anyone ever thought of this thing as the cheapening of human interaction? or of publishing? or maybe of both?
think about it.
any nancy boy or lady with a dream can go and publish and entire novel up here and someone will read it. no editing, no revising, no anything they don't want to do. just writing. proper punctuation optional. spelling check-ups optional. pretty much any formal writing style optional.
you can write about how much you hate it when your dog eats all of your chocolate even though she should know better. and then write about how you single-handedly polished off an entire bag of chips alone. the party sized bag.
you could write about the failings of american policy as a function of our failures in eating.
you could even write about a plan to oppress all the evangelicals.
whatever you want to write about it fair game and lent a sense of legitimacy by this site and others.
geezer, ever though about if that's a good thing or not? does nutella really need to be defamed like you did that one time? does the fart need to be elevated to the station of art in a sane world?
are you tired of the questions yet?!? hahaha.
just think on it for a bit, all.
and now, that is all.

tonight i can't sleep. the world at large rushes through my head and won't go home to the various beds where it sleeps. even the blanket i've put up to insulate myself from everything has ceased to work now. laying here, staring at the ceiling and feeling like a cliche- these are the things that keep me awake. nothing ever moves you to write at the right times. you'll sing the best song of your life in the shower with no one to hear and nothing to write it down with. it's just you and the thousands of drops and the cobwebs. the knowledge of the moment is enough for you to yearn for it in your regular life. it's those little things that make life unbearable and survivable all at the same time.
laying there, staring at the ceiling i think of the salmon bisque from lunch. it was, in a word, lacklustre. campbell's tomato soup with a little sour creme, dressed up like a dish.
i think of how the seasons are changing around here. it's nothing sudden like my home; instead it's a slow bleeding of the greens. everything is turning yellow, brown and dead now. fall is my favorite season. the fog comes sometimes in the morning and wraps around you and whispers that you needn't go anywhere, they won't see you if you go, anyway. nothing exists outside of me and my little island in the mist. sound never travels far in a good fog. rain never bothers to interlope and everything sleeps. everything except me.
i don't know when i developed this habit of insomnia. somewhere between the mountains and the coast i left it in a dingy hotel room in boulder or a lonely prarie along the columbia river. i feel like it drifted away on the wind when i wasn't looking.
i remember now the stories my grandmother used to tell me about her childhood. she told me about having to save everything. more often she told me of how she watched her life blow away on the wind. i often picture her on the front stoop of an old white-washed house like the one you see in the movies just counting as every grain of her childhood slowly rolled away. i envision that when it came time to pack up very little remained that would show the rich life she had. it was time to leave. so i see them packing up a few day's food and water and all of their clothes and the bone-white crocheted curtains. i see them looking at their farm one last time and then leaving it for what they hoped was a better life.
more often i see them looking for where the wind came. not because they really had a choice but mroe because they needed to see what such a place looked like. you often see that people are drawn to the very thing they know will hurt them and leave them face down on the street. and so it was- they looked for the wind.
they wound up in chicago, feeling the wet breeze blowing off of a dank, indigo expanse. this would be home. in chicago there would be no dust to blow away; in chicago there would be no plantings or havestings or markets; in chicago there would be something new and hopeful; in chicago they would start over.
and so it was that the great port, the stacker of wheat born in their old soil, became home.

i'm not a crook!
hehehehe.
so i'm sitting here thinking about just how far g dubya's pants were down on our national crisis. and the fact that two white folks were described as having "found" bread and soda while a black teen was described as "looting" the same products. something to think about. we're seeing some serious second class treatment of our citizens here right now. soldiers taking bribes for people to get onto buses out of New Orleans and such. things that make the donation of resources from all the nations around the world seem worthless and petty. there are times when i'm sad to say i'm from the same country, much less species, as people who would exploit need for personal gain. you don't do that. ever. period.
past that i'm reading a few books, on a much lighter note. picked up the philosophical great Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason" and i've started Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" while i'm trying to finish Jonathan Safran Foer's "Everything is Illuminated." last one is very nice i've just had other things on my mind lately. but i'm making a push to finish soon.
what else...what else...one of my coworkers did what we've been waiting for since she started leaning on our pull-out bag-mates. you know the ones that you see in the grocery stores to make it easier to bag up all the items? yeah, we have those, too. she was basically sitting on it and the thing ripped out of the plywood into which it was screwed. so we all hear this loud crack, see andrea (said coworker) laying on the floor and the pull-out is bent over to one side. hilarious. haven't laughed so hard since i actually managed a funny on the level of jon stewart. it was less jew-y, though. yeah, that's spelled J-E-W-Y. hehehehe, silly jon stewart. anywho life is great.
that is all.