tomorrow comes today
almost a new year, predictions:
more bodies on the floor
more motionless bodies on the floor
more mass graves
less sensitivity
less positive action
more pandemics
more isolationism
less cohesion
less binding factors
more internal disputes
more poverty in new democracies
less empathy (Putin)
less regard for SO FUCKING RECENT MEMORY.
and, oh my lord, a REAL update:
This will be forced. I'm not meant for reality and admissions. 2005 wasn't the worst year of my life, based on that which I can recall. Much of what happened last century is hazy and hard to shape in hindsight. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten rid of all those journals and loose scraps of paper, maybe. When I type and try to be truthful about my life I feel two forces working in opposition as well as in tandem, for and against what I might be as a whole. Notice all the might's and maybe's, loves.
He said he believes in the "clean slate" means. He has to. Each of his failures looked disturbingly the same, blonde and confused. He hasn't wiped the image off, yet. His means and methods cannot be mine. I see that now. I am several strides in front, I am no longer behind. Life is filling in my cheeks, I have more energy and ACTUAL drive. It's astounding. (I almost ended that with an exclamation mark)
With jiu jitsu I am in better shape, oxygen flows with less breaks and altogether stops. I sleep, I wake, I can tell the difference between the two. My heart feels as if it is functioning almost correctly, my spleen doesn't swell as often. My toe might be broken, though. I don't have very much feeling in my feet, anyway. My spine still wants to form a question mark, I won't let the guys attempt their 'chiropractic' games on me, I trust them with beating me up, but my spine will be left alone. It sounds odd, being proud of vertebrae, but they have left my nerves alone. They seem reconciled.
I haven't been writing. I haven't had the time to read very much, public school is a vacuum. I'll free time, I promise. My instructor is inspired by three sources, the second I excuse because the first and third are so... there may not be a word... 1) Frank McCourt's three memoirs: Angela's Ashes, Tis', and Teacher Man (which I have not gotten my grubby, undeserving hands on yet), 2) Eddie Bravo's Twister (I hope I never understand), 3) Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning (which I need to reread, whilst forcing the Renaissance out of my abused head). This is significant because I now have a steady flow of some intelligent interaction to counteract Cinco, mostly not from him, but others there.
Perhaps it's better that I am not writing, and I am focusing on other beings ideas.
Not much more to say.
That's a lie.
Not much more I care to say.
more bodies on the floor
more motionless bodies on the floor
more mass graves
less sensitivity
less positive action
more pandemics
more isolationism
less cohesion
less binding factors
more internal disputes
more poverty in new democracies
less empathy (Putin)
less regard for SO FUCKING RECENT MEMORY.
and, oh my lord, a REAL update:
This will be forced. I'm not meant for reality and admissions. 2005 wasn't the worst year of my life, based on that which I can recall. Much of what happened last century is hazy and hard to shape in hindsight. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten rid of all those journals and loose scraps of paper, maybe. When I type and try to be truthful about my life I feel two forces working in opposition as well as in tandem, for and against what I might be as a whole. Notice all the might's and maybe's, loves.
He said he believes in the "clean slate" means. He has to. Each of his failures looked disturbingly the same, blonde and confused. He hasn't wiped the image off, yet. His means and methods cannot be mine. I see that now. I am several strides in front, I am no longer behind. Life is filling in my cheeks, I have more energy and ACTUAL drive. It's astounding. (I almost ended that with an exclamation mark)
With jiu jitsu I am in better shape, oxygen flows with less breaks and altogether stops. I sleep, I wake, I can tell the difference between the two. My heart feels as if it is functioning almost correctly, my spleen doesn't swell as often. My toe might be broken, though. I don't have very much feeling in my feet, anyway. My spine still wants to form a question mark, I won't let the guys attempt their 'chiropractic' games on me, I trust them with beating me up, but my spine will be left alone. It sounds odd, being proud of vertebrae, but they have left my nerves alone. They seem reconciled.
I haven't been writing. I haven't had the time to read very much, public school is a vacuum. I'll free time, I promise. My instructor is inspired by three sources, the second I excuse because the first and third are so... there may not be a word... 1) Frank McCourt's three memoirs: Angela's Ashes, Tis', and Teacher Man (which I have not gotten my grubby, undeserving hands on yet), 2) Eddie Bravo's Twister (I hope I never understand), 3) Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning (which I need to reread, whilst forcing the Renaissance out of my abused head). This is significant because I now have a steady flow of some intelligent interaction to counteract Cinco, mostly not from him, but others there.
Perhaps it's better that I am not writing, and I am focusing on other beings ideas.
Not much more to say.
That's a lie.
Not much more I care to say.