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spent the morning hours before and after a brief sweaty fit of dreamless sleep poring over bukowski, going back and rereading the story i wrote last night while heavily under the influence of 'a bad trip' and some ambien, felt it not too shabby but perhaps even more terse and clipped than necessary, wondered if i really did hate hemingway after all
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i am angry because i was born into a country that works to its own end, often spouting stage blood from its heart about the people on whom it has already trampled, and victimizes them even more to perpetuate the fluidity of its first world wealth. i am frustrated because we can be voluntarily blind to the problems of the rest of the world, and still feel better than the suffering in our own borders because of the commonly held societal belief that if you work for something, you always get it. when an entire country is poor, they still have their pride. when only a sliver of a great money machine is poor, they have to hide their faces.
i am angry because i feel like i have no place in this misery machine, i'm just stuck in the gears getting churned, not hard enough to be the wrench that stops it. i fear the prospect of a land without government, i fear the prospect of this country balkanized into the real "state" of florida, the republic of california, and such-on. i fear the beaurocracy that eventually damns everything. i hate this system, but i know that if i were on many different patches of earth right now, and decided to damn the man, the man would damn me back in kind. so at least i have the quiet right to be angry. it is sad that i use that to console myself.
furthermore, to illustrate my point, i am mad that my modest mouse cd is skipping. but i have the luxury to be angry at such a pitiful thing. i can be irritated when my computer is too slow, i can shake my fist when threats are made about incarceration for file-sharing, and mutter under my breath when gas prices rise. i see people every day who complain because their hair is too frizzy, so they buy hundred-dollar salon irons to straighten their unruly locks. they swap out designer shirts to make themselves look better. middle-class kids shop at goodwill because it's trendy.
to give up everything means to give up everything, and you have a better understanding of loss and lack of the material than i do. i guess i'm still coming of age in the sense of "this is not what is important." and most of us are slow learners.
fucking hell, i'm not even replying anymore, i'm just ranting. but i guess i was trying to show that i'm vaguely near your page, but i can't read your language. when you're never planted, you never get to grow that sense of loyalty to....anything, really. in me over time has only been instilled a festering loathing for injustice. but if we find revolution one day, i guess i'll ride the wave. because maybe the old men just need to lie down and die.
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onto non-ulcer-causing matters: you did it! holy fucking poo, you did it. you crazy kids! or crazy responsible young adults, i don't even know anymore. you're still nuts. but despite our respective snits of months past, i'm very happy for you and mommy alan, and i wish you all of the best. tell hubby the old gang of losers still tip back 40's to his name.
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TOLD YOU SO.
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