little too much, "We are all fallen...." through the semester. But the mythology is how I live my life: I'm a bunch of shattered stars, stained glass, that when put together creates God. I am God and so are my fellow Earthlings. It was the image of a woman that caused the collapse, so naturally it is love that we seek. Repair yourself and find love. That's nature's gift to us. And when you find it, and I hope everyone does, it is indescribably gorgeous.

So on to this Yves Klein image. I'm jumping into the void with no net (but hey, he had the net photo shopped out of his image!), but I have faith in myself, the ability to give without asking for anything in return, and my brain to get me by. This goes back to being self sufficient and seeing people as drugs (that old blog I wrote). And it's a crass, cynical world sometimes- look Whittney Huston was the one who sung, "The greatest love of all is learning to love yourself". She's a crack addict. You just have to laugh off the cynicism and live and let live.

I saw a path for me that would lead me in a completely different direction then what I've tried to make bloom for the past year. Yesterday morning this happened. A life changing decision- jumping into the void- and mother fucking Lionel Richie, channeled through either God or Satan, came up on the radio with his song, "Hello! Is it me you're looking for?" I took it as a sign to keep trying; let whatever was in the void for me remain there. The void is as limitless as our ability to create a world around us that we can love. So thanks Lionel Richie, or no thanks. You changed the course of my life for now. Whatever happens I'm not afraid, and I am a shattered God in a world of the same angels as myself.

Why Lucian is Being Neutered Tomorrow....

Paper Towels Cause Drug-like Frenzies...

At the End of His "Mad Half Hour"

The $200 Cup of Beer

My father, who recently returned from his military service in Iraq, told me many stories of the horrors and mistakes that will never be documented or exposed in the mainstream media. Those war stories are not mine to tell. However, I can summarize much of the confusion and chaos that all sides face every day with one particular story: The $200 for a single beer story.

These American solders are young. Many come from poor families with little choice of any other future. Most put even less thought into joining the killing branch of our sweet World oppressive government. They do not understand at their young age what propaganda has been spoon fed to them. They are victims, but not ones I pity.

Anyway these American men are allowed just two glasses of beer while on 'vacation': which means they get to get away from Iraq for a day or so....but not for long and not very far from this war. Their limit is only two glasses of beer- no exception.

My father does not drink alcohol but took up the option to sit down to a meal and one beer, while on one of these 'vacations'. He did not touch his drink. A young American soldier approached him offering $200 (in American money) for his single beer. Now, it could have been very possible that this young soldier was an alcoholic. But for that price, and that amount of begging, one has to imagine that there was a need for this single beer that only that soldier could explain.

When you send young people to fight an illegal and confusing war, it does something to their mind. No one wins. Not the U.S. Not the Iraqi people (a major understatement!!!), not the American families at home or the Iraqi people, who can buy Valium over the counter for a mere 19 cents.

My father said no to this soldier, because if he would have been caught giving a third beer to this young man he would have been punished. Imagine what goes on on all sides to create such fear and despair.

I'm very happy to announce that...

Lou Reed's album "Berlin" has been made into a film coming out this Friday, July 18th. Relax Batman fanatics (myself included); you can still be first in line to see what I've been waiting a year to see: Batman: The Dark Knight. Why? Berlin is only playing in L.A and San Fran this Friday. Who knows when this independent film, by my favorite director Julian Schnabel (Basquiat, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), will be released. But it looks awesome. Berlin has always been one of my favorite albums; it's a rock classic and highly underrated. "Caroline Says" is painfully gorgeous. That was back when Lou Reed had a soul. A tormented one. Check out the trailer for Berlin yourself and get excited right away:

http://www.berlinthefilm.com/

As a side note the director is somewhat of an icon as well. He painted and held shows at Mary Boone's gallery in the 1980's. He hobnobbed with Madonna and Andy Warhol. He has only made four films, this being the fourth. I've been a fan since his first movie; I was 17.

*Here is my funny random fact about a connection between Andy Warhol and Julian Schnabel that I assumed to be true because Warhol hated him. In the Andy Warhol diaries, Julian Schnabel is mentioned in such a negative light, and often, in the most comical ways. Warhol once ranted about how he steals ideas from going to other people's shows and Schnabel was right behind him. That's one of many disses to Schnabel in the Andy Warhol diaries. I'm sure that Julian Schnabel read that famous diary and felt embarrassed and insulted. So when Schnabel directed his first movie, Basquait, Andy Warhol (played by David Bowie) is portrayed as an idiot. A major space cadet. Someone who is out of touch with reality. But I read his diary: Warhol had a brilliant mind. I assume that was Schnabel's revenge for public slander.

Anyway, I'm so excited to view this film. Lou Reed was one of the best. Rock till you die!

Summer is Starting

We went to Mad River Beach today. Here I am before acting out my fiendish plot to bury Daryl alive. I felt like a kid again, having no worries, down by the ocean with someone I love.

A Day at the Beach

Daryl buried in Pacific Ocean sand on a hot but windy day in lazy Arcata.

Electricity

Being a lazy bum this summer and renting tons of movies, thinking little, and minding my P's and Q's I stumbled across a memory from my early 20's: a movie about Joy Division. Now I'm 30 and can't listen to them too much for fear I'll go to 'that dark place'; and I'll need an adrenaline shot to the heart to get me on my numb feet once again.

Do we lose something with time and experience? I feel that all I hold close to me diminishes every day I wake up and am expected to join a uniform thought structure of work, bills, and being really active, happy and 'normal'. I never believe it though.

This movie is called, "Control" and you don't have to love Joy Division to love the movie. I'm very disappointed that the actor is blase; that he tries to sing Ian Curtis' songs. That he is not sweating and broken on the stage, like the new Jesus Christ. The real Ian Curtis cut his head off with a bass string at 23. We want him as Jesus Christ- sweating his troubles out, broken and beaten, bloody and weeping, here to blow apart our ennui and make the world fall in love with understanding. The actor sucks. But the movie is great. I am 23 again, confused more then ever, and watching some man's talent and dreams go down the drain. I know about that.

Women As Vampires

At 20 years old my entire life took a weird turn and even though my energies went in strange directions it has always been those electrical surges that guided me. So it is no coincidence that my first art history class inspired me to think I could do anything, be anyone. At 20, through art history, I saw one image that got my imagination flowing. This image was a blue painted print of a real woman's naked body on a canvas, with blue paint imposed to make her look like an actual vampire. The subject: women as vampires.

That's cool in itself but the artist, my favorite for the past ten years, Yves Klein, was more then a one dimensional producer of art. He wrote volumes of books about the spirituality of the blue paint he used and how the blue he chose was a metaphor for the human spirit. Human light. The soul.

Yves Klein is difficult to research, in part because he died so young, but try to google him if you want exposure to fresh, life affirming art to celebrate.

Herzog Werner

If you're looking for logic in anything I say, please stop. Alex, my good friend from Baltimore, has a logical, informative, highly articulate blog laced with compassion and enthusiasm. ANTIWAR ZONE (click to my right), is his blogging site.

The last time I saw him was last summer. We shared drinks at an Irish bar overlooking the Baltimore inner harbor. He talked about a film director that I knew nothing about except:

1.) He once ate a boiled shoe (saw it on youtube).
2.) He was shot in one of his interviews.

Alex told me about his collaboration with Harmony Korine (don't like that fellow) in a movie about schizophrenia. He mentions a scene in that movie where a fake premature baby was brought onto a subway and filmed without people knowing it was all for a movie. It was too rough an image in my head to handle as a movie....but...a few days ago I saw a Hollywood movie where not a soul warned me about the fake dead baby, so that was my boot camp for a Herzog Werner film.

Side Note: Life is strange that way. About a week ago my dad mentioned this particular Herzog Werner film ("Grizzly Man") because I had just finished, "Into The Wild" and my dad told me about this guy Timothy Treadwell, who I learned all about today. But it was not my dad that lead me to that movie. It was random and as the movie unfolded I remembered my recent conversation with my father.

So I just finished Herzog Werner's "Grizzly Man" which was randomly recommended to me while I was in the good video store yesterday. I loved it. Loved it. However it's almost cosmical to hear Herzog's monotone German voice narrating scenes where he has to butt in to say, "The world is rough and cruel, full of chaos and savagery" etc. Ah the Germans! A jerk could take that tone and turn it into some commentary on the stereotypical German nihilism. I'm a jerk, but I loved the film.

So, to delight and instruct, here is a video of Germany's most well received and (in my opinion so far) talented film maker being sniped during an interview:

The World has Gone Bananas (breaking report)

Okay, I don't know much about Billy Ray Cyrus except a few things:
1.) He has, or had, a mullet that looked like a animal died on his head
-Side Note: I was convinced for a while that the "Billy Ray Cyrus" mullet was a sign of insanity. Well the jury is still out. However people in the mid-west can hold prominent positions of authority looking like him. I know, I lived there.
2.) He went on a country music award show and yelled some insult to his rival Travis Trit. He said, "For those of you that don't like my music....Travis Trit...here is a quarter! Now call someone who cares!"
3.) I nearly peed my pants when he said that. People with mullets like that that take themselves seriously make me want to pee.
4.) When I was in late middle school to early high school my siblings used to watch, "Animanacs"- and there was a skit where Pinky and the Brain try to take over the world by playing, "Don't tell my head, my empty hollow head, I just don't think it would understand" all over the world to make people stupid and/or crazy so they could rule the world.

That's my knowledge of Billy Ray Cyrus. So when I saw on the front cover of Yahoo News: "Is Billy Ray Cyrus a good father or not? Details inside." I just flipped my fucking wig. This is the world news. The world Internet news that informs us what's up around the world when we sit at our computer to coffee and a new day. There are civil wars in many countries in Africa, AIDS, that mess in the Guantanamo Bay Concentration Camp, ghettos, murders, etc (you get my point), and they choose to pop a question about: Fucking Mullet Man being a good father? I don't give a fuck! I don't care about his dumb life, the slow moving electric pong game going on in that guys head, the inevitable fight he got into with his barber years before he became famous for looking like an asshole, or about his parenting skills. What the fuck is going on with the world? What the media chooses to tell us is seriously in question when the king of all inexcusable hair styles (if one can call it that) makes the front page of the news. I am certain that this is the first sign of the coming Apocalypse.

One Funny Article in the News

I check the Internet every morning to see what's going on. I don't know why, but this article was hilarious to me. Probably because out of all the goings on in the world this made the front page of Yahoo News.

Man orders pet python to attack police officers

Tue Jun 17, 7:20 AM ET

BRIDGEPORT, Conn. - Bridgeport police say they arrested a city man after he ordered his pet to attack two officers. Lucky for them that 9-foot-long pythons aren't very obedient.

ADVERTISEMENT

Police Lt. James Viadero says 21-year-old Victor Rodriguez was charged with threatening police and disorderly conduct after Monday's incident. No one was hurt.

Officers were called to Rodriguez's apartment on a report that he was threatening his girlfriend with the pet reptile.

Viadero says that when the building superintendent opened the apartment door for the officers, Rodriguez allegedly threatened them with the snake and told it to "Get them!"

Rodriguez and his pet were both taken away: Rodriguez to jail on a $10,000 bond, and the albino python to the city's animal control shelter.

Ambrose

This is where you could find me yesterday, at the top of this gigantic bolder called, "Wedding Rock". I went here two years ago with all my siblings but Julie and Ambrose. It's been over three months since Amby died, and I thought I've come to grips with the entire thing. The irreversible loss. I lay down at night and think that he's at peace, rather then in pain, or waiting in some administration building's long line, or having his feelings hurt, or worrying about bills, work, rent. But yesterday it all broke apart after this trip to Wedding Rock. I kept thinking that Amby will never be able to see the ocean again. That he can't see the horizon, or smell the ocean, or climb those rocks. Life is terrible- it's hell- but these things make me miss my man. What can I say?

Let There Be Light

Lucian, a little past two months, ready for his close up with the camera. He loves to climb this foam and nibble it to pieces. This is our adorable boy. He's a lover.

In Progress

June 9th painting, with extra light.

Do Not Disturb the Artist

June 9th, 2008, before the afternoon inside our green house. The painter at work.

Gloomy old Eeyore

You can tell I'm unhappy in this photo because I am clutching my Vodka Blush. One of those days before of no sleep, so I decided to drink a vodka blush to remember the first drink that Daryl and I had together. That was around the beginning of September, at C'est La Vie Cafe, overlooking Laguna Beach. This was my first significant trip to Southern California. Vodka Blushes remind me of my new life to follow, almost a year later.

The Rock House

This house, made of stones found in this woods, was built by my mother and her twin sister at the age of 17. At 17 I was not building two story homes with running water from a well they dug themselves; that's a fact. And people make a big deal that a few 16 year old Redding kids built a tree house with a rope latter. Well my momma built a livable home, with slate book shelves, a latter to the second floor, a stone fire place, a kitchen, attic, and upstairs bedroom. My parents briefly lived here. Aunt Grace (my mom's twin) tide two swings in the gorges on each side of this house. One went over water, and when I was younger I would image this land as the escape in the book, "Bridge to Terabithia." This rock house, built by two 90 something pound post adolescent girls, is a testament to the life blood and creative energy in my mother, and the always amazing (aunt) Grace. Both woman had enormous hearts, and never fit in with society.

In the late 80's my Aunt Grace opened the home for troubled teens and they trashed it. The sign said, "All Are Welcome" and it was meant as a retreat for the local, neglected kids. All her good intentions turned bad with no thanks ever given. But she never changed her giving spirit. I praise the energy in her life, and I am happy to know and be a part of such neat-o people as my family. My family and observing them have made me want to write stories down. They made me a recorder of their lives, as well as the few others like them.

Thanks for All the Fried Fish

Here we were this past weekend; watching Daryl graduate with a degree in Art. I burned out there! Busy weekend, but I had some adventures and had those happy chemicals going strong.

Here Comes the Sun

This little Dr. Spock is the newest addition to my
family.  His name is Lucian- Latin for 'light'-
because he is the light in my  life.  Don't let this
picture fool you.  Lucian is an extremely hyperactive,
armature boxer.  His favorite move is the 'battle
roll' in which he stands on his hind legs, jumps at
you, does a flip and lands on his back, only to roll
over and do the gymnastics again.  The kitten is nuts.


One word about someone I love that left the world
recently.  I spent almost 23 years loving a girl that
stuck by me through everything.  Katlor D.  Her
beating heart was like a bank where I stored all the
love I had for everything.  She was who I invested my
love into, and in return she gave me 23 years of a joy
that is indescribable.  She was my Love Generator.
She was the one I thanked God I had every night.  No
one can replace her.  I lost my girl.

About 3 years ago I lost my boy Muffin (a.k.a "Sun").
He died of a broken heart at the age of seven a week
after I left him with my family in Maryland.  We will
never see the likes of these vessels of light again.
God thank you for those 23 years.  And God damn you
that I did not have more time.

Sure Fire Answer for World Peace

Rent MSK3000's "The Prince of Space". The whole world needs to watch this movie. This epic superhero movie (well, the Japanese version of what constitutes a superhero) will open all hearts and minds, destroy our current war torn world, and restore peace to man kind. Wrong Morissey! Love Peace and Harmony are very nice in this world! This movie's release date should be a world wide holiday.

* My favorite line that the Prince of Space delivers is when he is first introduced: "You have come here to rule the universe. You consort with "Crank-hore" (I think that's what he is saying) and I am here to stop you!"

Prince of Space

Life is good. This was taken today off of 101 North- Fern Canon. The scent of those lavender flowers was overwhelming. I'm 29.

On Avenging My Death and Tarantino

Day two of no alcohol. I must admit I had one of the worst nightmares of my life last night. All because I saw the Dutch version of the highly recommended movie (do not see it), "The Vanishing".

Plot spoiler: The sociopath wins and buries some half wit and his wife alive, next to each other, three years apart.

First off these guys (Eli Roth, Quintin Tarantino, etc.) love this movie because it has a very convincing and developed sociopath, and a nihilistic ending. But come on, the good guy was a moron! I hate that. He may be the antithesis of a sociopath, but he understands them to a degree. Yet he willingly drinks poison from a man who says that he is a sociopath and kidnapped his wife (3 years ago) and also says that he likes to do the most evil things he can think of doing to people. Family, friends, loved ones: don't drink poison from a sociopath three years after my disappearance! Just avenge my death and go about your business.

Second, this movie uses elements from early Alfred Hitchcock as well as some later Twilight Zones. My problem with Tarantino is that he is more of an editor then a film maker- most of his films borrow from Hitchcock, obscure foreign movies, and of course martial arts movies. The man is gifted with the best dialogue an American audience has for this generation, but still he loves these past directors a bit too much. Still a genius, but not my favorite. Below (later) I will list some old Twilight Zones to download. Now I've got things to do!

*Later
Just ask me yourself. A word to the wise though, out of the new and old Twilight Zones, Amazing Stories, and Alfred Hitchcock stay away from Amazing Stories. Spielberg has that whole Disney formula going on.

Human Zoos

My dear friend Alex posted a link to his blog, "Antiwarzone" to the right, so check it out. He also posted links to other writers and it's cool because I like them all (well I don't even know the name of one but I'll check it out). Ezra Pound is a genius (bravo Alex!). However I know this random fact about him that is worth writing down.

Ezra Pound was an extreme anti-Semite an supporter of Mussolini's Fascist Italy during World War Two.

*No Allen Ginsburg, he never reformed. He hated Jews till the end.

Anyway, he just could not shut up about Mussolini and he lost. Got hung and had his body beaten by his own country men. They also captured Ezra Pound. What they did with him is interesting.

Ezra Pound's poem "The Metro" is just a few lines long:

THE apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

Took a entire year to write and he scrapped seventeen pages to edit it down to those two lines! He discovered T.S. Elliot and knew James Joyce. Elliot even dedicated "The Waste Land" to Pound, siting in the opening line "To Ezra, the better craftsman".

The Allies forces captured him and put him in a cage on display in, I think, Seattle Washington. He had some sign up to warning the public that this is what happens when you can't keep your K-hole shut about fascism. Ezra Pound was on display, like a gorilla in a cage, for seven days before the academic world protested enough to transfer him into a different cage: They said he was insane (he was definitely not) and he spent the rest of his life in a mental hospital. Despite his weird hatred of the always awesome Jewish race (the people that I have known and studied at least) and despite his political beliefs, he was a great genius of a poet, so check out some of his writing. And stay away from fascism!

A Side Note

So I start this Antabuse today at around 2 o'clock. Already started with the anti-smoking this morning. Now I have a slight concern about taking this Antabuse, Anti-booze drug. It's got a lot of side effects. My main concern is the line, "This drug may frequently cause serious (rarely fatal) liver disease." How fucking funny is that? They actually say in parenthesis "RARELY FATAL". And what the heck? it's supposed to be working with my liver, since I can't drink anymore. Now, I can handle many other side effects to the drugs I've taken in the past (legal and illegal and rarely fatal) but certain liver disease is not a highly desirable side effect....it's better to assume it causes liver disease and get on with it. Why did they have to spell it out? I'm an alcoholic, my liver and I don't get along well. I'm trying to make friends with it again. Regardless, I'm going on with this medication because drinking is the devil incarnate. I have a life to live.

My homework: How to Be Ambitious

Bored around the house today at 29 years old and no responsibilities. So I told my boyfriend I'd write a blog siting all the reasons I love the man (ex: stayed by me even when I was on drugs, knows when I'm happy and that makes him happy) but he gave me a different assignment. Write about how to be ambitious. Ok.

Of course I'm going to redefine ambition (lets call this "what motivates me") and go from there. What am I going to do with my time?

The answer could be something like this: I overheard a woman bartender, from the most spectacular restaurant overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Trinidad, talking about the 10K marathon she just ran. I can image this woman's perfect life: beautiful, socially graceful, long brunette hair, serving wine in style while getting to watch the sun set over the ocean every night. And by day she is living with the strength to run into shape for a 10K marathon. That's a person with life in their bones.

Lets see...I could do a marathon, take up vegan cooking, join a volunteer service, garden my heart out, poems and more poems, read those heavy Russian books people always talk about, learn to do a back flip, study random women's posture at the grocery store, play chess, youtube Cat Stevens less then ten times (a day) and use that time to walk down the street, take deep breaths and praise the air. How will this make me money?

Now that I have been given a medication that forces me to not drink even a drop of demon alcohol, plus an anti-smoking drug, I have more tools. I'm at the bottom but at least I stopped what I blame for pulling me down. Now where can I go? What have I been missing?

For money I can't see writing as an answer. And there are miles to go before any teaching credential. Miles to go so I'll start by blogging the start of a healthier me, and you can watch me like a lab rat do the transition from bad brain chemicals to rise into heaven. My first ambitious act will be to consciously smile more. Then I'll go out the door more. From there the world is undiscovered with my new healthy mind and Magellan is ready to explore a more positive reality. I'm trying. How this will make me money, I don't know. But there is a place for me in this world, and I'm trying to fit in with some value while picking up wisdom along the way. Trying not to break. I'm trying.

What to do with a writing degree?

When I was twenty years old I had an epiphany. Drug induced to be honest. Projected on a blank white wall I saw these swilling images of the Stations of the Cross. I saw people, rapidly moving, scampering around, playing out all the emotions of what the Stations of the Cross are a metaphor for once you look at that fable objectively. While carrying a heavy cross a person fell, people helped pick it up, they left, some more helped, some oppressed, some stretching their arms out with questions. All the emotions of the cycle of life were present in rainbow technicolor. For once I saw all this pain and grief, love and loss, as if I was watching a movie. I was separate, yet knew I was in the middle of this drama until my death. It was so beautiful, even in its futility, that I carry that theory with me till this day. Humankind will always cycle around in this drama.

I had the pleasure of hanging out with a friend of my boyfriend's a few days ago. This man lives alone with nothing but tons of art books from thrift stores, a record player, and a highly active mind. He asked me where I was going with my writing.

Nothing was my answer. My plan is to live the most interesting life possible, observe unique people, hear their stories, and write it down. Record my life.

He had an idea: he said all this generation has is Martin Scorsese to draw inspiration from. He thought I should be the voice of punk rock (NO!) and write down these adventures that I have had and that I have known other people to have had. He even said I should embellish a little.

I'm getting a head of myself. The conversation started because he believes people want to be exposed to drama- to grief. That they are, "vampires" and need to feed off of the tragedies of others. I hope he is wrong.

I do not wish to honor people who lived on the fringes of society by doing violent acts. I wish to honor the life of those who inspire. My first (and only novel) I hope to write is about what children talked about at recess in Elementary School, then juxtapose their innocent questions with the mind of the adult reader. Child-like bliss. So people will not forget. Positive, yet a little perverse. The point is to remind adults of what we forget in our daily lives: innocence.

I will never write about what drives people to drink, or do drugs, or break hearts. I'm walking a thin line with my own and I don't want to dredge up stories that I try to forget. So I suppose I'm something of an escapist. But I can make that my reality.

Once in a Life Time

I worked at this nursery, Bittersweet Hill, when I had just turned 20. The woman responsible for this particular garden lived in a cabin in the woods on our property. She was 26, gorgeous, had long blond hair, and wore her passion for plants on her sleeve. She got me the job working here; it was a dream. I had newly shaved my head, still awkward, a virgin to the adult world, and God led me here. The owner is who I dedicate this blog to: Hildreth Morton. Hildreth married a judge, who was never faithful, owned the social scene in Annapolis, and is one of the most fascinating characters I had the pleasure of hanging around for a short while. She was beautiful, even at 85, and so smart. At 85 she was walking the half acre of the nursery (always accompanied with a big, curly haired dog) working every day to share her love of plants with anyone around. This woman was saucy: her favorite words when she was angry was, "Oh mother fucker, shit damn it!", as if it was all one long loud word. Nearly every day she left us after lunch to drink whiskey. People often found her in her Norman Rockwell type office asleep on the desk with a stack of letters and phones ringing. She always pretended to be resting though, and she would get right up like she had the energy of a 20 year old and take care of business. What I loved about Hilthreth is she was such a show stopper. She had an herb festival every year, wine flowed, and people drove from out of the state to hear her lectures. How to prepare wine bowls with eatable herbs, what water plants look best in what pond, etc. She would work the crowd like a Hollywood movie star (but with brains), charming everyone she saw. She could work a room of people like a charismatic politician. Her favorite thing to say to me (when she finally warmed up to me she decided to take me under her wing) was: "Rose presentation is everything. It's not so much what they do see as what they don't." Like the dirt on a vase. Or like in my life now: the smudge on my refrigerator. Every day she cut a red geranium and placed it behind her ear. She still dyed her hair black, and with the red geranium and the passion in her voice, she became an eccentric legend. I loved her work ethic, her unique brain, and that she worked for everything she had. She never cared that her husband was not there, because she was too independent and quirky to let any bastard get her down. She drank herself into a heart attack last May, and this nursery is closing. At the age of 20 I learned more from her then anyone since, in a certain way. When you see a red geranium think of her, or people like her, who over flow with life and leave us as better people.

Ambrose turns 25 today

Here is a link to his webpage:

http://www.latona.us/amby/

I love the man.

A Quote

This is the last monologue from the movie, "No Country For Old Men".
It's the telling of a dream a man has for his father, who has died:

"The second one, it was like we was both back in older
times and I was on horseback goin' through the
mountains of a night. Goin' through this pass in the
mountains. It was cold and there was snow on the
ground and he rode past me and kept on goin'. Never
said nothin' goin' by. He just rode on past... and he
had his blanket wrapped around him and his head down
and when he rode past I seen he was carryin' fire in a
horn the way people used to do and I could see the
horn from the light inside of it. 'Bout the color of
the moon. And in the dream I knew that he was goin' on
ahead and he was fixin' to make a fire somewhere out
there in all that dark and all that cold, and I knew
that whenever I got there he would be there.  And then
I woke up."

Now there is nothing in my brain that
allows for a belief in an afterlife.
But usually the death of Ambrose and the death of Katlor
would make me want to join them.
But I thought came to me yesterday.
Ambrose was dying
two years before his death;
yet before then he overflowed
with life.  In Katlor's last two years
she could not chase grasshoppers
and attack cardboard boxes.  I was frail in
my early twenties, doing petty
things whenever there was worry of loss.

Now that they are gone I feel they are giving me
their energy, which in the old days would be backwards:
I'd hear I lost my brother and my cat
and I'd want to join them.
But neither of them will allow me to do that.
They keep pushing me forward, because it's
a terrible injustice that they
lost their strength (Ambrose too young, it's
injustice).
They both gave me the life they lost,
and now I live for them.  Maybe one day
things will not be so unfair and I can
see them again, and ask questions
and we will be children together again.

Frozen

I don't think my sexuality should be on display, but for the sake of guessing, I am a Pansexual. I don't fall in love until I know the personality. Not their beauty. When I was 23 years old I knew a musician who would come over to my studio near the ocean and scan my CD collection for rare albums. He would sit on the bed and say very little, but he was so attuned to every note, telling me what is clever. He would point out that Neil Young's voice is so fragile, like him. He had a depth that can't be measured, or guessed. I remember one day at SF State we studied speaking poetry. That night, he said something similar to a phrase we learned about describing the body as a walking poem. One night we stayed up all night. The light streamed through my dark purple curtains. He stood on his knees on the bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was part Spanish and part Irish. He had curly black hair. Big blue eyes. Just visually alone, I have never been so close to beauty. Not in some trashy sexual way. He looked like a Spanish gambler, staring out into my garden, listening to the ocean, and I could never guess what thoughts formed in his mind. Very smart. But also very compassionate. One day he came over, said nothing, grabbed some computer paper, and drew me a pencil sketch of Jesus Christ. His band was named after Pilate, which was interesting since only I knew that Pilate said, "What is truth?" He gave me the paper, genitals and blood and nails. Then he left after only saying, "For you." I had such a bad panic burst. What did this mean? Years later a friend of mine found a record of his band, name changed to his, in Australia. God bless the music makers. Before he left me he found two small, white ceramic hearts in my garden. For six months I worked in that same garden and never saw them. I love a person who sees things...the details. Now that is sexy (Hey, I'm human.) I placed them on his chest, and took a photo. My point is not the circle around his beauty, but that one image I have of him peering through the sunlight with a cigarette dangling from Mic Jagger full lips, looking so flawless. I've never seen such angelic perfection in anyone. This is one man who left a mark on me through my travels.

In Time We Will Heal

I forget and forget and forget. My qualude days burn away my recesses memories. And in time we will forget. Once I was a child.

Dreams

My brother Ambrose, 24, left this world a month ago today. Katlor followed him three weeks later. I thought I would take it better then I have been, but I have moments of life in me. I have the choice, I can go towards the light or rot away. Ambrose would want me to live. As would Katlor. What is God doing? I think maybe, because of those rare bursts of life, that he is guiding me. There still is beauty. There still is that underlying beauty that blueprints the universe. I saw it a few times. I am going to live to see more of it in my lifetime.

My Metaphysical Zen Daughter

Her eyes were so vibrant in this picture.  I'm a terrible photographer; you can't even see her piercing eyes.  She's looking at the sky, living with my grand mother and me in Maryland.  

Eternal Youth

Katlor, 10. Me, 17.

The Mormon Rubber Chicken Conspiracy

Yep, I'm hot on the trail.  The picture is blurry, but
that's me holding my very own rubber chicken.  Before
I explain (and blow your mind) about the connection
between Mormons and Rubber Chickens (the evidence can
not be disputed) I have to preface it with a
completely unrelated story about how I acquired this
particular rubber chicken.

After dating a mountain man for two and a half years
he went on a six month vacation to Thailand, and I
stayed in Arcata with the world on my shoulders.  I
quit drugs, and we set out to create a life for
ourselves beginning by both meeting at the San
Francisco Airport:  him from Thailand, me from a month
of detox in Nebraska.

We moved to the middle of nowhere.   A town with a
population of less then 100.  If the locals had
personal issues with other locals, they just did not
allow them in the only grocery store for thirty miles.
We rented a small cabin and I got a job at a gorgeous
coffee shop overlooking the Trinity River.  But our
relationship crumbed in a week.  One morning, he
packed my stuff and locked me out.  I ended up going
to Redding, to heal with the help of my best friend
and her lovely family.

They fed me, bought me gifts, gave me support, and let
me get drunk often.  I got so drunk that I left half
of my belongings at their house before I caught the
Greyhound back to Nebraska for another 8 months of
pure peace and quiet.  Anyway, they sent me all my
stuff with a rubber chicken placed strategically on
the top of the box.  My heart just melted.

Now in a non sequitur  jump I will begin to explain
the connection between Mormons and Rubber Chickens.
Salt Lake City Utah is the world's leader in Rubber
Chicken Production.  But since it's heavily influenced
by the Mormon religion, they slip a tape in each bulk
shipment of Rubber Chickens that aims at converting
whatever prankster ordering the shipment into
Mormonism.  It's true.  I am not sure if it's secretly
because Mormons know religion is funny and so are
rubber chickens, but I promise, I'm on the case.   If
you want to further investigate (I sometimes allow
detectives to work with me on these conspiracy
theories), check out this link below.  Who is laughing
now?

http://slice.utah.edu/sol/aboutus/chicken.html

Zen Night

Here we are on March 26th, 2008. Even though we are broke right now, we still live as well as possible. Daryl got some fire wood from a scrap bin at the local lumber yard (he makes his painting canvases there). We downloaded some movies, and had a cocktail. Here we are late at night, each holding a lily that my father bought me for Easter, happy.

A Journey into the Mind of Yusuf Islam

Also know as Cat Stevens. At a concert he confessed that he actually wrote the song "Peace Train" while on a train. And what was he thinking: "I was thinking of Alfred Hitchock at the time, and his lovely chin. And if everyone could, you know, love Alfred Hitchcock I think it would be a better world, don't you?"

I would love to know more about what brought him to be in the life he is currently. Or we can dissect his heart.

"And There Will Always Be Some People Here To Wonder Why.....

....And for Every Happy Hello, There will Be Good-bye, Then There Will Be Time To Start All Over"-Authur Lee and Love.

I really could not think of anything positive today but a thought did come to me:

I don't believe in God- not like they do-but I believe in something. However I loath organized religion. All those people kneeing in prayer (everyone has a prayer in them), with their hands pointed to the sky; as if their folded hands were an antenna that channeled God. All those people bent in prayer in positions of desperation, frailty, need, and they believe that gesture will protect them. Point your hands up to the sky and you will be heard and attended to in love and compassion. This erroneous belief has killed loved ones.

Bedside Table Living

March 22nd, 2008. There is nothing more romantic and self expressive for a lazy person like me (someone who spends much time in bed, dreaming, lounging, talking, and relaxing), then to have the perfectly glamorous bedside table. Here I am with water in my hand, a red velvet pillow and nightgown; next to the carefully selected objects on my bedside table. A sandalwood candle. A pure white vanilla candle (I like sandalwood, Daryl likes the vanilla scent). All light illuminates a glass vase of pink tulips, a vibrant blue tissue box (I also sneeze these days), my new contacts, white sage (for a future purification burning ritual), a perfect red rose in a tiny white vase, a bees wax candle holding a special finch feather my Aunt Grace sent me for good luck, and an oak box filled with glass blue rosary beads, Valium, and sleeping pills. The green lamp shine against our rainbow Christmas lights.

And after dreams I wake up to the man I love.

Get a job, you know, a career...

....then maybe you can afford some teeth.-Sarah Lees (she is brilliant).

I was fired from my good friend and her French immigrant husband's company when I was 23. It was one of the most adventurous days of my life.

They co-owned a gourmet French catering service & I sometimes helped them cater events. The event I was fired from was a three hour drive away from Baltimore (the company, as well as my former life, took place in Annapolis, not Baltimore, but no one knows about east coast cities...not many in California at least.)

The event was decked out like a scene from Lord of the Rings- when they go into the forest with the elves. A blue lake, with fire tortuous and fireflies, overlooked the gazebo bar. It was the middle of a summer evening during an east coast July. The catch: the husband was the son of the French ambassador, the wife, from Brazil. Hardly any guests spoke anything but French and Portuguese.

Both parties of the guests showed the most gracious and wonderful party-hosting generosity I have yet to see again. Even though I kept getting the service wrong (mixing the wine in the water chalice by mistake), they never cared. The French were the funniest: all the French tables kept telling me, "Young lady, we are French! Stop bringing the water pitcher and just leave us two bottles of wine. Only wine!"

The single most adorable site was seeing four year old children in white dresses running around this surreal atmosphere speaking Portuguese and French.

But the actual job was work. Lots of running around. I could not pronounce the name of the food that was being constantly rearranged and changed for me to serve. I don't speak any other language (an embarrassing fact), so I could barely communicate. I understood, "We are French...wine please." and that's about it.

I had been catering this event from 6 in the morning (including driving time and preparation), and it was nearly midnight.

The party seemed so interesting- a one time cultural event tide together by a wedding- that I decided to join. Actually the groom's bestman came without a girlfriend, and he was flirting with me all night, so I broke down and accepted a dance and to retreat away from the noise. He took a bottle of expensive Champagne and we sat next to the fire tortuous and talked, just talked, for about 45 minutes. He was a gorgeous 26 year old French pilot with a choppy, almost indecipherable accent, that I knew I would never met again. That's what made it all the more beautiful. He said it was like a dream. We drank champagne, talked about me skipping out of work, "So do you want to work at places serving people when you are older?" was one of his questions. He stole a rose bouquet and placed it on my lap, then gave me one French kiss good-bye. I never even knew his name.

I ran up the hill to find my co-workers, tipsy on champagne, with the bouquet of roses my friend had made for the wedding in my hands. The car ride home was almost 3 hours. I was in the dog house. The next morning her husband fired me, after giving me a one hundred dollar tip that went solely to me for entertaining the girl-friendless best man. The wedding was a hit regardless.
---------

The following day I met up with my eccentric Uncle Mark and told him I was fired. I played dumb and acted like I did not know that you could not just skip out on work (although it was freakin 45 minutes after well over 12 hours of solid work!) My drunk Uncle laughed: "Rosie, I would like to live on an island were beautiful women feed me grapes, but that will never happen!" He then went on to give me a speech (a mad rant really), in front of a friend I brought over, about how when he was in the Merchant Marines he was not allowed to sleep with prostitutes, even though the temptation was always there.

My point is, that in a drunk or sober rant I always get from family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, I constantly hear the, "Get a job" speech. It sounds like fingernails running over chalk at this point, nearly 30 years old. No! How about them apples? How about I lay around, write my friends snail mails, write in my journal, jog in the park, expand my mind, and do whatever my heart tells me to do? I have a violent physical reaction to Time cards, sexualy domination by bosses and co-workers on the higher ladder of the totum pole, and really don't like to listen to that stinging top 40 music while slaving away in a kitchen, or a clothing store, or whatever.

That day I was fired was one of the best days of my life, simply because I skirted my bullshit responsibility to do something that could never be repeated in my short lifetime. It felt so glorious to be a fuck up. Let them label me that way. Who is having more fun?

Eavesdropping at an Arcata Coffee Shop

I overheard parts of a conversation between a blond dread-locked man and a hippie woman today:

Dread-lock man: "See, the government may have put you in a physical jail, but the government is putting us all in a physiological prison.

Later...

Woman: "Yeah, she is so petty, like, there is so much more to talk about"
Dread-locked Man: "Ah, yes, I know, like eternity!

Best of Craig's List again- this womans mother just died. Reminds me of the airport terminal I was in two days ago.

best of craigslist > new york > I will apologize because I don't feel like going to jail. Originally Posted: Thu, 22 Feb 18:48 EST

I will apologize because I don't feel like going to jail.

---

Date: 2007-02-22, 6:48PM EST


I’m in the subway in New York city and it’s rush hour. I’m in a torture chamber. I’m crammed between a mans slimy perspiring arm pit, a woman with a stroller and an older lady who keeps looking over at me and saying...

"Don’t fucking touch me, bitch."

...every time the train slows or jolts and I accidentally brush her sleeve with mine. I’m trying to ignore her. I’m trying to be calm. I’m trying really, really hard. I’m concentrating on my shoes, the logo on some guys shirt, a billboard advertising English lessons...

"Next stop is 103th st. stand clear of closing doors please."...

I brush against the angry women’s arm as the train takes off and she gives me the kind of look one might give to a person they were about to destroy...

"If you fucking touch me again, I’m gonna scream. I fucking mean it, you stupid white ho"...

"Sorry."...

is what I say, although what I really want to say is...

"I know martial arts and if you curse at me again I with put you in a headlock and cut off your goddamn air supply."...

But I don’t because I’m polite and I’m patient and I don’t let my emotions control my life. My life, no. My imagination, oh yes.

As the woman continues to rant at me I imagine pushing her up against the subway doors, lifting her frail twisted body off the floor. I’m holding her neck with one hand because I have super strength. I tell her politely and patiently that she’s not the only one with problems. I tell her that all humans suffer, I tell her that’s she’s a complete cliche. I tell her that yes, on the surface I look like a privileged white girl who deserves to be shat on emotionally by those less fortunate, but in reality my mother died a few days ago and I just lost my job and my cat is sick and I have 13 dollars in my bank account, and sometimes I start crying on the street, in a café, at dinner, and all and any inappropriate places for absolutely no reason. And in my mind she’s listening to me and nodding and understanding. and she's saying...

"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.I had no idea, i never think of anyone but myself, but you have shown me the light."...

"It’s okay."...

I say like I'm some sort of saint or demon or guru who has giving her this gift of empathy. So I put her back on the floor and then we hug or some shit and everyone in the train is teary eyed. And we all start singing Cat Stevens ’Freedom train." And we join hands and we are all one community of people, just people, different people, the same people, flawed people, pissed people, happy people, distracted people, dying people, living people and we all understand this and accept this. But of course this isn't’t happening. This would never happen. The mans armpit it still inches from my face. The baby in the stroller is crying. The baby's mother is ignoring her. And the woman who I have forgiven and who had forgiven me is telling me I’m a fucking cunt. And I’m saying...

"I’m sorry."...

March 20th 2008

Here is Daryl, in our living room, the day before Spring. The daffodils next to him took about a half an hour to acquire. We had lunch at my favorite spot in Trinidad, "The Beachcomber". Every time we go there I remember how much I want to move to that small town. The citizens are foggies (mostly retired), and always seem very benevolent and eccentric. Especially at, "The Beachcomber". We go there about once a month to eat toasted focaccia bread with avacado and (when I'm not feeling guilty about dairy) cheddar cheese with some kind of stimulate (a mocca yesterday) so I can have a clear mind for chess. Yesterday he won.

Side note: He has such a good spirit about competition: even when he loses (he's only won a few games so far because he's just now learning to play) he never gets angry. Instead he asks what he could have done better, and tries again. He has a better heart in that respect then me.

Then we drove home to scavenge for those daffodils that are next to him in the picture. We drove to a cow pasture, I jumped a stream, landed in mud and jumped a fence barefoot into jaggar bushes. I picked about twenty, ran like a mad woman just in case someone said, "what the heck?" and jumped the fence again in victory.

Life goes on. I'm trying to fill the house with as many flowers as possible. I had to insist that we take this picture (I'm being honest) because I want to record the good parts of my life. I've known for quite some time that I love people but have no social intelligence what so ever. Always saying the wrong thing, always nervous, so I want to record the positive things in my life in the hopes that someone can relate. My hope is that someone will catch something I'm saying and write their own story to celebrate life. We are all in it together. Or if I'm doing something wrong correct me. I want to connect better with others but I'm always putting my foot in my mouth.

Two days ago I got off a plane, took a GreyHound from the plane, and all in all it was a 24 hour trip. I was coming home from my worst fear. I was wrecked. But there were signs that helped me. An 18 year old girl sat next to me on the bus. She was a pianist and for four hours she just studied music for a big rehearsal she had the next day. She showed me a pamphlet of a competition she was in regarding music. At 18 she was the oldest contestant. The pamphlet had stories about all the contestants: some eleven years old, some two years older, but all with these amazing paragraphs on their accomplishments. People in motion.

On the way to Nebraska I did not know Katlor was that sick. But on the bus I sat next to an older woman who spoke for an hour about losing her husband to Parkinson's disease. She said for an entire year she watched her husband of 30 years slowly decline from a strong, vibrate man and deteriorate right in front of her. She said her body was wrecked from having to pick him up, bath him. All the while I felt terrible for her but I could not really understand what it was like to go through that. She gave me a kiss good-bye. We also survived the beep popper who rapped the entire way to San Raphel who was sitting behind us, "Oh I can make it ran...all aboard the bus...guns, yeah fool I told you..." That's how her and I got to talking in the first place- to drown out Mr. Undiscovered Vanilla Ice.

Katlor spent just a few month in pain. Then I was reminded of the woman who said she spent a year watching her husband die. These people we love are gone, they are somewhere else now. But we are here and we need to get into motion. I don't have a terminal disease (except that I will die one day). I am so blessed with the few amazing souls I hope to know for the rest of my life. I wish them peace and positive movement, and to have love and be in love for the duration of their existence. Life is so flimsy.

I put all my love into Katlor because she deserved it first off, and also she was my little love generator. I spent 22 and a half years thanking whatever force controls who lives and dies, and all the random actions in between. I had a love generator for that long. And it hurts, and I want her back, I want my brother back, but it's selfish because they are no longer in pain. I just want to see them again. But we are here still, so I am going to try to be thankful every day that I still have my two beautiful brothers, my sister, the coolest best friend God could create (I am blessed).

My purpose is to find as much good as I can and to share it, and celebrate together. My disposition sinks to gossip, pettiness, sometimes aggression. Correct me when I need it.

When I got home some thought came into my head that the human spirit is alway there, and we want light. We are in it together. Life is so hard and so mean sometimes, and I always ask why these things happen. But we are the living, so that is what I'm trying to do, day by day.

One More Reason to Love The Human Race

I found this one the "best of craigslist". Joy to the World!

best of craigslist > orange county > ********ASS KICKING MACHINE******* Originally Posted: Tue, 28 Aug 14:34 PDT

********ASS KICKING MACHINE*******

---

Date: 2007-08-28, 2:34PM PDT



I am looking for candidates to try out my new invention for a carnival. I need people with a good strong butt. Duties involve sustained blows to the rear by different brands of shoes attached to a rotating ferris wheel device. This job is not for people that have hemmroids or any other ailments of that nature. Must be able to pass background, have a clean/ perfect DMV and pass a drug test from hair samples. Basically im like any other company I want that perfect person for a job that any ass can do. Oh and If you need any remodeling done I have 10+ years experience and my own tools.

Killer Robots Invade Planet Earth

This article was on the front page of Yahoo News:


Noel Sharkey, professor of artificial intelligence and robotics at the University of Sheffield said he believed falling costs would soon make robots a realistic option for extremist groups.

Several countries and companies are developing the technology for robot weapons, with the U.S. Department of Defense leading the way. More than 4,000 robots are deployed in Iraq.

"The trouble is that we can't really put the genie back in the bottle. Once the new weapons are out there, they will be fairly easy to copy," Sharkey will tell a one-day conference organized by Britain's Royal United Services Institute on Wednesday.

"How long is it going to be before the terrorists get in on the act? With the current prices of robot construction falling dramatically and the availability of ready-made components for the amateur market, it wouldn't require a lot of skill to make autonomous robot weapons."

Dear Roommates

---

I thought this was funny. I found it on Craig's list for Humboldt County. Notice it's written at two o'clock in the morning. Sometimes I check out "missed connections" on Craig's list because they can be beautiful (and neurotic). It's the shy, socially inept love call of the lonely. But this post was found on rants and raves. It pretty much sums up the college experience that I was so lucky to avoid. Thank God Daryl and I live alone.


Reply to: pers-584859395@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-02-24, 2:01AM PST


dear retarded roomates,
I have to get up at 8 am tomorrow, yet continue to be serenaded by your loud friends yelling drunkenly at one another and the pleasant smell of burning shrubs wafting underneath the door accompanied by your womanly giggles and door slamming. Please kill yourself and any of your family members who are planning to reproduce because anyone who can be so inhumanly inconsiderate needs to be burning in hell and not smoking weed in my living room.

Purification Ritual

For the past two weeks I've been detoxing with the aid of The Master Cleanse. I feel so good that I thought I'd share some health info (again, that I just learned myself).

The supposed effects of The Master Cleanse are supposed to include: mental clarity, relief of your internal organs from the strain of digestion, rapid weight loss, and spites in natural energy. I lost some weight- though I don't want to know how much because it's not healthy to be obsessive about these things. Most importantly though, I can think more calmly and clearly.

I also learned that certain foods and additives are toxic to the body. Pizza is like heroin- both are toxic toxic toxic. Other ingredients that are tough on the body include: butter, salt, caffeine, sugar and alcohol.

The best benefit for me is an inner calm, which helps me to deal with life more smoothly. When I feel bad about myself I tend to lash out on people around me. Inner calm and good health are the best ways that I have found to bring positive energy to others and boomerang it back to me. On a larger scale, if everyone felt an inner calm then society would improve, violence would not be rampant, and we could do away with religions, therapists, Valium, and revolutions. Or maybe you will just feel better and can deal.

Also my friend just sent me an e-mail on the vitamins I need in my diet. Here it is...

rose-
I would say the single most important thing you could be taking are essential fatty acids. Most Americans are deficient and a lack of E.F.A.'s is reflected in everything from decreased energy, chronic inflammations and poor cellular metabolism generally. The best EFA's are from fish oil, as flax is generally not assimilated very well, but borage and evening primrose oil are good too.
Beyond this, Vit. B6 and magnesium are very common nutritional deficiencies, but I would recommend getting a good multi-vitamin that says its from whole food sources, as the body gets more out of them when they are.
So yeah, fish oil( it can be in pills too) and a whole-food multivitamin. Oh ya, and 2 quarts of water a day seriously makes a big difference. So that's my abbreviated vitamin guru rap. Hope its useful...love yak

Hope this inspires and informs! If there is anything disagreeable please tell me. Or, if you know any other sure paths to good health, please comment.

Oh beautiful was the werewolf in his evil forest

*The title of this blog alludes to my favorite Richard Brautigan poem.

I am challenging the President of the Humboldt Chess Team tomorrow, by the ocean, hopefully (at least in my imagination) in pure black ninja suits. Needless to say I am scared. I played him once before in speed Chess...he beat me in a little under a minute. Never in my life had I hated a man so much. Ches is an ego thing. Though my great friend Ben insists that the game "GO" is more beautiful, philosophical and non aggressive then the chess playing mentality. He is probably right.

This particular man interests me more than his chess skills. I was in love with one of his friends. He, the chess pros's friend (though his name in unimportant, lets just call him "He') just won ten thousands in a chess competition in Vegas. His father became a fanatical Buddhist and abandoned the family to move to Nepal. His mother was a yoga instructor who made small time heroin deals. When he was 17, attending all AP classes, he nearly beat a bully to death for picking on a nerd. That landed him a year in prison. The bully got out of the coma in four months. But this man I once loved, remained in year, which would have been much longer then a year, had they not done comprehensive testing. Turned out the his IQ was 140 (and yes, I know they are geared toward white men, but he would tell you that too.)

My one time love sold heroin. When I was on the stuff, he would come into my apartment and stare for hours at the, "Grand Master Chess" program. Hours, I kid you not. He said it took six months to get to his status. A book was written and published about this character.

I love then too deeply. I find old poems, stained in tar, that were dedicated to him. IQ of 140. What a waste. The worst thing about him was that he had a solid moral core- even dealing heroin. Such integrity. He said what he meant and did what he said. No bullshit, no violence. He would not even sell to someone who was not hooked.

My point is that this man, the one I loved, a brown belt in Judo, was the only man in Humboldt county to beat this fellow I play tomorrow. I would rather lose then have either of their brains.