Not quite angels, not quite devils......
Observations 6.12.1
11 years ago
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Message In A Bottle
Dear Mike,
It's been over a month since I wrote you and still no response. I have anxiously awaited a word from you, in hopes that you have escaped the Black Death. I have lost hope, but in one last attempt I am writing this letter to you. If it should reach you sealed in this glass bottle that I will be tossing in the water, I feel it will be something short of a small miracle.
Mike, I hate us. The humans. Our idiotic greed and our unquenchable desire to have more, make more, do less, go faster, build higher, be stronger. Be stronger. Hmm....are we really now? We make stuff to do things for us so we can do less, tasks become less labor-intensive, take less time. We make stuff so we can have more time to do things we like to do rather than things we need to do. We make stuff that is more comfortable to support our big, fat lazy asses. We make stuff to slather on our ugly, dimply asses to smooth them. We make messes making this stuff. We have become lazy. We have lost the ability to think clearly. We are too brain-dead and lethargic from all the spare time created from said stuff to clean up our messes.
So, we build this bigass monstrosity that has the potential to produce a catastrophe. There should be a contingency plan in case of a disaster, but nah.....it's too complicated and too much trouble. Fuck it, who needs a contingency plan? And our government, shouldn't they be concerned about such a potential disaster? Shouldn't they want to make sure that there's a plan in place if the bigass monstrosity blows up and spews vile black goo into our water? Too many details, too many impractical details, too much trouble, too many words, too much typing. First response, "in-situ" burning plan, firebooms - sounded like a good idea years ago but NAH! Too much trouble, too much work, too many words, too much typing. So much better dusting the US Government comfy chairs with our big, fat political asses scratching my back while I scratch yours.
So, it blows. Spill, schmill - let's call Wile E. Coyote and see what he thinks we should do. Throw some golf balls at it, poke it with a giant straw, put a top hat on it and see if it changes it's mind. Where the hell is Little Jack Horner when you need him most? Maybe he works for BP and is prancing around in his Ferragamo loafers and Armani suit, proud as punch that his investment has not yet been destroyed. Occasionally pulling the fat stack of sweaty money from his pocket to hold it up to his nose, with a glimmer in his eye to take a long sniff. God forbid, should the regulators have bitten Mr. BP's hand and made him fix the quirks on the bigass monstrosity disaster-waiting-to-happen. God forbid we should implode the damn bigass monstrosity calamity, thereby shitting on Mr. BP's loafers to save the water, the shore, the wildlife, the citizens. God forbid we should try the option with the best odds. NAH! Let's try to hit a target the size of a dinner plate from two miles away, while Mr. BP reclines in his leather chair wiggling his toes as Stimey madly polishes his loafers.
Yeah, I'm pissed off. 40-something days later and the Black Death continues to spew. Things are dying left and right, people are getting sick, jobs lost, land and business owners suffering loss and the most beautiful water and shore in the US is being defiled.
Mike, I'm sorry. I'll miss you.
It's been over a month since I wrote you and still no response. I have anxiously awaited a word from you, in hopes that you have escaped the Black Death. I have lost hope, but in one last attempt I am writing this letter to you. If it should reach you sealed in this glass bottle that I will be tossing in the water, I feel it will be something short of a small miracle.
Mike, I hate us. The humans. Our idiotic greed and our unquenchable desire to have more, make more, do less, go faster, build higher, be stronger. Be stronger. Hmm....are we really now? We make stuff to do things for us so we can do less, tasks become less labor-intensive, take less time. We make stuff so we can have more time to do things we like to do rather than things we need to do. We make stuff that is more comfortable to support our big, fat lazy asses. We make stuff to slather on our ugly, dimply asses to smooth them. We make messes making this stuff. We have become lazy. We have lost the ability to think clearly. We are too brain-dead and lethargic from all the spare time created from said stuff to clean up our messes.
So, we build this bigass monstrosity that has the potential to produce a catastrophe. There should be a contingency plan in case of a disaster, but nah.....it's too complicated and too much trouble. Fuck it, who needs a contingency plan? And our government, shouldn't they be concerned about such a potential disaster? Shouldn't they want to make sure that there's a plan in place if the bigass monstrosity blows up and spews vile black goo into our water? Too many details, too many impractical details, too much trouble, too many words, too much typing. First response, "in-situ" burning plan, firebooms - sounded like a good idea years ago but NAH! Too much trouble, too much work, too many words, too much typing. So much better dusting the US Government comfy chairs with our big, fat political asses scratching my back while I scratch yours.
So, it blows. Spill, schmill - let's call Wile E. Coyote and see what he thinks we should do. Throw some golf balls at it, poke it with a giant straw, put a top hat on it and see if it changes it's mind. Where the hell is Little Jack Horner when you need him most? Maybe he works for BP and is prancing around in his Ferragamo loafers and Armani suit, proud as punch that his investment has not yet been destroyed. Occasionally pulling the fat stack of sweaty money from his pocket to hold it up to his nose, with a glimmer in his eye to take a long sniff. God forbid, should the regulators have bitten Mr. BP's hand and made him fix the quirks on the bigass monstrosity disaster-waiting-to-happen. God forbid we should implode the damn bigass monstrosity calamity, thereby shitting on Mr. BP's loafers to save the water, the shore, the wildlife, the citizens. God forbid we should try the option with the best odds. NAH! Let's try to hit a target the size of a dinner plate from two miles away, while Mr. BP reclines in his leather chair wiggling his toes as Stimey madly polishes his loafers.
Yeah, I'm pissed off. 40-something days later and the Black Death continues to spew. Things are dying left and right, people are getting sick, jobs lost, land and business owners suffering loss and the most beautiful water and shore in the US is being defiled.
Mike, I'm sorry. I'll miss you.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Love Language of the Yellow Butterfly and Lil Bee
I have a special friend who gifts me with music. The most recent was a three CD mix and as usual, she saved the best for last. With the top down, I rode home to this. It was so fantastic, I have to share.
melodia
Monday, May 24, 2010
Mental Note
"Some things in life you must do on your own," he said to a motherless, childless only child. I let my father speak his peace, responding with no more than a slight nod of my head.
I write these words tonight not for sympathy, not because I’m having an emo-moment, not to lash out or bitch, gripe or complain. I write to clear my head, mostly. To have the ability to read back at some future date. Sort of a way of checking up on myself, I guess. Call it a sanity check, if you will. And as alone as I might feel right now, I am not. The alone thing is a feeling I perpetually perceive to tackle. Real or imaginary.
I’ve been well-acquainted with the solitiary life since I was a kid. Countless hours spent in the creek at the base of the ravine behind my childhood home, fishing with a net for salamanders that would eventually end up whirling around the ceramic bowl to their final destination. Alone, carving "seats" in the dirt on the bank by the water, covering them in moss that I harvested from halfway up the hill. Two seats. The extra one being for whomever I could coax to join me, if only for a little while. Up the hill on the other side of the creek was another wonderland for a little kid with a big imagination. The second phase of my subdivision still under construction, full of materials. Give an 8-year old a hammer and nails, a stapler, some elastic and paint, add some building material scraps and there you have it. I could make just about anything I desired. Ok, so the 2x4 high heels were more than a little crude and less than sturdy, but this girl couldn't care less. I wore them anyway.
As time passed, the loneliness began to fade at some point and became solitude. Peaceful moments spent creating or just simply being alone with my mind, at ease in my skin. These moments have become vital for me to maintain my sanity. Places that that slow my spinning head. A special rock down by the river, a hammock hanging from the ceiling, a mountaintop spot on a rock wall, a quiet bench, getting lost in my art studio, a cozy firepit in a quiet backyard.
Chance, opportunity, gamble, risk. Persevere, insist, adapt, resolve. Confuse, experiment, fault, exhaust. I’ve done ‘em all. Alone. Not without fear, but without pause. Direction not constant, not always lucid. In ceaseless motion I remain.
Unaccompanied. Unaided. Single-handedly. On-your-own. Alone. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done.
Why does it feel so different now?
“I was lost then and I’m lost now
And I doubt I’ll ever know which way to go.”
-Broken Bells, “Vaporize”
I write these words tonight not for sympathy, not because I’m having an emo-moment, not to lash out or bitch, gripe or complain. I write to clear my head, mostly. To have the ability to read back at some future date. Sort of a way of checking up on myself, I guess. Call it a sanity check, if you will. And as alone as I might feel right now, I am not. The alone thing is a feeling I perpetually perceive to tackle. Real or imaginary.
I’ve been well-acquainted with the solitiary life since I was a kid. Countless hours spent in the creek at the base of the ravine behind my childhood home, fishing with a net for salamanders that would eventually end up whirling around the ceramic bowl to their final destination. Alone, carving "seats" in the dirt on the bank by the water, covering them in moss that I harvested from halfway up the hill. Two seats. The extra one being for whomever I could coax to join me, if only for a little while. Up the hill on the other side of the creek was another wonderland for a little kid with a big imagination. The second phase of my subdivision still under construction, full of materials. Give an 8-year old a hammer and nails, a stapler, some elastic and paint, add some building material scraps and there you have it. I could make just about anything I desired. Ok, so the 2x4 high heels were more than a little crude and less than sturdy, but this girl couldn't care less. I wore them anyway.
As time passed, the loneliness began to fade at some point and became solitude. Peaceful moments spent creating or just simply being alone with my mind, at ease in my skin. These moments have become vital for me to maintain my sanity. Places that that slow my spinning head. A special rock down by the river, a hammock hanging from the ceiling, a mountaintop spot on a rock wall, a quiet bench, getting lost in my art studio, a cozy firepit in a quiet backyard.
Chance, opportunity, gamble, risk. Persevere, insist, adapt, resolve. Confuse, experiment, fault, exhaust. I’ve done ‘em all. Alone. Not without fear, but without pause. Direction not constant, not always lucid. In ceaseless motion I remain.
Unaccompanied. Unaided. Single-handedly. On-your-own. Alone. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done.
Why does it feel so different now?
“I was lost then and I’m lost now
And I doubt I’ll ever know which way to go.”
-Broken Bells, “Vaporize”
Friday, May 14, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Mother's Day
I picked up my phone. New text message. "You have mail."
"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." - Albert Schweitzer
These were just a few of the words, all of them unexpected and each one of them treasured deep in my heart. I can honestly say that I disconnected myself from Mother's Day a long time ago. Trying my damndest to ignore that it exists, for many reasons.
Thank you, Pales. Honestly, I feel like I owe you thanks a thousand times over. It is not lightly that I say you are as much inspiration to me as you say I am to you. When something is broken, you bring the glue. When something is lost, you search. When something is missing, you fill in the blank. When the sink clogs....ok, I'll leave that part out.
It is a pleasure to watch you spread your wings and fly. I know you will reach the highest skies and when you need a little grounding, I'll be right here. <3
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