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Monday, December 5, 2016

What's going to work?

    You are not responsible for your own failures. Someone or something beyond your control is holding you back. Only I can overcome these obstacles, and for your sake, I will. Believe in me and you will be flawless. The others that threaten you? I will make them go away. You don't need to change, you don't need to adapt. You are fine just the way you are. your good nature has been taken advantage of, and "they" those outsiders, are the problem. I will think and act for you.
    Comforting words maybe, but not true. There is never any going back to a "better" time. Time moves on and if you're unhappy with your life now, attacking people or groups with little or no political voice won't make you happier or bring you the success you think you deserve.
    The reality is the quality of your life is directly linked to the quality of your relationships with yourself and other people. This is really the measure of success.  No-one lives in isolation, wealth and popularity aren't spontaneously created.
     It's okay to feel damaged, or threatened , or fearful even. Feelings are okay and natural. It is even okay to accept the line "I can fix all your problems for you." It's harder, but necessary, to call it out as a scam.
     There are two ways to survive a tyrant. Bow your head, stay low, and flatter, flatter, flatter. Creativity, industry, self-expression are sacrificed for the great leader's ego, but you might survive.
     The other option is to tell on them. Tell the truth, good or bad, no matter what. No-one likes a tattle-tale but truth-tellers are sacred.
    So truthfully, like it or not, we all have a relationship with each other, even with our leaders and they with us. We all want a better life and a better world. Focus on improving relationships, focus on right now with yourself and with others. Be a better you and make the world a better place. And finally remember in a free world our only duty to authority is to undermine it.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Fighting Trim

     All my shit's broken. Nothing new. Cobbled together. Taped and patched. Just like me. But most of it still works. Just like me. Hooked up with tubes wheezing on these machines. Tick tock an old style clock spins its arms at the foot of my bed. I never could read those things. There's a crack runs across the plastic face of it. The nurse uses it when she checks on me.
     There's a windstorm tonight. More broken things tomorrow. I'm a polisher. I shine things up. Even the broken stuff, make it look good, give it some pride. I haven't been doing too much of that lately. Not much to be proud of, getting old, worn down, each second of that clock another gust of wind blowing away another part of me, some part I never knew or cared I had until it wasn't there anymore.
     Martha, the kids, all of it is broke. Taped and patched yeah, but we don't talk and they don't come see me here. I wouldn't either, that's why I had the nurse take away the mirror. Me, my machines, and that damn clock. And sometimes the wind, like tonight. Smashing down every little thing we make. Lifting it up and throwing it on the rocks. Taking away our answers, our breath, our sleep, whatever is dear and bringing it back as dust. No way to fix anything that broken.
     I know there's more, but I run out of steam. Just a little nap. A little recharging and I'll be back at it again, fighting trim. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. 

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Playground Triptych, on a garden wall

     He takes stock of all the things that are falling apart and draws parallels to himself. He is a bastion of decrepitude, decay, and entropy. He slouches like the beast towards, he assumes because he doesn't really know if he has a direction, Bethlehem. He also likes to wallow in self-indulgent narcissism. He gets so tired of thinking about himself, all he needs and all he wants. How over-diagnosed are we? He also specializes in hyperbolic, pretentious generalizations.

     A low flying jet rumbles over the playground, looking like low-hanging fruit, waiting for some giant's hungry hand to pull it from the sky, peel back the hardened rind, and eat the soft, juicy, screaming insides. Forty-five seconds later there will be another, then another, then another...

     She smashed her bicycle into a pole, but the only thing broken was the front reflector. Her pride and pelvis were bruised-the consequences of trying to impress some boys-and her shiny new confidence, rock-solid until now, felt scratched and shaken loose.