The following is a list of people who I believe have been murdered by the CIA and had the story covered up to look like an accident, an civilian murderer was responsible, or a illness.
*I'll keep expanding this blog daily because I am lazy (the CIA has no cause to murder me) and to me, this is very important.
1.) Let's start with a shocker. JOHN LENNON of Beatles fame. John Lennon pissed off the CIA so badly in his time with his anti-war message, that a documentary was made about him vs. the government.
2.) The obvious. ABBY HOFFMAN. Abby Hoffman spoke out for years about how the government kills people then says it was suicide, then he supposedly committed suicide. He was killed exactly how he preached he would be, in time.
3.) They can't take a joke. BILL HICKS. Died at 32 of a rare cancer that was excruciating painful and took his speech. If you see some of his stand up; particularly about Barbra Bush's private parts, "it seems so plausible".
4.) Even a Monk. THOMAS MERTON. He wrote over 70 books and many where anti-war. He died supposedly stepping out of his bathtub and touching an electrical object.
Okay, time to get all the info that supports my belief that these people were killed. This all started for me when I heard that the CIA used the tip of an umbrella, poisoned with some rare sea creature's poison on the tip, and tapped a Russian official, who instantly had a heart attack. I'll get back to this blog with more information.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Authorities
Maybe it's because for the last week I've had to purge a story out on paper. Lately I've been selling my soul to get this position as a creative writer, in my new home of Orange County...
*How is my progress on the story? You can always just run away and drink lots of wine and forget about it,
...but I have been thinking about what it means to be an authority. Because an authority-the company hired editors- get to tell me whether my one story is good enough to make the grade. Who,
other then the literary community, wants to read a novel about childhood innocents through the eyes of an adult? This one story has been percolating in my mind for two decades now. The Recess Chronicles. It's my one story to tell. My humble opinion is that, if I stop running away and drinking wine and actually finish the story, it will be universally loved. But some editor, whose opinions and life path are probably totally different from mine, can say they just don't care about the themes.
I'm in life to learn, so in my stories, themes and dissecting characters are paramount.
Jump to what's in my brain on a Saturday at 3:30 in the morning. Now I would love to take a long leisurely walk on the beach at night with a martini in one hand, in my birthday suit. And if my family- my only viewers- were not to read this blog I'd add a lot more on what I would like to do...but can't. And why can't I? The police prohibit me from being spontaneous tonight. Having the time of my life at any given second. They are taking away my god given freedom.
Now, I'm not one of these people who are punk rock and say the police are oppressing us. Many laws are there to protect us. And fuck you who say otherwise. My point is that, I don't have any respect for anyone who takes a piece of my freedom from me when my actions are harmless.
We live in a society that is not civilized. I am one who believes that people are innately selfish. I've seen people go against their impulses and do the opposite: devote their lives to helping others. But we all struggle so much in the world I know, there is no time to open your hearts to others. Oh, and the ego. Even me. But I've done the opposite for the sole purpose of losing myself in love. We need protectors. All my anarchist friends would say that in a perfect world we would govern ourselves. Well it has not happened yet, and the best theories on paper never stand up to the human quest for power. Read some history books, then get back to me with your idealism.
But damn it, why can't we be a more confident human race who will let me run naked on the beach with a martini in my hand? Why can't I go 7 miles over the speed limit without paying a huge traffic ticket? And oh those spiders love to catch a 'speeding' fly! Who are these people who are granted power to constrict us?
What about the time I first moved to Redding, California, at 20 years of age. I was jogging in the park, and came across a rail road track...
SIDE NOTE: The worst people I have ever known are the train hoppers from Redding. But that is neither here nor there (hey if Vonnegut can write like this so can I).
...and I saw some beautiful graffiti along an overpass of a highway. To see this graffiti up close you had to walk over the rail road tracks a few yards or so. All I was 'up to' was looking at some artwork. Viewing artwork. A train station authority stopped me. He said I had broke the law. My crime was that, in California, it is illegal to walk more then 100 feet down a railroad track. I told him I was clueless to this law. "Well it's common sense!" He said. No buddy, it's not common sense to NOT hear a train coming and walk a few feet to observe some art. Especially since you could see miles down these tracks. I'd like to think I was bit brighter then this fascist. And yes, I do think it's a fascist move to try to ticket someone over $200 for walking along the train tracks. It continues. So he asks for my ID. I was jogging, so I did not have my purse on me. "That's also illegal!" I fight these people. I called him an asshole and told him I was not from California and not familiar with their laws. So he asked my name (and sorry Chrissy Boshcert for using yours instead) and said there was now going to be a file in Washington D.C (where, I am basically from) "all about me". A week later this child prodigy made the front page of the paper for actually getting the ticket for doing the exact same thing I did. He fought too. They sentenced him to community service work.
I'd like to leave this world the same way I came in: innocent and without harm to others. We should question these authorities and decide who is in power to give them their power to take away our power.
Same thing with the art world. As much as I worship Brian Eno, it was only him who decided which bands were going to be chosen for the "no wave" movement a while back. When one or two or a group of elite decide what is considered beautiful, they should be challenged. And I've been pepper sprayed at close range fighting for what was right. It hurts, and it felt like rape (seriously) but it's better I stood up to help a friend then to lie down cowardly and allow this person in this situation to be hurt. Fight-come back with a ticket you can rip up and a black eye. Fight for the freedom these authorities have stripped from us. We are being quietly raped every single day otherwise.
*How is my progress on the story? You can always just run away and drink lots of wine and forget about it,
...but I have been thinking about what it means to be an authority. Because an authority-the company hired editors- get to tell me whether my one story is good enough to make the grade. Who,
other then the literary community, wants to read a novel about childhood innocents through the eyes of an adult? This one story has been percolating in my mind for two decades now. The Recess Chronicles. It's my one story to tell. My humble opinion is that, if I stop running away and drinking wine and actually finish the story, it will be universally loved. But some editor, whose opinions and life path are probably totally different from mine, can say they just don't care about the themes.
I'm in life to learn, so in my stories, themes and dissecting characters are paramount.
Jump to what's in my brain on a Saturday at 3:30 in the morning. Now I would love to take a long leisurely walk on the beach at night with a martini in one hand, in my birthday suit. And if my family- my only viewers- were not to read this blog I'd add a lot more on what I would like to do...but can't. And why can't I? The police prohibit me from being spontaneous tonight. Having the time of my life at any given second. They are taking away my god given freedom.
Now, I'm not one of these people who are punk rock and say the police are oppressing us. Many laws are there to protect us. And fuck you who say otherwise. My point is that, I don't have any respect for anyone who takes a piece of my freedom from me when my actions are harmless.
We live in a society that is not civilized. I am one who believes that people are innately selfish. I've seen people go against their impulses and do the opposite: devote their lives to helping others. But we all struggle so much in the world I know, there is no time to open your hearts to others. Oh, and the ego. Even me. But I've done the opposite for the sole purpose of losing myself in love. We need protectors. All my anarchist friends would say that in a perfect world we would govern ourselves. Well it has not happened yet, and the best theories on paper never stand up to the human quest for power. Read some history books, then get back to me with your idealism.
But damn it, why can't we be a more confident human race who will let me run naked on the beach with a martini in my hand? Why can't I go 7 miles over the speed limit without paying a huge traffic ticket? And oh those spiders love to catch a 'speeding' fly! Who are these people who are granted power to constrict us?
What about the time I first moved to Redding, California, at 20 years of age. I was jogging in the park, and came across a rail road track...
SIDE NOTE: The worst people I have ever known are the train hoppers from Redding. But that is neither here nor there (hey if Vonnegut can write like this so can I).
...and I saw some beautiful graffiti along an overpass of a highway. To see this graffiti up close you had to walk over the rail road tracks a few yards or so. All I was 'up to' was looking at some artwork. Viewing artwork. A train station authority stopped me. He said I had broke the law. My crime was that, in California, it is illegal to walk more then 100 feet down a railroad track. I told him I was clueless to this law. "Well it's common sense!" He said. No buddy, it's not common sense to NOT hear a train coming and walk a few feet to observe some art. Especially since you could see miles down these tracks. I'd like to think I was bit brighter then this fascist. And yes, I do think it's a fascist move to try to ticket someone over $200 for walking along the train tracks. It continues. So he asks for my ID. I was jogging, so I did not have my purse on me. "That's also illegal!" I fight these people. I called him an asshole and told him I was not from California and not familiar with their laws. So he asked my name (and sorry Chrissy Boshcert for using yours instead) and said there was now going to be a file in Washington D.C (where, I am basically from) "all about me". A week later this child prodigy made the front page of the paper for actually getting the ticket for doing the exact same thing I did. He fought too. They sentenced him to community service work.
I'd like to leave this world the same way I came in: innocent and without harm to others. We should question these authorities and decide who is in power to give them their power to take away our power.
Same thing with the art world. As much as I worship Brian Eno, it was only him who decided which bands were going to be chosen for the "no wave" movement a while back. When one or two or a group of elite decide what is considered beautiful, they should be challenged. And I've been pepper sprayed at close range fighting for what was right. It hurts, and it felt like rape (seriously) but it's better I stood up to help a friend then to lie down cowardly and allow this person in this situation to be hurt. Fight-come back with a ticket you can rip up and a black eye. Fight for the freedom these authorities have stripped from us. We are being quietly raped every single day otherwise.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sister of Mercy quote:
Every Monday I go to a group (starting at 8:15am) to relate with a unique group of people from all walks of life. Our group is full of hearty human beings (meaning, most of us have escaped the Grim Reaper too many times already).
Actually I can't talk about it in public; and that does not come from 'Fight Club'. We are a group of people compelled to fuck up so we are under close scrutiny, being monitored on a weekly basis. I always joke that my doctor's name, the head of the group, "Dr. Ohnemus" sounds a lot like "Omnipresent"; like some Big Brother outfit.
But actually this is a group of bleeding hearts who act like angels in a storm. My personal life having been the storm, and they stepped in to calm and nurture us. Like a blanket, crutch, mercy group of the best people I know.
Dr. Ohnemus recently got back from a vacation in Tibet. She said you could juxtapose a face a of a Tibetan next to a Chinese face, and you could see how run down the money-centered Chinese relates to stress. According to Dr. Ohnemus, the Tibet invested 'inwardly' while the Chinese can never end their search for money.
She gave me a little mantra today, that she brought back from her travels in Tibet. I hear it's "One of the most popular mantras", so get ready; my gift of perpetual, transcendental, ecstasy, mantra of the Buddhists to practise chillin all day long.
om mani padme hum
(translation: 'May MY ORIGINAL BODY/MIND/SPIRIT GAIN WISDOM, COMPASSION, AND ENERGY TO BECOME ENLIGHTENED.
-No I am not a Buddhist, but I love inner peace, and always a fan of soul quiet.
Actually I can't talk about it in public; and that does not come from 'Fight Club'. We are a group of people compelled to fuck up so we are under close scrutiny, being monitored on a weekly basis. I always joke that my doctor's name, the head of the group, "Dr. Ohnemus" sounds a lot like "Omnipresent"; like some Big Brother outfit.
But actually this is a group of bleeding hearts who act like angels in a storm. My personal life having been the storm, and they stepped in to calm and nurture us. Like a blanket, crutch, mercy group of the best people I know.
Dr. Ohnemus recently got back from a vacation in Tibet. She said you could juxtapose a face a of a Tibetan next to a Chinese face, and you could see how run down the money-centered Chinese relates to stress. According to Dr. Ohnemus, the Tibet invested 'inwardly' while the Chinese can never end their search for money.
She gave me a little mantra today, that she brought back from her travels in Tibet. I hear it's "One of the most popular mantras", so get ready; my gift of perpetual, transcendental, ecstasy, mantra of the Buddhists to practise chillin all day long.
om mani padme hum
(translation: 'May MY ORIGINAL BODY/MIND/SPIRIT GAIN WISDOM, COMPASSION, AND ENERGY TO BECOME ENLIGHTENED.
-No I am not a Buddhist, but I love inner peace, and always a fan of soul quiet.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Void
My cousin sold our childhood home to a woman whose job involves doing research for children to get vaccinated against all kinds of diseases. Noble cause. Glad she's alive to fight the good fight through her work. When I finish my teaching credential program I will be sculpting the minds of little people; one of the hardest and most rewarding jobs I am capable of doing daily. I can't wait. But until this degree/training process is complete and I'm firmly planted in a kindergarten classroom, here is my take on the medial labor I will soon be doing to fill the time until I can work with meaning.
Okay, so you have your pop music to listen to as a abstract background to numb your atrophied brain. You can learn about the lives of these pop stars. Fill your brain with more worthless crap! You have your lovely commute to your menial job (mine being waitress work). Or maybe you can listen to Morrissey, you know, revolt against the working world. You have your brain numbing fast food, your car to worry about, you coworkers to chat topically with. You're entire routine amounts to little more then the perfunctory phrase, "Have a good day!"
When I quit my job as a waitress, it was a beautiful morning. I turned the question around in my mind all night, then took a walk down our nice neighborhood and watched the houses slowly light up with the morning sun rising. You could imagine the coffee steeping, the outfit picked out to replace comfortable pjs. It was as poetic an image as industry can get.
And I decided to say, "I don't want this. I don't know anything but this and I want a different existence." I did the unthinkable at a late age (25) and quit making money. Quit saying, "Have a nice day." Quit drinking the cooking wine when no one was around just to force a smile on my face when the sun set and I was a slave to asking the rich what they wanted for dinner. I wanted something different. I will not say 'I wanted MORE'. I wanted something different.
So I jumped into the void. Spent a few years developing what I call, "The Unemployed Personality". My journey was sad and unique and strange. Dabbled in drugs. Tried a few part time jobs. Drank vodka. Picked fresh flowers from colorful fields. Made love. Cried to virtual strangers on the phone at 4 in the morning, up with questions and fears. There is never any safety in the VOID. There is only creation or emptiness. Isolation. Bliss. An entire universe formed from organic experience separate from pop culture and synthetic fashions. You are living for nothing but you know every day that you are alive.
Jumping out of the void is as terrifying and enthralling as the morning I walked down my home town street and and watched lights turn on and garage doors open. I know that world. To attach yourself to any commitment is losing your freedom, even if it's just slightly.
Of course I worked with flair in my little robot revolt during those working days. I went through a phase of refusing to say, "Have a nice day!" or "Cold outside." I bought a vesper and rode that to work. Packed the seat with roses I sent to a woman I loved as a friend along with long letters. Lived in a boat a times, with a man who wrote awful poetry about the sky. The boat was like a cradle. I'd find some Vicodin and sit on the pier and look at the stars reflected in the black water of the South River in an Annapolis harbor.
Ran my worries away every morning for miles before work. Ended my jog by running up a hill and listening to my beating heart say, "I am". I ran to escape my body. Did what I could to be free.
We all want to be free. You have a choice: give up some freedom for stability. Or jump into the void. When you enter the void you only have your mind and your appearance and time. That's all. But you are free. Take your own interpretation from that statement. Living for nothing. You are not in society. I heard my heart beat so many times and ran with no compass, in search of something.
Okay, so you have your pop music to listen to as a abstract background to numb your atrophied brain. You can learn about the lives of these pop stars. Fill your brain with more worthless crap! You have your lovely commute to your menial job (mine being waitress work). Or maybe you can listen to Morrissey, you know, revolt against the working world. You have your brain numbing fast food, your car to worry about, you coworkers to chat topically with. You're entire routine amounts to little more then the perfunctory phrase, "Have a good day!"
When I quit my job as a waitress, it was a beautiful morning. I turned the question around in my mind all night, then took a walk down our nice neighborhood and watched the houses slowly light up with the morning sun rising. You could imagine the coffee steeping, the outfit picked out to replace comfortable pjs. It was as poetic an image as industry can get.
And I decided to say, "I don't want this. I don't know anything but this and I want a different existence." I did the unthinkable at a late age (25) and quit making money. Quit saying, "Have a nice day." Quit drinking the cooking wine when no one was around just to force a smile on my face when the sun set and I was a slave to asking the rich what they wanted for dinner. I wanted something different. I will not say 'I wanted MORE'. I wanted something different.
So I jumped into the void. Spent a few years developing what I call, "The Unemployed Personality". My journey was sad and unique and strange. Dabbled in drugs. Tried a few part time jobs. Drank vodka. Picked fresh flowers from colorful fields. Made love. Cried to virtual strangers on the phone at 4 in the morning, up with questions and fears. There is never any safety in the VOID. There is only creation or emptiness. Isolation. Bliss. An entire universe formed from organic experience separate from pop culture and synthetic fashions. You are living for nothing but you know every day that you are alive.
Jumping out of the void is as terrifying and enthralling as the morning I walked down my home town street and and watched lights turn on and garage doors open. I know that world. To attach yourself to any commitment is losing your freedom, even if it's just slightly.
Of course I worked with flair in my little robot revolt during those working days. I went through a phase of refusing to say, "Have a nice day!" or "Cold outside." I bought a vesper and rode that to work. Packed the seat with roses I sent to a woman I loved as a friend along with long letters. Lived in a boat a times, with a man who wrote awful poetry about the sky. The boat was like a cradle. I'd find some Vicodin and sit on the pier and look at the stars reflected in the black water of the South River in an Annapolis harbor.
Ran my worries away every morning for miles before work. Ended my jog by running up a hill and listening to my beating heart say, "I am". I ran to escape my body. Did what I could to be free.
We all want to be free. You have a choice: give up some freedom for stability. Or jump into the void. When you enter the void you only have your mind and your appearance and time. That's all. But you are free. Take your own interpretation from that statement. Living for nothing. You are not in society. I heard my heart beat so many times and ran with no compass, in search of something.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
My Problems with Requiem for a Dream
So many ideas, but today I chose this blog because I want to get it on paper. A storm is coming, and for some time soon I will not be able to type.
I was in my very early 20's when I saw the NC-17 version of Requiem for a Dream in Washington D.C. I've loved the director, Darren Aronofsky, since I saw his first movie, the symbol Pi. This film was highly anticipated by me.
First, the film is true to Hubert Selby, Jr's book of the same name. Aronofsky is a highly talented artist who uses original ideas (the "Hip Hop Splice for drug intact, for example). But in many ways this movie has little to do with the real World of a heroin addict. Also, I remember being banned from recommending anymore movies as my friends (one a film student) were leaving the theater. So yes, the movie did highly impact all of us. But accurate? No...
If you are going to make a movie so many authorities dub "The greatest drug movie of all time" you need it to be a realistic movie on drugs. As stated Aronofsky tried to cast actors who physically resembled the description of Selby's book. One of the most beautiful actress, Jennifer Connelly, plays a wealthy addict with a therapist who only needs sex to give her thousands when her parents do not return her calls. That is a clique. Her partner is Jared Leto, who actually looks like a friend of mine in jail now for heroin use. Both of these actors are very attractive people. I've seen junkies with such bad staff infections on their face, you only see sores and malnutrition marks. Not purple make-up under their vibrantly colored eyes.
Addiction is a disease, not a moral failing (I sound like a broken record). But to go that deep into such strong addiction, I believe the person is burying something. Bravo for the subtle line from Leto's character on Marion's father (Connelly's character) being, "big into women's panties". Who knows the motivations for Leto, other then selfishness.
Another major flaw is that the movie takes place in New York City. I'm sorry but it's not so hard to find heroin there that anyone has to flee to Florida to, "sniff out dope." No way. Heroin makes their users extremely constipated. If you want to take the wind out of a glamorous idea of drugs being 'cool' just say these words: How often do you have to do an anal probe? I missed that scene in the movie. The beautiful Connelly, on the toilet, straining and yelling with her neck veins bulging out. Lesser movies have had the courage to tell that side effect. She goes 'ass to ass' at the end and some people on YouTube find that sexy, yet no one added a toilet straining scene.
Also, when Connelly's character goes to Big Tim (one of my favorite actor's from The Thing, although he was so infected at the movie's end!), she is going to a New York City Penthouse, drinking (I assume) nice liquor, and she has to give a blow job for her fix. Yes, although I have never sunk to that level, there are exploitative people like him in reality. But in Penthouses? Get a better shrink and get over it.
Finally the score. Drugs are so ugly. Anal probes, nose dripping, losing fake friends as well as real friend who can not stomach your pain. Don't set this ugly struggle to such a beautifully orchestrated soundtrack. I have terrible insomnia, and when I listen to that music and see these actor's faces on YouTube lit up in neon colors as I sit in pain watching the morning light fill the room, it makes me furious. Gorgeous actors with purple make-up under the eyes, sublime visions of colorful frames and tears dabbed away on professional make-up jobs. Addicts who feen that much do not shower! That can't shower because their joints hurt so badly and air feels Arctic to them. They should be drenched in ugly sweat. Sweat that makes them look like they stink. They should look like leapers. Not the end scene where she looks like a supermodel heading for a photo shoot.
I will not dispute the ass to ass scene, although it is not in the book, because Aronofsky himself has been to such an event. I would not try to dispute that scene anyway. He did a good job showing how a person will sell their soul for pain to go away. At this point, for Marion, it's not about a 'high'. She is 'getting well'. That's heroin speak for feeling normal.
Briefly, I'll say that I believed Ellen Burstyn's story the most. Loneliness like that is an epidemic which parallels the woe's of a heroin addict. But I'm confused as to how she never got better after extensive treatment. What happened to her to make her psychosis permanent? As a side note to the film maker, I know that he did not use red (Marion never has red lipstick) in the film except for Burstyn's red dress, because he wanted to emphasis the importance of the dress.
Aronofsky is following the book, but he is too good of a film maker for this subject matter. Addiction is not epic in any way. People end up dying. I've always said that Gollum is a junkie. The reality is that you wake up alone in pain and terrified. You won't lose your arm because you only know how to shoot into one vein. It's not a subtle decline, but it is a bottoming out. Not many people have the option to look so good while withdrawing from the strongest drug and selling their soul. Film a white room with a person dialing every number they have manically in sweat pants and a dirty blanket around them. I just captured the life of a heroin addict going through withdraws. Addiction is a tragic struggle. I've seen movies like this, where people do self destructive acts to feel good, but I've never seen pain captured even close to what withdraw feels like to a person.
My favorite (and 'favorite' is not the right word) movie for this subject is A Scanner Darkly (a Bible reference), where he simply says: Let them play, and let them be happy. This is followed by a list of Philip K. Dick's friend's who have died literally or figuratively from drug use. When I see that list, I'm brought to my knees in grief.
I was in my very early 20's when I saw the NC-17 version of Requiem for a Dream in Washington D.C. I've loved the director, Darren Aronofsky, since I saw his first movie, the symbol Pi. This film was highly anticipated by me.
First, the film is true to Hubert Selby, Jr's book of the same name. Aronofsky is a highly talented artist who uses original ideas (the "Hip Hop Splice for drug intact, for example). But in many ways this movie has little to do with the real World of a heroin addict. Also, I remember being banned from recommending anymore movies as my friends (one a film student) were leaving the theater. So yes, the movie did highly impact all of us. But accurate? No...
If you are going to make a movie so many authorities dub "The greatest drug movie of all time" you need it to be a realistic movie on drugs. As stated Aronofsky tried to cast actors who physically resembled the description of Selby's book. One of the most beautiful actress, Jennifer Connelly, plays a wealthy addict with a therapist who only needs sex to give her thousands when her parents do not return her calls. That is a clique. Her partner is Jared Leto, who actually looks like a friend of mine in jail now for heroin use. Both of these actors are very attractive people. I've seen junkies with such bad staff infections on their face, you only see sores and malnutrition marks. Not purple make-up under their vibrantly colored eyes.
Addiction is a disease, not a moral failing (I sound like a broken record). But to go that deep into such strong addiction, I believe the person is burying something. Bravo for the subtle line from Leto's character on Marion's father (Connelly's character) being, "big into women's panties". Who knows the motivations for Leto, other then selfishness.
Another major flaw is that the movie takes place in New York City. I'm sorry but it's not so hard to find heroin there that anyone has to flee to Florida to, "sniff out dope." No way. Heroin makes their users extremely constipated. If you want to take the wind out of a glamorous idea of drugs being 'cool' just say these words: How often do you have to do an anal probe? I missed that scene in the movie. The beautiful Connelly, on the toilet, straining and yelling with her neck veins bulging out. Lesser movies have had the courage to tell that side effect. She goes 'ass to ass' at the end and some people on YouTube find that sexy, yet no one added a toilet straining scene.
Also, when Connelly's character goes to Big Tim (one of my favorite actor's from The Thing, although he was so infected at the movie's end!), she is going to a New York City Penthouse, drinking (I assume) nice liquor, and she has to give a blow job for her fix. Yes, although I have never sunk to that level, there are exploitative people like him in reality. But in Penthouses? Get a better shrink and get over it.
Finally the score. Drugs are so ugly. Anal probes, nose dripping, losing fake friends as well as real friend who can not stomach your pain. Don't set this ugly struggle to such a beautifully orchestrated soundtrack. I have terrible insomnia, and when I listen to that music and see these actor's faces on YouTube lit up in neon colors as I sit in pain watching the morning light fill the room, it makes me furious. Gorgeous actors with purple make-up under the eyes, sublime visions of colorful frames and tears dabbed away on professional make-up jobs. Addicts who feen that much do not shower! That can't shower because their joints hurt so badly and air feels Arctic to them. They should be drenched in ugly sweat. Sweat that makes them look like they stink. They should look like leapers. Not the end scene where she looks like a supermodel heading for a photo shoot.
I will not dispute the ass to ass scene, although it is not in the book, because Aronofsky himself has been to such an event. I would not try to dispute that scene anyway. He did a good job showing how a person will sell their soul for pain to go away. At this point, for Marion, it's not about a 'high'. She is 'getting well'. That's heroin speak for feeling normal.
Briefly, I'll say that I believed Ellen Burstyn's story the most. Loneliness like that is an epidemic which parallels the woe's of a heroin addict. But I'm confused as to how she never got better after extensive treatment. What happened to her to make her psychosis permanent? As a side note to the film maker, I know that he did not use red (Marion never has red lipstick) in the film except for Burstyn's red dress, because he wanted to emphasis the importance of the dress.
Aronofsky is following the book, but he is too good of a film maker for this subject matter. Addiction is not epic in any way. People end up dying. I've always said that Gollum is a junkie. The reality is that you wake up alone in pain and terrified. You won't lose your arm because you only know how to shoot into one vein. It's not a subtle decline, but it is a bottoming out. Not many people have the option to look so good while withdrawing from the strongest drug and selling their soul. Film a white room with a person dialing every number they have manically in sweat pants and a dirty blanket around them. I just captured the life of a heroin addict going through withdraws. Addiction is a tragic struggle. I've seen movies like this, where people do self destructive acts to feel good, but I've never seen pain captured even close to what withdraw feels like to a person.
My favorite (and 'favorite' is not the right word) movie for this subject is A Scanner Darkly (a Bible reference), where he simply says: Let them play, and let them be happy. This is followed by a list of Philip K. Dick's friend's who have died literally or figuratively from drug use. When I see that list, I'm brought to my knees in grief.
People are a Drug
This morning I went to my 'group'. In reality it's a conscious raising group to deal with anxiety and be able to be a single, strong, superhero in a random and cruel world. Our group therapist calls it a "stress management group". Call it what you will, does not matter. What matters is that I need it!
Besides me, everyone in the group is on the heroin withdraw program (the methadone clinic patients). All are unique and sensitive (highly so) good people who are bonding to support each other as if we were family. We talk about everything, even the things that make us vulnerable, to each other; and we are strangers.
Today we had a talk about the 'need' to have people in our lives. Sometimes when you speak so long openly things come out that are not on the four front of our thinking. I blurted out that people are like drugs. We don't need them for our happiness. They are an addiction.
A woman objected, saying that without relationships it would be like the novel "On Waldon Pond". I suppressed blurting out that his mother did his laundry while he wrote that entire novel.
Do we need people to be happy? And what if their happiness or anger makes us act accordingly. I don't like being a slave to anyone, any drug, or any negative or positive emotion. But I am addicted to the idea of people being some cure. I admit this even though I don't want people's lives to be my own.
I told the group that I enrolled to be strong myself so that I don't need anyone but myself. There is no underlying blueprint that will make life certain and fair. It's a throw of the dice.
I lied when I said I did not need anyone, or hope to work up to the point of never needing anyone. The heart was meant to love (thank you Professor Zimmerman for that lecture.) I live for people. I watch them from afar. I listen. I react to them. I don't understand them. But they have their moments of cutting out the bullshit and actually expressing good stuff.
My good, if not best friend (at one point) talked to me for a while on the phone yesterday and she make a comment that sickened me. She said that she hired a black man and, of course (because he was black) he quickly quit the job. Never mind that almost ten employees (including me) quickly left. Why did she have to say that? But I can not eliminate her from my life. She can make a fairy house out of bark. She has loved me more then myself. She once cried when she saw a chicken on the highway because she knew it would get crushed by a passing car. But yet she said that. My point is that people- everyone- are too complex to sum up and cut out or worship. They keep me going. The good ones mostly.
Besides me, everyone in the group is on the heroin withdraw program (the methadone clinic patients). All are unique and sensitive (highly so) good people who are bonding to support each other as if we were family. We talk about everything, even the things that make us vulnerable, to each other; and we are strangers.
Today we had a talk about the 'need' to have people in our lives. Sometimes when you speak so long openly things come out that are not on the four front of our thinking. I blurted out that people are like drugs. We don't need them for our happiness. They are an addiction.
A woman objected, saying that without relationships it would be like the novel "On Waldon Pond". I suppressed blurting out that his mother did his laundry while he wrote that entire novel.
Do we need people to be happy? And what if their happiness or anger makes us act accordingly. I don't like being a slave to anyone, any drug, or any negative or positive emotion. But I am addicted to the idea of people being some cure. I admit this even though I don't want people's lives to be my own.
I told the group that I enrolled to be strong myself so that I don't need anyone but myself. There is no underlying blueprint that will make life certain and fair. It's a throw of the dice.
I lied when I said I did not need anyone, or hope to work up to the point of never needing anyone. The heart was meant to love (thank you Professor Zimmerman for that lecture.) I live for people. I watch them from afar. I listen. I react to them. I don't understand them. But they have their moments of cutting out the bullshit and actually expressing good stuff.
My good, if not best friend (at one point) talked to me for a while on the phone yesterday and she make a comment that sickened me. She said that she hired a black man and, of course (because he was black) he quickly quit the job. Never mind that almost ten employees (including me) quickly left. Why did she have to say that? But I can not eliminate her from my life. She can make a fairy house out of bark. She has loved me more then myself. She once cried when she saw a chicken on the highway because she knew it would get crushed by a passing car. But yet she said that. My point is that people- everyone- are too complex to sum up and cut out or worship. They keep me going. The good ones mostly.
The Reading List Of Dan McCloud
I met Dan MacCloud while at work as a waitress: serving the wealthy rabbit pate and veil at a French restaurant near Baltimore. Dan was a soft spoken, well mannered individual that we called the "Flank Steak Man" because that's all he ordered. Dan was unique among our elite customers because, unlike the suit and tie men who drove up in Jaguars because their wives never cooked, Dan had a large windowless brown construction van (I'm convinced just so he could say, "Hey I'm Dan The Man in the Tan Van"). He also had a grizzly beard like an Alaskan prospector, and a long, string thin rat tail.
Luck would have it that I had no ride lined up to get home (nearly an hour away from work) so Dan volunteered to drive me home. On the way home he asked what books I was reading. I judged him too soon (I admit) because I spouted out some authors I was quite sure he had no clue existed. Wrong! It turned out that Dan came from a rare background, having a father that worked as a NASA scientist and a mother who was the dean of the literature department at the University of Maryland. Dan was gifted with a first rate education, even attending the private school that Chelsy Clinton would later graduate from.
As a side note most of the east coast private schools are based on the Quaker religion (who knew?) and Dan later converted to the religion himself, minus the belief in Jesus. One of Dan's sayings was that he, "Saw light in everyone". He was one of those hippie types that did Owsley acid, found a different path then working a convention job (he worked under the table to avoid having his taxes go to fund war) and he lived on a Yacht that he built himself. He was probably a little crazy too.
Because I could learn a lot from this fellow, I asked him to recommend his favorite books to me. The following came from a manically scribbled list that was torn out of a notebook (I have put asterisks next to the ones I have read):
-The Polish Lieutenant
-Mosquito Coast
-Catch 22
-My Side of the Mountain
-Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
-A Suitable Boy
-Sarah Canary
-In the Skin of a Lion
-Life of Pi*
-The Dog That Wouldn't Be
-Master and Commander
-Even Cowgirls get the Blues
-Huckleberry Fin
-One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest
-Wild Swans
-July People
-The Shipping News
-A Walk in the Woods
-Madam Bovary
-Canary Row
-East of Edan
-All The Pretty Horses
-The Brothers Karamazov
-The Idiot
-The Red and the Black
-War and Peace
-Dead Souls
-Ship of Fools
The Iliad
-The Odyssey
-The Bible By Everyone
Also:
Anything by:
Ursala Leguin
John Steinbeck
F.Scott Fitzgerald
Amy Chan
Micheal Ondajel
&
Emil Zola
Luck would have it that I had no ride lined up to get home (nearly an hour away from work) so Dan volunteered to drive me home. On the way home he asked what books I was reading. I judged him too soon (I admit) because I spouted out some authors I was quite sure he had no clue existed. Wrong! It turned out that Dan came from a rare background, having a father that worked as a NASA scientist and a mother who was the dean of the literature department at the University of Maryland. Dan was gifted with a first rate education, even attending the private school that Chelsy Clinton would later graduate from.
As a side note most of the east coast private schools are based on the Quaker religion (who knew?) and Dan later converted to the religion himself, minus the belief in Jesus. One of Dan's sayings was that he, "Saw light in everyone". He was one of those hippie types that did Owsley acid, found a different path then working a convention job (he worked under the table to avoid having his taxes go to fund war) and he lived on a Yacht that he built himself. He was probably a little crazy too.
Because I could learn a lot from this fellow, I asked him to recommend his favorite books to me. The following came from a manically scribbled list that was torn out of a notebook (I have put asterisks next to the ones I have read):
-The Polish Lieutenant
-Mosquito Coast
-Catch 22
-My Side of the Mountain
-Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
-A Suitable Boy
-Sarah Canary
-In the Skin of a Lion
-Life of Pi*
-The Dog That Wouldn't Be
-Master and Commander
-Even Cowgirls get the Blues
-Huckleberry Fin
-One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest
-Wild Swans
-July People
-The Shipping News
-A Walk in the Woods
-Madam Bovary
-Canary Row
-East of Edan
-All The Pretty Horses
-The Brothers Karamazov
-The Idiot
-The Red and the Black
-War and Peace
-Dead Souls
-Ship of Fools
The Iliad
-The Odyssey
-The Bible By Everyone
Also:
Anything by:
Ursala Leguin
John Steinbeck
F.Scott Fitzgerald
Amy Chan
Micheal Ondajel
&
Emil Zola
The Weight of Happiness & Appetite for Sunshine in the Heart
About two years ago I sat down with a Guinness and one of my favorite professors. He had a logic test on his syllabus which had not been solved in his 15 years of teaching. The prize was a beer. My brother solved it, I took the credit, I won a free beer.
This professor was such a beautiful soul; lusty and clever and honest. Directly wired in life I thought. We talked about jazz. How Frank Sinatra gave an olive from his martini to one lucky fellow he really liked every night. Then the subject turned to personal drama. Turmoil for him. His daughter was dying of cancer. I was fighting bad vices that anyone who knows me knows about. We could only talk about intellectual barriers because what we were going through was unspeakable.
He mentioned that out of all the things that can happen in life, being happy is not important. He referenced Cathrine Deneuve, the gorgeous French actress (so French!) who was asked in an interview at the height of her career if she was happy. She sat with a cigarette and her long blond hair (which that professor said reminded him of a cocker spaniel's mane), sultry accent and replied, "Happiness, what is that?!". Ah the French.
In my own life I have to ask myself that a lot, because I'm not happy very often. I get angry, jealous, resentful- just frustrated with people in general. But I love them so much- hold such high standards- that if they let me down it stings. They usually do though. But I still love them- just from a great distance apart.
Happiness is only one emotion of the broad spectrum of feeling that passes through me every day. And I don't want to group emotions into black and white categories anyway. Happiness is a hard one. I take it when it comes.
This professor was such a beautiful soul; lusty and clever and honest. Directly wired in life I thought. We talked about jazz. How Frank Sinatra gave an olive from his martini to one lucky fellow he really liked every night. Then the subject turned to personal drama. Turmoil for him. His daughter was dying of cancer. I was fighting bad vices that anyone who knows me knows about. We could only talk about intellectual barriers because what we were going through was unspeakable.
He mentioned that out of all the things that can happen in life, being happy is not important. He referenced Cathrine Deneuve, the gorgeous French actress (so French!) who was asked in an interview at the height of her career if she was happy. She sat with a cigarette and her long blond hair (which that professor said reminded him of a cocker spaniel's mane), sultry accent and replied, "Happiness, what is that?!". Ah the French.
In my own life I have to ask myself that a lot, because I'm not happy very often. I get angry, jealous, resentful- just frustrated with people in general. But I love them so much- hold such high standards- that if they let me down it stings. They usually do though. But I still love them- just from a great distance apart.
Happiness is only one emotion of the broad spectrum of feeling that passes through me every day. And I don't want to group emotions into black and white categories anyway. Happiness is a hard one. I take it when it comes.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The 'Straight Line Length' Test
This is a subject dear to me. I consider it knowledge that liberates me from my limited body, limited mind, and makes my life unique and well worth living. In short, what this blog is about is my 'robot revolt'. My love song to creation.
Community college video in psychology at the tender age of 19 gave me this gem of information. In this video, a group of students- about 14- sat around a rectangular desk. All students but one knew that this was a test. And the 14 or so students changed after every test until a dozen or so of the same example was done. Here was the test:
Two penciled lines were drawn by the instructor. One line was obviously longer then the other- by inches. The paper with these two uneven lines was then passed around, and each student said openly (to the 13 or so other students) which line was longer. Since all but one student in the experiment where in on the experiment, each student would openly say that the shorter line was the longest. In every single test the same bizarre result occurred: the test subject not in the know would agree (when their turn came up) that the shorter line was the longest. They were asked twice, just like the students who knew the correct answer, and every single subject agreed that the shorter line was the longer line.
This was not an optical illusion experiment. The line was clearly shorter- by inches- yet the test subject never disagreed with every other person who said otherwise. Why?
Perhaps they were afraid to differ. Perhaps they did not want to argue. Perhaps their brains actually saw the line to be longer by some trick of imagination; when the mass group agreed, not a single person disagreed.
I call it the critical thinking test. Fear is probably what made the subjects say otherwise. Or they wanted to be agreeable. Maybe if they disagreed they would have to face that there was something wrong with them (in their mind). For whatever reason, no one wanted to go against the group and say that the line was inches shorter then the other. No one wanted to (or could) give the correct answer.
I love independent thought. Original thought. The human brain is an ocean of ideas, generated by electricity. I like to think of my creativity like a perpetual thunderstorm; I barely have control of the flow; but like a storm I can freeze moments of these ideas in photographs. Write it down, like a fisherman catching a fish in a great flowing river. Ideas plucked from ever changing forms of energy- thought, movement, image.
Stay true to yourself no matter how much they object. If you see the line is shorter, even if they are hostile and shout you are wrong, you know the answer. You're thoughts are what keep you unique. Be true to yourself. Because 'what is in vogue' is just a table of test subjects, told to say the opposite of truth.
Community college video in psychology at the tender age of 19 gave me this gem of information. In this video, a group of students- about 14- sat around a rectangular desk. All students but one knew that this was a test. And the 14 or so students changed after every test until a dozen or so of the same example was done. Here was the test:
Two penciled lines were drawn by the instructor. One line was obviously longer then the other- by inches. The paper with these two uneven lines was then passed around, and each student said openly (to the 13 or so other students) which line was longer. Since all but one student in the experiment where in on the experiment, each student would openly say that the shorter line was the longest. In every single test the same bizarre result occurred: the test subject not in the know would agree (when their turn came up) that the shorter line was the longest. They were asked twice, just like the students who knew the correct answer, and every single subject agreed that the shorter line was the longer line.
This was not an optical illusion experiment. The line was clearly shorter- by inches- yet the test subject never disagreed with every other person who said otherwise. Why?
Perhaps they were afraid to differ. Perhaps they did not want to argue. Perhaps their brains actually saw the line to be longer by some trick of imagination; when the mass group agreed, not a single person disagreed.
I call it the critical thinking test. Fear is probably what made the subjects say otherwise. Or they wanted to be agreeable. Maybe if they disagreed they would have to face that there was something wrong with them (in their mind). For whatever reason, no one wanted to go against the group and say that the line was inches shorter then the other. No one wanted to (or could) give the correct answer.
I love independent thought. Original thought. The human brain is an ocean of ideas, generated by electricity. I like to think of my creativity like a perpetual thunderstorm; I barely have control of the flow; but like a storm I can freeze moments of these ideas in photographs. Write it down, like a fisherman catching a fish in a great flowing river. Ideas plucked from ever changing forms of energy- thought, movement, image.
Stay true to yourself no matter how much they object. If you see the line is shorter, even if they are hostile and shout you are wrong, you know the answer. You're thoughts are what keep you unique. Be true to yourself. Because 'what is in vogue' is just a table of test subjects, told to say the opposite of truth.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My Badger Coffee Cup Epiphany
A few years ago, when I used people for survival, I began a loveless but eye opening relationship with a man I met on Craig's List. He answered one of my hair brained schemes in ad form. They were all ridiculous, but intentionally laced with an air of adventure, or intrigue: the stuff that would attract a man with a life as ordinary as molasses.
His house was bare. No photographs, paintings, or posters. Just institutional white walls in a consistently dark apartment. The darkness came from blankets (not curtains) to blot out natural sunlight for the purpose of watching movies on an impressive home projector (turned his living room into a home theater, and our relationship was based on silence and downloaded movies.) Any light, even during the day, came from light bulbs. He was too lazy to take the blankets down, and saw no purpose when he would have to re-tack them to the windows for a nightly movie.
Once I asked him to put some life in the apartment, where I was basically living for the sake of 'a meal ticket' as my blunt friends said. He came home with almost identical posters- ads for a local beer- placed in rows a few feet apart. Typical clique of what a man in his later 20's should be interested in, plastered to the walls. He was probably proud of himself to not have gone the ultra clique route of, say, a Bob Marley poster in the town we lived in (Humboldt County.)
We had nothing in common. But I liked two things about him: he listened to N.P.R. for a few minutes after work, and he drank coffee. Folgers coffee though.
Perhaps it was the caffeine coursing throw my blood that caused a mind expanding revaluation one morning at this man's home: all because of his coffee cup. Folgers coffee in a plain old, thrift store (which, to me, a thrift store can be on the other spectrum of awesome and quirky finds) coffee cup, with some type of animal (a badger I believe) as it's decoration. It was picked up mindlessly (believe me, this man had no affinity to badgers...he had no affinity to anything whatsoever) to serve the function of holding a coffee brand for those with no taste buds. And from there my head went spinning...
I've seen the other bad and opposite spectrum of trying to make every purchase cool for the sake of what seems cool. Did not like that either.
What happened to cultivating a personal style? Taste. Having critical reasoning and a lust for life. Passion! I don't drink Merlot, no matter how good people say the bottle will be. Mindless gifts (bath soaps) draw the same reaction from me. Thought needs to be put into life. Otherwise what is the purpose? With no ideas, dreams, lusts, and beautiful pursuits, there is only mechanical action and reaction. There is only a pulse.
I read an article on a famous Italian businessman, who said that, getting dressed in the morning is your first opportunity of the day to cultivate your own style. He has his favorite espresso brand, his own fashion sense; here is a man living on a higher plane then most people. And that is what this blog is about. Being conscious in every decision. It's all we have; and it's more then enough to make life explode everyday. Every morning you chose your outfit, your diction, what book to read, your politics. I may not like a certain persons style, but I respect the effort. Unlike the man who blocked out light; such a metaphor for his unconscious state.
One more aspect to discuss on the subject of lusts. There is nothing I hate more then being persecuted for having a personality; style; interests; love. It has happened to me many times. These drones do not understand, and their fear makes them dangerous. Or their jealously. I was thrown out of a town (with 100 or so illiterate residence) because of a strong personality. This was in the hills of Big Flat, off of the 299 highway. I consider it a compliment and a personal achievement to be physically removed from a town of hicks, all because of a collected intimidation. Or when I hear a crude nickname for myself. Hey, I am out there loving the air I breathe. Please don't loath my love for my short time on this Earth. I try my damnedest to soak up all light; all the magnetic energy around me. It comes out of the ground, the clouds, people: I feed off that warm light.
His house was bare. No photographs, paintings, or posters. Just institutional white walls in a consistently dark apartment. The darkness came from blankets (not curtains) to blot out natural sunlight for the purpose of watching movies on an impressive home projector (turned his living room into a home theater, and our relationship was based on silence and downloaded movies.) Any light, even during the day, came from light bulbs. He was too lazy to take the blankets down, and saw no purpose when he would have to re-tack them to the windows for a nightly movie.
Once I asked him to put some life in the apartment, where I was basically living for the sake of 'a meal ticket' as my blunt friends said. He came home with almost identical posters- ads for a local beer- placed in rows a few feet apart. Typical clique of what a man in his later 20's should be interested in, plastered to the walls. He was probably proud of himself to not have gone the ultra clique route of, say, a Bob Marley poster in the town we lived in (Humboldt County.)
We had nothing in common. But I liked two things about him: he listened to N.P.R. for a few minutes after work, and he drank coffee. Folgers coffee though.
Perhaps it was the caffeine coursing throw my blood that caused a mind expanding revaluation one morning at this man's home: all because of his coffee cup. Folgers coffee in a plain old, thrift store (which, to me, a thrift store can be on the other spectrum of awesome and quirky finds) coffee cup, with some type of animal (a badger I believe) as it's decoration. It was picked up mindlessly (believe me, this man had no affinity to badgers...he had no affinity to anything whatsoever) to serve the function of holding a coffee brand for those with no taste buds. And from there my head went spinning...
I've seen the other bad and opposite spectrum of trying to make every purchase cool for the sake of what seems cool. Did not like that either.
What happened to cultivating a personal style? Taste. Having critical reasoning and a lust for life. Passion! I don't drink Merlot, no matter how good people say the bottle will be. Mindless gifts (bath soaps) draw the same reaction from me. Thought needs to be put into life. Otherwise what is the purpose? With no ideas, dreams, lusts, and beautiful pursuits, there is only mechanical action and reaction. There is only a pulse.
I read an article on a famous Italian businessman, who said that, getting dressed in the morning is your first opportunity of the day to cultivate your own style. He has his favorite espresso brand, his own fashion sense; here is a man living on a higher plane then most people. And that is what this blog is about. Being conscious in every decision. It's all we have; and it's more then enough to make life explode everyday. Every morning you chose your outfit, your diction, what book to read, your politics. I may not like a certain persons style, but I respect the effort. Unlike the man who blocked out light; such a metaphor for his unconscious state.
One more aspect to discuss on the subject of lusts. There is nothing I hate more then being persecuted for having a personality; style; interests; love. It has happened to me many times. These drones do not understand, and their fear makes them dangerous. Or their jealously. I was thrown out of a town (with 100 or so illiterate residence) because of a strong personality. This was in the hills of Big Flat, off of the 299 highway. I consider it a compliment and a personal achievement to be physically removed from a town of hicks, all because of a collected intimidation. Or when I hear a crude nickname for myself. Hey, I am out there loving the air I breathe. Please don't loath my love for my short time on this Earth. I try my damnedest to soak up all light; all the magnetic energy around me. It comes out of the ground, the clouds, people: I feed off that warm light.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Why mullets are so funny
Just a quick thought, since my new computer is a tiny little Linx operated toy- until I adjust to it's tiny key pad, I am only going to have quick thoughts to jot down.
I love that show, "Flight of the Conchords" because it's brand of humor celebrates and creates, rather then makes fun of society and life. Plus it's not crude and desprate for laughter. Maybe it's the absence of the ever annoying 'laugh track'.
It is so easy to laugh at what is wrong. It takes a brilliant mind to laugh at what is right. I favor creation.
I love that show, "Flight of the Conchords" because it's brand of humor celebrates and creates, rather then makes fun of society and life. Plus it's not crude and desprate for laughter. Maybe it's the absence of the ever annoying 'laugh track'.
It is so easy to laugh at what is wrong. It takes a brilliant mind to laugh at what is right. I favor creation.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Paranoid Coming Attractions...
Two blogs in one day, and neither is fit to print. Articulation is coming in a few days.
My next blog is on Project MKULTRA.
MKULTRA is a CIA based project that was initially employed in the 1950 and 1960 to create Manchurian Candidates (as one example.) I fell upon this information while watching a segment on the History Channel on the death of Bobby Kennedy. There was a theory that the man who assassinated him, Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, may have been one of these test subjects.
Until I write more on this subject, check out the Wikipedia link below:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_MKULTRA
My next blog is on Project MKULTRA.
MKULTRA is a CIA based project that was initially employed in the 1950 and 1960 to create Manchurian Candidates (as one example.) I fell upon this information while watching a segment on the History Channel on the death of Bobby Kennedy. There was a theory that the man who assassinated him, Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, may have been one of these test subjects.
Until I write more on this subject, check out the Wikipedia link below:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_MKULTRA
More William Blake Mythology
I will go to battle to obtain some juicy knowledge. And battle it was to obtain the information in this blog. No need to thank me, but believe me, it was unpleasant. The professor who specialized in William Blake is getting old and cranky (or cranker then before, which was bad to begin with.)
One quick example of his mental state: He recently brought home a cat he named, "Squeak", because (as the professor insists) the cat, "was born without a voice box". When I met his new cat I had never heard such excited purring. The professor is going deaf! The cat has a purr box and uses it whenever possible.
Recently the professor was forced into retirement. On a lonely vacation in the mountains of Northern California, we roasted marshmallows at his lakeside cabin, he smoked weed, and I manically scribbled the following notes on Blake:
-Please note that there are probably many spelling mistakes. Also the accuracy of some minor facts may be in question. I did my best to stay true to this informal lecture.
There are four Zoas that make up God:
1.)Urizen
2.)Tharmas
3.) Luvah/Orc
4.)Urthona/Los.
Excuse the blue color please!
These Four Zoas correlate to the body as follows:
1.) head
2.)heart
3.) lions
4.) imagination (paramount to William Blake's Mythology)
Each Zoas creates a conflict in us.
Refer to the previous blog on Blake to compliment this one.
After God created another in his image but female, he was so overwhelmed by her beauty that he fell to his knees and shattered into a billion little fragments that fell to earth. The 'Big Bang' in human history is the process of the zoas aligning in peace with one another.
Unlike Christianity, Blake's explanation is that God's life began After the fall. After this shattering and falling to Earth. Christians believe the opposite, that creation began before this big bang and the start of Adam and Eve. Blake believed it started after God and his female creation shattered and fell to Earth. We are all shattered fragments of God trying to align our 'zoas' and be at peace.
A few facts about life 'after the fall'
1.) When God shattered and fell, his genitals overpowered his mind.
2.) The fall equals creation.
3.) The ONE-NESS you had in you before the fall can be repaired with one's imagination. Imagination is the most important of the zoas. Unity and the Power to create fit into this zoa.
------------------------------------
You can really tell that the information was hard to organize. In my notes I have something about, 'specters' 'Jerusalem being some metaphor for unity and reason overthrowing lust. So this blog is just a rough draft. I'll print it out and have the professor add more. Hopefully his mood will have improved enough for me to not want a bottle of Valium just to be in his presence.
-------------------------------------
More notes (very rough draft notes):
Jerusalem is a woman and a city. She stirs in her sleep from the nightmare about "The Fall". The Earth is magnetised with Eros- sexual energy surrounds all of us.
When God spoke, his WORD created human history (English majors, eat it up!). His words created the world.
-------------------------------------
After the fall human love contained sexuality. We get love back by our imagination. Love kills sexuality, and makes us innocent again.
One quick example of his mental state: He recently brought home a cat he named, "Squeak", because (as the professor insists) the cat, "was born without a voice box". When I met his new cat I had never heard such excited purring. The professor is going deaf! The cat has a purr box and uses it whenever possible.
Recently the professor was forced into retirement. On a lonely vacation in the mountains of Northern California, we roasted marshmallows at his lakeside cabin, he smoked weed, and I manically scribbled the following notes on Blake:
-Please note that there are probably many spelling mistakes. Also the accuracy of some minor facts may be in question. I did my best to stay true to this informal lecture.
There are four Zoas that make up God:
1.)Urizen
2.)Tharmas
3.) Luvah/Orc
4.)Urthona/Los.
Excuse the blue color please!
These Four Zoas correlate to the body as follows:
1.) head
2.)heart
3.) lions
4.) imagination (paramount to William Blake's Mythology)
Each Zoas creates a conflict in us.
Refer to the previous blog on Blake to compliment this one.
After God created another in his image but female, he was so overwhelmed by her beauty that he fell to his knees and shattered into a billion little fragments that fell to earth. The 'Big Bang' in human history is the process of the zoas aligning in peace with one another.
Unlike Christianity, Blake's explanation is that God's life began After the fall. After this shattering and falling to Earth. Christians believe the opposite, that creation began before this big bang and the start of Adam and Eve. Blake believed it started after God and his female creation shattered and fell to Earth. We are all shattered fragments of God trying to align our 'zoas' and be at peace.
A few facts about life 'after the fall'
1.) When God shattered and fell, his genitals overpowered his mind.
2.) The fall equals creation.
3.) The ONE-NESS you had in you before the fall can be repaired with one's imagination. Imagination is the most important of the zoas. Unity and the Power to create fit into this zoa.
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You can really tell that the information was hard to organize. In my notes I have something about, 'specters' 'Jerusalem being some metaphor for unity and reason overthrowing lust. So this blog is just a rough draft. I'll print it out and have the professor add more. Hopefully his mood will have improved enough for me to not want a bottle of Valium just to be in his presence.
-------------------------------------
More notes (very rough draft notes):
Jerusalem is a woman and a city. She stirs in her sleep from the nightmare about "The Fall". The Earth is magnetised with Eros- sexual energy surrounds all of us.
When God spoke, his WORD created human history (English majors, eat it up!). His words created the world.
-------------------------------------
After the fall human love contained sexuality. We get love back by our imagination. Love kills sexuality, and makes us innocent again.
Friday, July 17, 2009
American Slavery with a New Face
Before I get into this blog, I have to get something off my chest. For a while there was a gap in contributing to this site, for a few reasons. One is that there are way too many Internet personalities exploiting themselves for reasons amounting to nothing more then vanity and self indulgence. I don't need to feed my ego in some passive aggressive way, and hiding behind a computer screen serves that type of coward (and/or narcissist) well.
I am trying to do some good; spread some knowledge that I would like to know myself. And this blog is an example of just that: revealing civil rights issues (as one example) so that people can learn, then act.
I took an American History class recently at the college level. My high school history classes were a waste of time. The unstable racial environment from my near inner city high school made it difficult to talk about issues of inequality. The mention of such a powerful topic could ignite the class in fighting. In college, they don't shield you from reality.
The idea of owning people for free labor never ended. That's a fact. It morphed into a different form, in a new free labor system with a euphemistic name: Prison. And with racial profiling and institutional racism (ex: crack cocaine carries a longer jail sentence then cocaine) sadly one can still say that racism is barely dying in our modern society. But this blog's focus is not racism; it's focus is on free labor. Forcing another human being to work against his will.
The abolition of slavery result was very similar to the days when it was legal. In the absence of a function people come to depend on, new methods of achieving the same result will surface. In this case, slavery's end created a surge in prison populations. Directly following this surge, giant corporations made deals with these prisons facilities for free labor. Prison is little more then systematic corporate slavery. It's a business in itself.
If you want to find out more on corporate involvement in the American prison system, ask a professor of history (or sociology). Our history lesson skimmed this issue, and everything in the lecture I put in this blog. Since I don't want to embellish or state incorrect information, this is all I know on the subject. I know that corporations pay a fee to the prison systems for free (or extremely low cost) labor. I know that after slavery was abolished the rate of crime skyrocketed to meet the quota of labor. Criminals are the new slave. And in our modern society it's more then barbaric. It's pure greed. Our 'capitalist' country is capitalising on the mistakes of the poor to increase their wallet size.
America's prison system is corrupt. Now that we know this problem exists, lets think of ways to abolish this new slavery. Money should never be generated in sweat, from the back breaking work of less fortunate people.
I am trying to do some good; spread some knowledge that I would like to know myself. And this blog is an example of just that: revealing civil rights issues (as one example) so that people can learn, then act.
I took an American History class recently at the college level. My high school history classes were a waste of time. The unstable racial environment from my near inner city high school made it difficult to talk about issues of inequality. The mention of such a powerful topic could ignite the class in fighting. In college, they don't shield you from reality.
The idea of owning people for free labor never ended. That's a fact. It morphed into a different form, in a new free labor system with a euphemistic name: Prison. And with racial profiling and institutional racism (ex: crack cocaine carries a longer jail sentence then cocaine) sadly one can still say that racism is barely dying in our modern society. But this blog's focus is not racism; it's focus is on free labor. Forcing another human being to work against his will.
The abolition of slavery result was very similar to the days when it was legal. In the absence of a function people come to depend on, new methods of achieving the same result will surface. In this case, slavery's end created a surge in prison populations. Directly following this surge, giant corporations made deals with these prisons facilities for free labor. Prison is little more then systematic corporate slavery. It's a business in itself.
If you want to find out more on corporate involvement in the American prison system, ask a professor of history (or sociology). Our history lesson skimmed this issue, and everything in the lecture I put in this blog. Since I don't want to embellish or state incorrect information, this is all I know on the subject. I know that corporations pay a fee to the prison systems for free (or extremely low cost) labor. I know that after slavery was abolished the rate of crime skyrocketed to meet the quota of labor. Criminals are the new slave. And in our modern society it's more then barbaric. It's pure greed. Our 'capitalist' country is capitalising on the mistakes of the poor to increase their wallet size.
America's prison system is corrupt. Now that we know this problem exists, lets think of ways to abolish this new slavery. Money should never be generated in sweat, from the back breaking work of less fortunate people.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Shine Her Ever-Loving Light on Me
Today I stopped by a bookstore on the Plaza (in Arcata.) This bookstore is always empty, with the same old man sitting behind the counter. I can always count on emptiness and his face when I walk by his store through years of living in Arcata. I wanted to give him business, so I asked for a copy of "Hells Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson. Did not have it in stock. Since shopping local makes me feel like I've done my small part, I asked to order a copy and pay in advance, giving him much needed business. An interesting conversations started while he ran my ATM card.
When I asked if he had liked Thompson, he said that I should be reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." He began to speak of the authors of the time period, and the name Ken Kesey came up. I know his life from reading, "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" by Tom Wolfe (the only book I've read by Wolfe, which I highly recommend). I told the book store owner that I am always sceptical when an entire generation of drug addict/young college kids rave about certain writers. Yet I read, "One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest" by Kesey and it was awesome. In that book, Kesey taught me that prescription cough medicine with codeine and a little alcohol as a chaser is a wonderful high. Thank you Ken Kesey for that great advice.
From there we talked about Kesey's other book I have yet to read. My next read: "Sometimes a Great Notion." And the conversation turned to the blues singer who wrote the song the titchler line of that novel refers to. Leadbelly's song, "Goodnight Irene".
The store owner sung the lyrics to me:
Last Saturday night, I got married,
me and my wife settled down
Now me and my wife are parted,
I'm gonna take another stroll downtown
Sometimes I live in the country,
sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I take a great notion,
to jump into the river and drown
I love Irene, God knows I do,
I'll love her till the seas run dry
But if Irene should turn me down,
I'd take the morphine and die
Stop rambling, stop your gambling,
stop staying out late at night
Go home to your wife and your family,
stay there by your fireside bright -Leadbelly
The conversation turned to the life of a man (Leadbelly) who sang so well that the warden of the jail pardoned and released him from his murder conviction, according to the bookstore owner.
Here is what I know about Leadbelly. Kurt Cobain covered his song, "Where did you sleep last night" on his acoustic album. Bob Dylan covered Leadbelly's, "The House of the Rising Sun." And everyone knows the song "Midnight Special."
The origins of the song 'Midnight Special' are not so happy; though many a drunken night at a bar has this song been sung in unison, happy and carefree.
Leadbelly was a murderer. He killed a family member. The 'Midnight Special' he refers to is the name of a train he can hear while confined to his cage, in prison and in torment over the crime he committed. His time is owned by wardens and prison guards; he was not free in any sense. The line, "shine a light on me" represents his heart, soul, struggle and prayer for salvation. It's a gorgeous metaphor. Freedom from his prison cell. Freedom from his mind. Leadbelly's anguish is absent in the cover song that Credence Clear Water Revival raped, packaged and sterilized for you to walk down the grocery aisle singing along to while contemplating cheese-its or donuts with dinner. The Midnight Special train and it's origins go as deep as the imprisonment of the singer in all his pain and darkness. Leadbelly was the real deal. He is one of the greatest song writers/musicians I have ever heard. I salute the light in him, even if he knew darkness like a mistress, he sang from his cage like a bird.
When I asked if he had liked Thompson, he said that I should be reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." He began to speak of the authors of the time period, and the name Ken Kesey came up. I know his life from reading, "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" by Tom Wolfe (the only book I've read by Wolfe, which I highly recommend). I told the book store owner that I am always sceptical when an entire generation of drug addict/young college kids rave about certain writers. Yet I read, "One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest" by Kesey and it was awesome. In that book, Kesey taught me that prescription cough medicine with codeine and a little alcohol as a chaser is a wonderful high. Thank you Ken Kesey for that great advice.
From there we talked about Kesey's other book I have yet to read. My next read: "Sometimes a Great Notion." And the conversation turned to the blues singer who wrote the song the titchler line of that novel refers to. Leadbelly's song, "Goodnight Irene".
The store owner sung the lyrics to me:
Last Saturday night, I got married,
me and my wife settled down
Now me and my wife are parted,
I'm gonna take another stroll downtown
Sometimes I live in the country,
sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I take a great notion,
to jump into the river and drown
I love Irene, God knows I do,
I'll love her till the seas run dry
But if Irene should turn me down,
I'd take the morphine and die
Stop rambling, stop your gambling,
stop staying out late at night
Go home to your wife and your family,
stay there by your fireside bright -Leadbelly
The conversation turned to the life of a man (Leadbelly) who sang so well that the warden of the jail pardoned and released him from his murder conviction, according to the bookstore owner.
Here is what I know about Leadbelly. Kurt Cobain covered his song, "Where did you sleep last night" on his acoustic album. Bob Dylan covered Leadbelly's, "The House of the Rising Sun." And everyone knows the song "Midnight Special."
The origins of the song 'Midnight Special' are not so happy; though many a drunken night at a bar has this song been sung in unison, happy and carefree.
Leadbelly was a murderer. He killed a family member. The 'Midnight Special' he refers to is the name of a train he can hear while confined to his cage, in prison and in torment over the crime he committed. His time is owned by wardens and prison guards; he was not free in any sense. The line, "shine a light on me" represents his heart, soul, struggle and prayer for salvation. It's a gorgeous metaphor. Freedom from his prison cell. Freedom from his mind. Leadbelly's anguish is absent in the cover song that Credence Clear Water Revival raped, packaged and sterilized for you to walk down the grocery aisle singing along to while contemplating cheese-its or donuts with dinner. The Midnight Special train and it's origins go as deep as the imprisonment of the singer in all his pain and darkness. Leadbelly was the real deal. He is one of the greatest song writers/musicians I have ever heard. I salute the light in him, even if he knew darkness like a mistress, he sang from his cage like a bird.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Air that I breathe
There is a scene in Doctor Zhivago where a thoughtless soldier kills a young boy in battle. Doctor Zhivago looks at the beautiful, dead youth, turns to the murdering soldier and asks, "Haven't you ever been in love before?" The soldier replies, "Well, I have three children and a wife."
The point is, of course, that the murdering soldier Doctor Zhivago addresses knows nothing about the lusts of life; he is unconsciously living; a wife and children are incidental; secondary to a life of following protocol down to government sanctioned paradigms of Russian war; and duties to men in power he serves without knowing, or WHY he does any action. What this solider knows of love is superficial at best.
This scene is so powerful because of the two world views of the opposing men and the horror committed by one. The answer follows, "Have you ever been in love?" to show the ultimate thievery involved in murder of a political sort. To take a man's life is taking away any chance they have of love. Contrast the love in Doctor Zhivago's world to this non thinking military servant with a weapon. He robbed that youth of love. There is nothing greater to live for in this world.
Doctor Zhivago many not be faithful to his wife, but in a time of war he finds lovers in overcrowded trains, makes poetry from desolate landscapes, and celebrates each passing day. In the frozen world of political collapse and in the confusion of a senseless war (an oxymoron) Dr. Zhivago finds his own happiness. His cup overflows with love against the most desolate backdrop he blossoms. There is nothing greater to live for then love. The heart was meant to beat for others. Zhivago means life.
The point is, of course, that the murdering soldier Doctor Zhivago addresses knows nothing about the lusts of life; he is unconsciously living; a wife and children are incidental; secondary to a life of following protocol down to government sanctioned paradigms of Russian war; and duties to men in power he serves without knowing, or WHY he does any action. What this solider knows of love is superficial at best.
This scene is so powerful because of the two world views of the opposing men and the horror committed by one. The answer follows, "Have you ever been in love?" to show the ultimate thievery involved in murder of a political sort. To take a man's life is taking away any chance they have of love. Contrast the love in Doctor Zhivago's world to this non thinking military servant with a weapon. He robbed that youth of love. There is nothing greater to live for in this world.
Doctor Zhivago many not be faithful to his wife, but in a time of war he finds lovers in overcrowded trains, makes poetry from desolate landscapes, and celebrates each passing day. In the frozen world of political collapse and in the confusion of a senseless war (an oxymoron) Dr. Zhivago finds his own happiness. His cup overflows with love against the most desolate backdrop he blossoms. There is nothing greater to live for then love. The heart was meant to beat for others. Zhivago means life.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
My Buddy and me Tour America
Of all my siblings the only one who I relate to in every way was my dear brother Ambrose. One of our favorite things to do was take a CD, get in his car, and drive. Amby loved to travel. There was something about motion that made us feel so alive. In motion we had no responsibilities and we could analyze life without letting it touch us.
When I was sixteen and he was twelve we drove to California. In my grand mother's home there is a picture of all of us, me holding Katlor, with the mountains of Wyoming behind us. That was our first major adventure together. I remember taking a long nap on that trip, during the two day boredom of cornfield backdrops, and waking up in the middle of the mountains of Wyoming. In all my life I can never believe that I could think or talk or catch my breath at the initial sight of that beauty.
How do people swallow those scenes and resume their lives? Make war or protest it? Fall in love or mend their hearts? It's humbling to be so small amid the force of nature.
Music is the language of the heart, and music was Amby's therapy. I still have a mixed CD that he left for me, with an eclectic mix of rap, classical, and surreal songs. I've worn it out, way before Amby said good-bye. We would listen to those songs and drink coffee and drive. We drove from San Francisco to Arcata. From Redding to Eueka, all the time talking about life. Laughing and complaining and sharing our secrets. One trip the topic turned to drugs. Ambrose was in a stage in his life where he was completely against them, because, as he said, they made him see the worst parts of life. And for him they did.
The only good thing about his military job was that, in his words, it allowed him to have his car. During weekends he would (illegally) leave his military base and pick me up, and together we would talk and talk, about everything. We covered everything on those trips.
The day came when he was in a bad accident that ruined his car and without his escape pod he lost his freedom. Being idle and dealing with a full time job is not in our DNA. Being tied down with the world's responsibilities makes our family go crazy. We were so innocent in the motion of travel.
I dearly miss Ambrose, this being the last month of the last year I had my friend in my life. But instead of being sad I am so internally grateful: so very grateful and blessed that I have those memories to carry me through the rest of my life. I miss my friend, but he did exist for 24 years and I am so very blessed to have known him. Instead of grief I have the joy of those memories of us: happy, together, and crystallized in eternal youth. It was awesome to know him. The world will never know another like him.
When I was sixteen and he was twelve we drove to California. In my grand mother's home there is a picture of all of us, me holding Katlor, with the mountains of Wyoming behind us. That was our first major adventure together. I remember taking a long nap on that trip, during the two day boredom of cornfield backdrops, and waking up in the middle of the mountains of Wyoming. In all my life I can never believe that I could think or talk or catch my breath at the initial sight of that beauty.
How do people swallow those scenes and resume their lives? Make war or protest it? Fall in love or mend their hearts? It's humbling to be so small amid the force of nature.
Music is the language of the heart, and music was Amby's therapy. I still have a mixed CD that he left for me, with an eclectic mix of rap, classical, and surreal songs. I've worn it out, way before Amby said good-bye. We would listen to those songs and drink coffee and drive. We drove from San Francisco to Arcata. From Redding to Eueka, all the time talking about life. Laughing and complaining and sharing our secrets. One trip the topic turned to drugs. Ambrose was in a stage in his life where he was completely against them, because, as he said, they made him see the worst parts of life. And for him they did.
The only good thing about his military job was that, in his words, it allowed him to have his car. During weekends he would (illegally) leave his military base and pick me up, and together we would talk and talk, about everything. We covered everything on those trips.
The day came when he was in a bad accident that ruined his car and without his escape pod he lost his freedom. Being idle and dealing with a full time job is not in our DNA. Being tied down with the world's responsibilities makes our family go crazy. We were so innocent in the motion of travel.
I dearly miss Ambrose, this being the last month of the last year I had my friend in my life. But instead of being sad I am so internally grateful: so very grateful and blessed that I have those memories to carry me through the rest of my life. I miss my friend, but he did exist for 24 years and I am so very blessed to have known him. Instead of grief I have the joy of those memories of us: happy, together, and crystallized in eternal youth. It was awesome to know him. The world will never know another like him.
Friday, January 9, 2009
On Having Children
I created this blog with the intention to write down all my thoughts. The idea was to find some sort of connection with others by writing down how I saw life. It failed because my confidence wavered with the thought that writing stuff down to be viewed would make it less authentic because I'm supposed to be speaking to an audience. When in reality all I wanted was to record my life, and maybe find some connection. I mostly retreat to writing things down privately, because I know you only have yourself to grow from. Having said that, this is a subject that my female biology is screaming about lately, and I've come to some conclusions. I'll preface everything I write by saying I'm 30, and no matter how conscious I am about morality, I am still in a 30 year old woman's body. About a week ago I came to the conclusion that it's absolutely immoral to play a role in creating another life. By creating a life you are assuring death in that person. I want to wash my hands clean of hurting any life form in my life, and if I adopted children then the premise of creating life being immoral is destroyed. I would be nurturing life instead. It really is very selfish and egocentric to want children that look like you and not consider how difficult the world will be for them. It's a bitch. I can guide any beating heart into light and color and show them the greatest books and walks in nature and cool comics ; sooner or later that child will have their heart broken about the world. But to counterpoint, why do I have to be the only person in the world to lead a moral life despite my dreams? It's unfair.
The problem with most people and their dreams is that they are so desperate in their struggles to have what they do not, they never ask why they want that. Or what repercussions will be faced in achieving your goals. They are so consumed with the struggle that they don't have the luxury of thoroughly analyzing their options. Like having a family and a spouse. That's an elusive quest for some and they long for companionship so much that they don't see what it means in the broad scheme of things. The struggle itself is all they see.
I barely notice that throughout the day most of what I do is geared towards raising a family. Our home is always clean. I work in our green house. Try to keep moral going. I jog a mile every other day to stay fit. Something is missing in my life, and my biology says it's a child. Say I chose not to raise a family? What would I do in a day? I read books and books. I run. I already sorted out the life death thing: now I'm living to my fullest and trying to make the most out of life. I'm a positive nihilist (but my thoughts wear me out sometimes, and I always find myself alone in my thinking.) So I have this blank canvas to do whatever I want to be happy. I'm so analytical that I find myself deconstructing dance movements instead of dancing myself. Anyway I can't say I'm not happy. But I do feel like something is missing. When I got healthy by working for it I thought that when I came through that tunnel something would happen. I half expected some life changing event that everyone else was privy to but me would suddenly come my way. There is no secret formula (except maybe not to drink alcohol and to work for your happiness.) Having children is a subject I have a little time in tossing around then it's gone forever. In ten years I can't have children. Adoption, yes. Biological children are only a possibility in my 30's. Until I decide I'll keep doing what I do to remain happy. Charlotte Sometimes...
The problem with most people and their dreams is that they are so desperate in their struggles to have what they do not, they never ask why they want that. Or what repercussions will be faced in achieving your goals. They are so consumed with the struggle that they don't have the luxury of thoroughly analyzing their options. Like having a family and a spouse. That's an elusive quest for some and they long for companionship so much that they don't see what it means in the broad scheme of things. The struggle itself is all they see.
I barely notice that throughout the day most of what I do is geared towards raising a family. Our home is always clean. I work in our green house. Try to keep moral going. I jog a mile every other day to stay fit. Something is missing in my life, and my biology says it's a child. Say I chose not to raise a family? What would I do in a day? I read books and books. I run. I already sorted out the life death thing: now I'm living to my fullest and trying to make the most out of life. I'm a positive nihilist (but my thoughts wear me out sometimes, and I always find myself alone in my thinking.) So I have this blank canvas to do whatever I want to be happy. I'm so analytical that I find myself deconstructing dance movements instead of dancing myself. Anyway I can't say I'm not happy. But I do feel like something is missing. When I got healthy by working for it I thought that when I came through that tunnel something would happen. I half expected some life changing event that everyone else was privy to but me would suddenly come my way. There is no secret formula (except maybe not to drink alcohol and to work for your happiness.) Having children is a subject I have a little time in tossing around then it's gone forever. In ten years I can't have children. Adoption, yes. Biological children are only a possibility in my 30's. Until I decide I'll keep doing what I do to remain happy. Charlotte Sometimes...
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