the most difficult thing: throwing down the gauntlet before one's own self.
You do not compete with Donald Trump or George Clooney. You compete with you, and your image of yourself. What are you, then? What then do you want to be?
A challenge is afoot, it would seem, if you answer the questions in the assigned order.
Five years ago, I was on self-imposed exile, much like a prisoner, feeling like a prisoner of the world, pidgeon-holed, not realizing my own freedom, but feeling the burden of the outside world. But since, I have come to generate my own gravitational field within my personality, thanks in part to a prescribed drug cocktail, and also the healing effects of time.
I have built my personality. I have discovered new skills and interests. In 2013, I read 342 books. I have written books. I have written screenplays. There are yet other provinces to conquer, tho-yet more skills to develop and nourish like the youngling blossom.
My question: are we accomplishing something, or are we just jacking-around here? Lol.
Making asses of you and me: assassinations.
Old Yeller was Goldwater-approved propaganda about JFK. "We loved him, but we had to put one in his CPU."
Or to paraphrase: "Kill the head and the body will die." Or more apt yet: "The only way to kill a snake is to chop off its head."
Lions, and tigers, and bears. Oh my.
Distasteful, I call it and I prefer yet Civil Disobedience rather than looting and pillaging commercial properties. But this is a capitalist society, so I suppose legislative rage and angry citizens could focus on innocent storefronts.
Assassination is distasteful. Unpaletteable. Luckily we have frequent elections, though it means we have about a fifty percent chance each time of being disappointed with the results.
Civil Disobedience is the province of principled people.
It ain't all Shakespeare
It really ain't.
Half-truths and poor grammar are the sauce of expression, that the lower classes(like myself) have learned to express themselves in more complicated utterances than grunts.
List, list, list!
I poured a dream into the ear of a dying man. His blood pooled where he lay. When they raised him up from his deathplace, he was frozen stiff, but not in rigor mortis, but stern rigid obstinance.
My heart burns there, too. But would I say? For to say aloud is to tempt the forces of the natural, to put your own wants into the ether, where they will be acted upon immediately, but the question, does that hasten destruction? Does that alter the beauty of that distant star?
Have I lost my mind entirely?
It is 2016 and there is time for being esoteric.
the truth was what you wanted? really?
For years, and under some strain of an unspecified type, my friend said things about 9/11.
And what could I say in response?
Did he want the truth? Or did he want something to believe? I prefer the latter. But I could have said things. I didn't. I mean, why?
"My own open nudity gives me wood." It's glorious and infantile, to stand naked, raise your arms in the air in PURE GLEE!!!!
See how I changed the subject? Did he ever get the truth? No. He gave up. Oddly enough, he stopped talking about it when I felt like telling what I knew about it(which isn't much, anyhow). But really.
He thought George Bush did it. He had no evidence. Just a mistrust of the government. Couldn't believe that big heavy building found the shortest path down, gravity-wise.
The shortest path down. Thought the big heavy building should have some kind of nudge to the side which would make it topple and then lay down, as if to sleep.
But people had questions. They seemed to just create their own answers, too.
I was once given a creepy cryptic 9/11 reference by a Wallsmark employee. I thought that guy needed to die for that. I copied it for a story I was writing, and applied it to a lawnmower instead of a man. I thought the reference was rather obvious.
But I'm crazy.
She walked side by side with Him, across the back of the property.
They came to a corner, having traversed in a blissful silence, the whole of the owned acreage.
"Phillip and I liked this place" she said, pointing out a corner with an indentation, like where a dog might be fond of laying.
Who is Phillip? He thought. Is she a free woman now?
She led him to the little indentation and they sat on the ground, as if they were young again, cross-legged and smiling.
"Little Sweet had a list of the most popular singers through the years" she said. "Like Etta James." She smiled of course as she spoke these words, but the smile took on a quizzical feel.
"At Last" he sang lightly. "My love has come around."
She wouldn't look at him, but at once she leaned over and kissed the tops of his resting hands.
And in dreamtime, it is not the heart that speaks, but the intellect, and though it is often blaring echoes of anxieties, sometimes a dream is something wholly different.