Perpetual Motion.

Lucid Dreaming:

The room is so dark, I can barely see my friends. To see better, they inch closer and closer to where i'm sitting on my couch. They keep telling me the room is getting too hot. I tell them to back off and open the window, it's not a big deal. Closer and closer and I start to panic. I can't get to the window because they are surrounding me. I push past them, going into the restaurant in the next room. Realizing I am having a panic attack, I go to the bar and ask the waitress for a glass of water. She is taking her sweet time and I am gasping for air. The manager notices me and starts yelling to his waitress to hurry up. He starts yelling at me in a foreign language. I am gasping for air, and I'm in control. I am holding onto the bar, as I am noticing I am starting to slip. It's getting difficult to hold myself up and the only thing I thought of to do was slap him. I feel myself reach over the bar, smack his stubbled round face and then I fall. I am free falling into blackness and I wake myself up.

probably not a good sign... I was so overly tired, frustrated and upset that even before I slipped into my subconscious, my body was twitching. This whole sequence happened in a span of ten minutes, too. I woke up and was afraid. Afraid of what it meant. I didn't want to go back to sleep, but knew it was inevitable. I didn't want to slip back into that nightmare, it was still so close. I played solitaire for another hour and lost at about 20 games. I wouldn't go back to sleep until I won; I needed to have some satisfaction.

It's beautiful out today. I took a long walk with my iPod. Cleared my head; reconfigured my thoughts. 

Clint Eastwood

"We’re like a compulsive gambler plunging ever more deeply into debt in order to wager on a rigged game. There is no victory to be had in Afghanistan, only grief. We’re bulldozing Detroit while at the same time trying to establish model metropolises in Kabul and Kandahar. We’re spending endless billions on this wretched war but can’t extend the unemployment benefits of Americans suffering from the wretched economy here at home.

The difference between this and a nightmare is that when you wake up from a nightmare it’s over. This is all too tragically real."_Bob Herbert/NYTimes

Pigeons

I find it a bit unsettling that I have never seen a baby pigeon.


http://www.politicalcompass.org/index
try it...

New York

I love you, but you're bringing me down_

_for those who think it still exists.

Bring our children home...

http://www.countercurrents.org/willers200410.htm

last night was wonderful. erin and i went on a romantic dinner, enjoyed some sushi and sake and chatted about our whims and woes of the past weeks events. business matters are still unraveling in terms of our living status come end of summer. we want large dining room tables and patios and puppies. that is all. we then ventured out to find our favorite irish bartender. delirium and beach boys in one short sitting topped the night off beautifully. with such luck as we have, we wound up having payed a $3.50 cab ride. life is sweet. i want to dance tonight. my birthday is 3 days away. 22. hotdamn.

Life Stories

Why the hunger for these? If it is a hunger. Maybe it’s more like bossiness. Maybe we just want to be in charge, of the life, no matter who lived it.

It helps if there are photos. No more choices for the people in them — pick this one, dump that one. The livers of the lives in question had their chances, most of which they blew. They should have spotted the photographer in the bushes, they shouldn’t have chewed with their mouths open, they shouldn’t have worn the strapless top, they shouldn’t have yawned, they shouldn’t have laughed: so unattractive, the candid denture. So that’s what she looked like, we say, connecting the snapshot to the year of the torrid affair. Face like a half- eaten pizza, and is that him, gaping down her front? What did he see in her, besides cheap lunch? He was already going bald. What was all the fuss about?

I’m working on my own life story. I don’t mean I’m putting it together; no, I’m taking it apart. It’s mostly a question of editing. If you’d wanted the narrative line you should have asked earlier, when I still knew everything and was more than willing to tell. That was before I discovered the virtues of scissors, the virtues of matches.

I was born, I would have begun, once. But snip, snip, away go mother and father, white ribbons of paper blown by the wind, with grandparents tossed out for good measure. I spent my childhood. Enough of that as well. Goodbye dirty little dresses, goodbye scuffed shoes that caused me such anguish, goodbye well- thumbed tears and scabby knees, and sadness worn at the edges.

Adolescence can be discarded too, with its salty tanned skin, its fecklessness and bad romance and leakages of seasonal blood. What was it like to breathe so heavily, as if drugged, while rubbing up against strange leather coats in alleyways? I can’t remember.

Once you get started it’s fun. So much free space opens up. Rip, crumple, up in flames, out the window. I was born, I grew up, I studied, I loved, I married, I procreated, I said, I wrote, all gone now. I went, I saw, I did. Farewell crumbling turrets of historic interest, farewell icebergs and war monuments, all those young stone men with eyes upturned, and risky voyages teeming with germs, and dubious hotels, and doorways opening both in and out. Farewell friends and lovers, you’ve slipped from view, erased, defaced: I know you once had hairdos and told jokes, but I can’t recall them. Into the ground with you, my tender fur- brained cats and dogs, and horses and mice as well: I adored you, dozens of you, but what were your names?

I’m getting somewhere now, I’m feeling lighter. I’m coming unstuck from scrapbooks, from albums, from diaries and journals, from space, from time. Only a paragraph left, only a sentence or two, only a whisper.

I was born.
I was.
I.


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Excerpted from The Tent by Margaret Atwood Copyright © 2006 by Margaret Atwood. Excerpted by permission of Nan A. Talese, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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i took it like a grown man cryin' on the pavement...

today.

i love spring. i love sunshine and the warmth it emits onto my skin. i love long walks around and about Manhattan. i love art galleries and sunglasses. i love pockets. i love free samples [i got pizza at one joint and ice cream over a fresh baked brownie at another...seriously]. i especially love the newfound friendliness in the neighborhood.
After last night's St. Patrick's mayhem, my eight avenue/thirty street walk was quite necessary to clear my head. Two hours of free open bar time WILL leave me with a hangover--i'm not entirely invincible to the poisons.

Anyways, here's my good deed of the day:
I passed trader joe's earlier and a protest for labor rights for farmers was a-happenin'. i felt bad going inside considering i support their cause, but like i mentioned earlier, i REALLY wanted a free sample haha. So pretty much the Florida tomato harvesters get paid like shit, no health insurance, right to overtime pay, sick time etc. etc. Trader Joe's and Stop & Shop, cause they're so big, play a big role in farmer exploitation and therefore can do a lot to improve these conditions. So apparently, according to the flier i received, i can help by watching/posting this video:



and giving this letter to a manager:
http://sfalliance.org/resources/Supermarket%20Manager%20Letter.pdf

and telling you people to do the same.
so yeah, our food's our fuel. respekt.

Epic.

http://youmakemetouchyourhandsforstupidreasons.ytmnd.com/

I cried my eyes out...

"Lesbians"

2/3 train; downtown__Sun.March 7, 2010@ 11:00am

"Next stop, 14th Street, Lesbian Square. 14th Street is run by lesbians. It's nice out today, all the lesbians will be out. That's why I like the winter. No lesbians in sight. Woman without man, is a man."__poetry of a  Homeless Man

Who is John Galt?

“Whatever the degree of your knowledge, these two—existence and consciousness—are axioms you cannot escape, these two are the irreducible primaries implied in any action you undertake, in any part of your knowledge and in its sum, from the first ray of light you perceive at the start of your life to the widest erudition you might aquire at its end. Whether you know the shape of a pebble or the structure of a solar system, the axioms remain the same: that it exists and that you know it.

            “To exist is to be something, as distinguished from the nothing of non-existence, it is to be an entity of a specific nature made of specific attributes. Centuries ago, the man who was—no matter what his errors—the greatest of philosophers, has stated the formula defining the concept of existence and the rule of all knowledge: A is A. A thing itself. You have never grasped the meaning of his statement. I am here to complete it: Existence is Identity, Consciousness is Identification.

            “Whatever you choose to consider, be it an object, an attribute, or an action, the law of identity remains the same. A leaf cannot be a stone at the same time, it cannot be all red and all green at the same time, it cannot freeze and burn at the same time. A is A. Or, if you wish it stated in simpler language: You cannot have your cake and eat it, too.

            “Are you seeking to know what is wrong with your world? All the disasters that have wrecked your world, came from your leaders’ attempt to evade the fact that A is A. All the secret evil you dread to face within you and all the pain you have ever endured, came from your own attempt to evade the fact that A is A. The purpose of those who taught you to evade it, was to make you forget that Man is Man.”

__Ayn Rand