I am ashamed to write this. I feel ashamed. I feel weird too. Like, powerless and weird. I am sloth-like. 'I'm not here, this isn't happening.' Then what are these feeling things for? I don't feel guided by them in a supportive fashion.
"What are you DOING!"
What are any of us fucking doing here. Don't answer that. If I am consciousness attempting to realize itself, what does that make you? Are we really all so connected? Why do I feel so much more connected to some than others. Why do I behave in the manner that I do?
Why does anyone behave in the manner that they do?
Fuck you Louis C.K. Fuck you a thousand dirty, ineffectual times. You are my intellectual equivalent and as it turns out, you are a fucking nasty piece of shit. You can take all present and future apologies and shove them up your butt-hole. If you'd enjoy that, we can find some more creative and disturbing options.
You were suppose to be above the gender drivel. You were suppose to be a part of pulling us from this mess, not encouraging more filth and degradation. You have daughters! Two of them. Would you ever allow another human male to do to them what you have subjected others to? Piece of shit...
On a lighter note...
Amongst the din of a live rock bar downtown, I was presently surprised. Two young, intoxicated males came bounding up to me halfway through the night. The one in the straw hat and sunglasses pronounced ' Hey! I wonder if two men smothering you with their presence is cool for you right now?' It was the first time a man has ever thought long enough about his behavior to ask such a question in such a setting on such a night. He thought about me, a perfect female stranger specimen ripe for the taking, before he allowed his baser instincts to take control and plunge the moment into uncomfortable chaos. In all of my years on the planet, I have never experienced an intoxicated man in the clutches of intoxication, have the wherewithal to consider my needs before his own. It was astoundingly awesome.
If this is what is to come of my role models being shamed in the public eye for human indecency, so fucking be it! If Louis C.K is the man that sets everyone else straight...I will gladly and forever witness his fall from hilarious grace to that of the "Everyman". If everyman is changed just a little bit by all of our idols plummeting to earth, accompanied by the ridiculous media coverage, so be it! I felt seen by the opposite sex for once. And alcohol was involved!
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
There Goes My Hero
All of my adolescent heroes are dying. Is this what happens as one strolls down the 'secret path'? I was raised by musical genius. It sounds egocentric to say but I knew these people They helped shape me to the stellar and moral person you see before you. I feel like I'm breaking apart. My little universe I created and cultured as a kid is now nothing. A hollow structure unable to resist the ensuing storm. I hurt all over.
'I've tried nothing and I am all out of ideas!'
I thought I would have these people for longer. I thought I was strong enough to go it alone. I'm not. I need these people just as much now as I needed them then...covered in pimples, paisley and a sense of my own tortured ineptitude.
It's not right. Brain tumors are not fair. Death at such an early age when one is so prolific, inspired, necessary and essential to my very existence and understanding of the world... is not fucking fair.
What do I do now? How do we survive without? Is this a mass exodus by those deeply aware of the end of times? Do these creative types get something we simpletons don't and are fleeing the earth at a phenomenal speed? Those I so revere are abandoning me as my father did in death. Things are arsing in me now. Overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness. Can't type...tears welling, filling sight. Now not only do I have to handle these most recent of events, but the death of those I've buried deep down. Fuck you. Fuck you all for dying. Fuck you all for leaving us. That bullshit about smiling because it happened, you can shove up your asses. There. That's better. When the anger comes I can let those emotions evaporate and exist out in the world again.
The tears are back. The anger only lasts as long as the alcohol and then the feeling of empty remorse and longing kicks right back in again. The Hip were the second concert I ever saw in my younger days. I was overwhelmed with his stage presence. He was odd and I fucking dug it. His sound has followed me throughout my experiences and luckily, I've allowed no other man to taint this. I know I'm lucky to have had this energy in my life but I'm so sad presently that it's hard to see out of it. So young. So gone. He really did something while he was here. They all do. And I will forever love them for this. As hard as it is. I still love.
My first album of Mr. Downie, I stole from my moms bf at the time. Best thing I ever took. My process began here. Music my teacher, my lover, the level head in my discontent. All I can do now is wait for something to come along and eat me too.
'I've tried nothing and I am all out of ideas!'
I thought I would have these people for longer. I thought I was strong enough to go it alone. I'm not. I need these people just as much now as I needed them then...covered in pimples, paisley and a sense of my own tortured ineptitude.
It's not right. Brain tumors are not fair. Death at such an early age when one is so prolific, inspired, necessary and essential to my very existence and understanding of the world... is not fucking fair.
What do I do now? How do we survive without? Is this a mass exodus by those deeply aware of the end of times? Do these creative types get something we simpletons don't and are fleeing the earth at a phenomenal speed? Those I so revere are abandoning me as my father did in death. Things are arsing in me now. Overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness. Can't type...tears welling, filling sight. Now not only do I have to handle these most recent of events, but the death of those I've buried deep down. Fuck you. Fuck you all for dying. Fuck you all for leaving us. That bullshit about smiling because it happened, you can shove up your asses. There. That's better. When the anger comes I can let those emotions evaporate and exist out in the world again.
The tears are back. The anger only lasts as long as the alcohol and then the feeling of empty remorse and longing kicks right back in again. The Hip were the second concert I ever saw in my younger days. I was overwhelmed with his stage presence. He was odd and I fucking dug it. His sound has followed me throughout my experiences and luckily, I've allowed no other man to taint this. I know I'm lucky to have had this energy in my life but I'm so sad presently that it's hard to see out of it. So young. So gone. He really did something while he was here. They all do. And I will forever love them for this. As hard as it is. I still love.
My first album of Mr. Downie, I stole from my moms bf at the time. Best thing I ever took. My process began here. Music my teacher, my lover, the level head in my discontent. All I can do now is wait for something to come along and eat me too.
Thursday, August 31, 2017
The Bird Lady
She use to pull Tent Caterpillars from her trees and squish them in her hand. (Please google tent caterpillars to truly relish how gross and abundant they are.) It reminds me of one of Meg Ryan's rom-coms where she describes a dog her grandfather had. The dog got worms and was most reasonably going to die. Her Gpa dug each and every one of those worms out with his pinkie. That dog outlived the man. That's the Bird Lady. On second thought, she'd probably take the dog out, shoot it, and get a puppy. She was old school.
A lady from a time where every meal was meat and potatoes and all of your own food is grown by hand, canned with love and baked with care. She was a marvelous cook. I pulled out her biscuit recipe just the other day then talked myself out of it...too many carbs. She never feared carbs or calories for she ate whole foods. Apart from the stash of turtles I found in her side table and the fact that the woman made her own, out of this world caramels, she was very health aware. Our treat when visiting was a small bowl of unsalted and unsweetened popcorn which we furiously scarfed down.
The Bird Lady loved puzzles and tile rummy. She'd lovingly call my sister and I, "You little buggers", when we won and would then whip up some cookies. She could sit for hours watching the array of birds that visited her window. Then head outdoors to tend to her many flower beds, expansive garden and fish pond. The woman loved her some animals. Canaries, finches, dogs, cat, fish, horses and cows too. Then she would immortalize them in cloth and thread when one passed.
I stole from The Bird Lady once. She had these elegant swan soaps on display in the bathroom. I took them to my room to play with them and when finished, did not put them back. The Bird Lady found out and talked me into tears. It's not that she was mean or angry. She was hurt and disappointed and that brought out the waterworks. I apologized and she said she wouldn't tell my mother. To this day, I don't think she ever had. The following Christmas, my present from her were my very own swan soaps. That's the kind of gal she was.
There was a story told where a bird fell down her chimney. Having the soft spot that she did for our little winged counterparts, she scooped him up and set him free outside. A short time later another bird fell down the shaft and thinking it was the same daft bird, she knocked his head on the brick stating, "if he's dumb enough to do it a second time, he doesn't deserve to live." That's the kind of gal she was.
We were allowed to stay up late and watch the news. She introduced me to what dignity and integrity look like in the media. This was well before 24hr news cycles. She would be knitting or sewing or crocheting something creative while we dozed and watched Lloyd Robertson or Sandie Rinaldo unfold the raw details of some scandal or current event. Then we'd be woken up early by the sounds of silver dollar pancakes being flipped and homemade syrup being readied. We were spoiled rotten.
She remembered every birthday, every year well into my twenties. A card would show up, somewhat miraculously as I moved around a lot, with a cheque and some well wishes. That's the kind of gal she was.
She use to tell me this story every time I would return for one of our week long visits. I was just a baby...barely walking and still in diapers. I was in perpetual revolt of sleep and on this particular night, would not lay down. I crawled out of bed and would come into the living room where Bird Lady and her husband were trying to relax. Finally, she picked me up, carried me to the room and laid down beside me. "Go to bed", she said sternly and gave my bum and smack. I got up, crawled to meet her wrinkled face and planted a big ol' kiss right on her lips. She said after that, my bedtime was whenever I wanted it to be and brought me out to watch tv.
I miss and love you Gma Neal and I'm sorry I was a shitty, self-obsessed grandkid these last few years. In your ninety-eight years you've seen it all and I can only hope that I can live as long and as well as you did. Thank you for being my Gma. As much as I bitched and moaned about visiting you as a kid, you were integral in forming the best parts of me. I watch the hummingbirds and think of you.
A lady from a time where every meal was meat and potatoes and all of your own food is grown by hand, canned with love and baked with care. She was a marvelous cook. I pulled out her biscuit recipe just the other day then talked myself out of it...too many carbs. She never feared carbs or calories for she ate whole foods. Apart from the stash of turtles I found in her side table and the fact that the woman made her own, out of this world caramels, she was very health aware. Our treat when visiting was a small bowl of unsalted and unsweetened popcorn which we furiously scarfed down.
The Bird Lady loved puzzles and tile rummy. She'd lovingly call my sister and I, "You little buggers", when we won and would then whip up some cookies. She could sit for hours watching the array of birds that visited her window. Then head outdoors to tend to her many flower beds, expansive garden and fish pond. The woman loved her some animals. Canaries, finches, dogs, cat, fish, horses and cows too. Then she would immortalize them in cloth and thread when one passed.
I stole from The Bird Lady once. She had these elegant swan soaps on display in the bathroom. I took them to my room to play with them and when finished, did not put them back. The Bird Lady found out and talked me into tears. It's not that she was mean or angry. She was hurt and disappointed and that brought out the waterworks. I apologized and she said she wouldn't tell my mother. To this day, I don't think she ever had. The following Christmas, my present from her were my very own swan soaps. That's the kind of gal she was.
There was a story told where a bird fell down her chimney. Having the soft spot that she did for our little winged counterparts, she scooped him up and set him free outside. A short time later another bird fell down the shaft and thinking it was the same daft bird, she knocked his head on the brick stating, "if he's dumb enough to do it a second time, he doesn't deserve to live." That's the kind of gal she was.
We were allowed to stay up late and watch the news. She introduced me to what dignity and integrity look like in the media. This was well before 24hr news cycles. She would be knitting or sewing or crocheting something creative while we dozed and watched Lloyd Robertson or Sandie Rinaldo unfold the raw details of some scandal or current event. Then we'd be woken up early by the sounds of silver dollar pancakes being flipped and homemade syrup being readied. We were spoiled rotten.
She remembered every birthday, every year well into my twenties. A card would show up, somewhat miraculously as I moved around a lot, with a cheque and some well wishes. That's the kind of gal she was.
She use to tell me this story every time I would return for one of our week long visits. I was just a baby...barely walking and still in diapers. I was in perpetual revolt of sleep and on this particular night, would not lay down. I crawled out of bed and would come into the living room where Bird Lady and her husband were trying to relax. Finally, she picked me up, carried me to the room and laid down beside me. "Go to bed", she said sternly and gave my bum and smack. I got up, crawled to meet her wrinkled face and planted a big ol' kiss right on her lips. She said after that, my bedtime was whenever I wanted it to be and brought me out to watch tv.
I miss and love you Gma Neal and I'm sorry I was a shitty, self-obsessed grandkid these last few years. In your ninety-eight years you've seen it all and I can only hope that I can live as long and as well as you did. Thank you for being my Gma. As much as I bitched and moaned about visiting you as a kid, you were integral in forming the best parts of me. I watch the hummingbirds and think of you.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
A+ For Effort
It's been said that to commit to making the same errors in judgement time and time again while expecting a different result, is the definition of insanity. Hi, my name is Rhandi.
I went out drinking/pubbing/gallivanting around the town last night. Again. I know what will happen when I do this. I know how I will feel the next day. I know I will tell myself that next weekend I will be a changed individual who will not fill my body with toxic substances that leave me euphoric, than progresses to a free fall of loneliness, despair and shame.
It's always the same:
The evening begins well enough; Maybe with a bite to eat, a pint and some female companionship. I meet a few people, we get our cardio in by walking from one pub to the next and completing silly, half-in-the-bag tasks along the way. Like karate kicking the air for an entire city block. Why not? We're alive, we're buzzed and it feels good to be accomplishing something. What, exactly, that is...I have yet to determine. I'll meet a few people and bond with my ladies in the washroom. All of the worlds problems get solved there over funny urine streams and the inadequacy of the washroom itself. So many shitty shitters out there.
Music will also be had. Glorious revel in man's greatest service to himself. Then, I'll end up with the rest of the wayward souls at the only place left open at that forsaken hour and things descend from there. Some laughs, more booze, many more trips to the bathroom to save the world...and men. This is the witching hour of finding a hook-up before things get sad and sleepy. I will engage those that I know are 'safe'. The Gays mostly or fellow females. Then one particularly determined hetero will attempt to stab his flag into my fertile soil and shit gets low. I refuse the advances made which begin innocent and amicable. Fifteen to thirty minutes later, my refusal of advances confuses the poor boy and he begins to degrade me to the entire bar. I think he's either burning the land so no one else can grow there or he believes this to be a brilliant plan to win my affection by appealing to my insecurity and Daddy issues. Like I don't see through his act. Through all of the games people play with one another to get a piece. He'll call me names and attempt to break me down. I'm already broken fool and there is no lower I can reach. I will either ignore his childish and deplorable behavior or, level him. Sometimes I don't have the energy to achieve the levelling an individual male needs in any given situation so I usually choose the former. Also, the humans around us have labelled him an idiot so I've succeeded in cock-blocking the moron for at least another eve. This results in insults to my intelligence, character or body. Then he leaves and I am done with humanity.
At this point, I will guzzle the remainder of my libation and stumble home with one eye on my back. Some men think a lady at three am is fair game. Not cool. Safe at home, I will cook something that should not be cooked so late and set off the fire alarm. After displacing the smoke from my cooked dinner, I will watch something mindless while stuffing my face with spaghetti with bread and butter, cookies and a bag of caramel popcorn. Once I've satiated the need to feed, I'll pass out knowing full well the shitty sleep I'm about to endure. Then the morning comes far too soon and I spend the day regretting the majority of my actions, the amount of calories I consumed right before bed and the fact that I did it again. I've poisoned my brain and my body for a few brief connections and the feeling that just for a moment, I'm where I'm suppose to be.
So this is me, writing it down in the hopes that it will be in my brain to not repeat the same behavior that has not served me since my early twenties. My goal is to take this awareness and slowly chip away at the reason behind my actions so that I can choose more wisely. I'll let you know how it goes, next Friday.
I went out drinking/pubbing/gallivanting around the town last night. Again. I know what will happen when I do this. I know how I will feel the next day. I know I will tell myself that next weekend I will be a changed individual who will not fill my body with toxic substances that leave me euphoric, than progresses to a free fall of loneliness, despair and shame.
It's always the same:
The evening begins well enough; Maybe with a bite to eat, a pint and some female companionship. I meet a few people, we get our cardio in by walking from one pub to the next and completing silly, half-in-the-bag tasks along the way. Like karate kicking the air for an entire city block. Why not? We're alive, we're buzzed and it feels good to be accomplishing something. What, exactly, that is...I have yet to determine. I'll meet a few people and bond with my ladies in the washroom. All of the worlds problems get solved there over funny urine streams and the inadequacy of the washroom itself. So many shitty shitters out there.
Music will also be had. Glorious revel in man's greatest service to himself. Then, I'll end up with the rest of the wayward souls at the only place left open at that forsaken hour and things descend from there. Some laughs, more booze, many more trips to the bathroom to save the world...and men. This is the witching hour of finding a hook-up before things get sad and sleepy. I will engage those that I know are 'safe'. The Gays mostly or fellow females. Then one particularly determined hetero will attempt to stab his flag into my fertile soil and shit gets low. I refuse the advances made which begin innocent and amicable. Fifteen to thirty minutes later, my refusal of advances confuses the poor boy and he begins to degrade me to the entire bar. I think he's either burning the land so no one else can grow there or he believes this to be a brilliant plan to win my affection by appealing to my insecurity and Daddy issues. Like I don't see through his act. Through all of the games people play with one another to get a piece. He'll call me names and attempt to break me down. I'm already broken fool and there is no lower I can reach. I will either ignore his childish and deplorable behavior or, level him. Sometimes I don't have the energy to achieve the levelling an individual male needs in any given situation so I usually choose the former. Also, the humans around us have labelled him an idiot so I've succeeded in cock-blocking the moron for at least another eve. This results in insults to my intelligence, character or body. Then he leaves and I am done with humanity.
At this point, I will guzzle the remainder of my libation and stumble home with one eye on my back. Some men think a lady at three am is fair game. Not cool. Safe at home, I will cook something that should not be cooked so late and set off the fire alarm. After displacing the smoke from my cooked dinner, I will watch something mindless while stuffing my face with spaghetti with bread and butter, cookies and a bag of caramel popcorn. Once I've satiated the need to feed, I'll pass out knowing full well the shitty sleep I'm about to endure. Then the morning comes far too soon and I spend the day regretting the majority of my actions, the amount of calories I consumed right before bed and the fact that I did it again. I've poisoned my brain and my body for a few brief connections and the feeling that just for a moment, I'm where I'm suppose to be.
So this is me, writing it down in the hopes that it will be in my brain to not repeat the same behavior that has not served me since my early twenties. My goal is to take this awareness and slowly chip away at the reason behind my actions so that I can choose more wisely. I'll let you know how it goes, next Friday.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
The Day The Language Failed
I HAVE NO ONE TO TALK TO. Do you guys find this, or is it distinctly a Rhandi phenomenon?
I have to censor everything I do or do not say to appease the ones whose company I am so keeping at any given time. It. Is. Exhausting. I have yet to find a person to whom I can be completely real with on one or more levels. I do admit, I can be somewhat complicated. I think that is ok. What I long for is one who can relate to me on more than one level during a conversation without me having to don a Rhandi Façade to get through the dialogue.
Can anyone relate to that?
This evening I wore so many different faces to fit in long enough to not be alone that it tired me to such a degree that I simply walked away. I left a conversation that I could no longer stomach for the sanctity of my currently quiet abode.
When I was in college, I felt like my most self. I was always sharing my 'most' thoughts. Now, I must withdraw my truthiness from those who instantly take offense and run. They do. That's what the world does now when you call them on bullshit. They flee like a flock of scavenger birds at a carcass that is not quite deceased. Fear compels these poor, vapid souls. Fear of being found out for the scavengers they are. It's cool. Be a scavenger. Once you're cool with the fact that you're near the bottom of the food chain and have little to offer the world except you're ability to consume rotting flesh at an alarming rate...we'll all be better for it.
I miss the days when shitty people knew deep down they were shitty and just fucked off after a while to the nether regions. Now? They wear glasses with no lenses in them and jean jackets that they purposely ripped up to look like they had been thrown from a moving vehicle when in reality they just cut up some clothes their mom bought them.
Where has authenticity gone? Where has having a legitimate cause gone? We care about the most inane nonsense now that my stomach hurts after listening to only a few minutes of it. I try to be a good sport and give my full attention to the subject matter but after a time...I just want out. Like, throw me from that same moving vehicle that 'pseudo made your jacket', out.
Fuck being single in a world where the art of conversation has died and no one has anything to say.
I have to censor everything I do or do not say to appease the ones whose company I am so keeping at any given time. It. Is. Exhausting. I have yet to find a person to whom I can be completely real with on one or more levels. I do admit, I can be somewhat complicated. I think that is ok. What I long for is one who can relate to me on more than one level during a conversation without me having to don a Rhandi Façade to get through the dialogue.
Can anyone relate to that?
This evening I wore so many different faces to fit in long enough to not be alone that it tired me to such a degree that I simply walked away. I left a conversation that I could no longer stomach for the sanctity of my currently quiet abode.
When I was in college, I felt like my most self. I was always sharing my 'most' thoughts. Now, I must withdraw my truthiness from those who instantly take offense and run. They do. That's what the world does now when you call them on bullshit. They flee like a flock of scavenger birds at a carcass that is not quite deceased. Fear compels these poor, vapid souls. Fear of being found out for the scavengers they are. It's cool. Be a scavenger. Once you're cool with the fact that you're near the bottom of the food chain and have little to offer the world except you're ability to consume rotting flesh at an alarming rate...we'll all be better for it.
I miss the days when shitty people knew deep down they were shitty and just fucked off after a while to the nether regions. Now? They wear glasses with no lenses in them and jean jackets that they purposely ripped up to look like they had been thrown from a moving vehicle when in reality they just cut up some clothes their mom bought them.
Where has authenticity gone? Where has having a legitimate cause gone? We care about the most inane nonsense now that my stomach hurts after listening to only a few minutes of it. I try to be a good sport and give my full attention to the subject matter but after a time...I just want out. Like, throw me from that same moving vehicle that 'pseudo made your jacket', out.
Fuck being single in a world where the art of conversation has died and no one has anything to say.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Best Sleep Ever
I'm tired of not having anyone.
I'm tired of being so strong all of the time.
I'm tired of the empty, shitty pit in my stomach
and the yearning in my throat for words that will never come on their own.
I'm tired of being the only one who makes any effort
to communicate.
I'm tired of crying.
I'm tired.
I'm tired of being so strong all of the time.
I'm tired of the empty, shitty pit in my stomach
and the yearning in my throat for words that will never come on their own.
I'm tired of being the only one who makes any effort
to communicate.
I'm tired of crying.
I'm tired.
He Went From...
"Hunni, where's the bathroom?" ...to
"Hey, BITCH! Where's the shitter?" ...in seven point two seconds.
Was it the alcohol or the release of his neocortex to produce the trueness of his amygdala? The lizard brain shone so brightly it hurt my eyes and my heart. I wonder what is it truly in liquor that diminishes the ability to be sensitive to others. Perhaps he is the most wonderful individual when sober. Loving father. Productive co-worker(guaranteed he is not the boss). Tax payer. I don't know. What else makes a decent human being. Oh yes. I know. Not relating to a perfect stranger with a sexist and antiquated term and then graduating to outright rage within a few mere seconds.
My place smells like fish.
"Hey, BITCH! Where's the shitter?" ...in seven point two seconds.
Was it the alcohol or the release of his neocortex to produce the trueness of his amygdala? The lizard brain shone so brightly it hurt my eyes and my heart. I wonder what is it truly in liquor that diminishes the ability to be sensitive to others. Perhaps he is the most wonderful individual when sober. Loving father. Productive co-worker(guaranteed he is not the boss). Tax payer. I don't know. What else makes a decent human being. Oh yes. I know. Not relating to a perfect stranger with a sexist and antiquated term and then graduating to outright rage within a few mere seconds.
My place smells like fish.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
My New Favorite Thing
I am keen to imbibe early and people watch. Have you tried? You should. It. Is. Incredible. I've seen so much in between the glass of vino, the pint of distasteful yet local beer and ginger cider.
I was witness to a man wearing full on B.C Lions garb masturbating at the train station. We don't need any more detail than this.
I watched three ladies sitting on a curb, one vomiting, while the other two carried on a perfectly logical conversation regarding the nights festivities and so forth. No offer was made to hold her hair or console her in the least. Fascinating. As though, this was part and parcel of a typical night.
I was privy to a young female walking so awkwardly as a result of her tortuous footwear that it made my heart bleed for her. Not unusual, unfortunately. I suggest we all unite thusly and toss our sadistic lower half contraptions into the bin so that they may wreak no more havoc on our lives. It ain't gonna happen but a girl can incite all the revolt she wants in written form!
I saw a man bring his German Shepherd puppy into a rock concert who proceeded to freak the fuck out due to the excessive amounts of noise. Dogs pick up sound four times better than humans you fucking waste. People this idiotic should not be allowed to procreate or adopt/purchase pets. Though you have the coin to do so, you should abstain if you be insensitive and fucking stupid.
I stared at a dude who was severely over weight, dressed all in black with a hood. He was carrying a Gucci bag on his fingertips as he walked rapidly down the street.
Then there was me...Pizza and pop in hand. There was sauce spread halfway across my cheek and a big ol' grin rolling yonder round my face. I was witness yet ever part of this charade we call Saturday night. What a time to be alive.
And all before 11 pm.
I was witness to a man wearing full on B.C Lions garb masturbating at the train station. We don't need any more detail than this.
I watched three ladies sitting on a curb, one vomiting, while the other two carried on a perfectly logical conversation regarding the nights festivities and so forth. No offer was made to hold her hair or console her in the least. Fascinating. As though, this was part and parcel of a typical night.
I was privy to a young female walking so awkwardly as a result of her tortuous footwear that it made my heart bleed for her. Not unusual, unfortunately. I suggest we all unite thusly and toss our sadistic lower half contraptions into the bin so that they may wreak no more havoc on our lives. It ain't gonna happen but a girl can incite all the revolt she wants in written form!
I saw a man bring his German Shepherd puppy into a rock concert who proceeded to freak the fuck out due to the excessive amounts of noise. Dogs pick up sound four times better than humans you fucking waste. People this idiotic should not be allowed to procreate or adopt/purchase pets. Though you have the coin to do so, you should abstain if you be insensitive and fucking stupid.
I stared at a dude who was severely over weight, dressed all in black with a hood. He was carrying a Gucci bag on his fingertips as he walked rapidly down the street.
Then there was me...Pizza and pop in hand. There was sauce spread halfway across my cheek and a big ol' grin rolling yonder round my face. I was witness yet ever part of this charade we call Saturday night. What a time to be alive.
And all before 11 pm.
The House Party
I am the most considerate house party goer. I remove my footwear upon entering the home. I offer my services after said social gathering has expired.
I adore a good house party.
You know the kind where everyone has a splendid time and no drama transpires? Yeah. There is something so satisfying about the fact that only positive vibes were shared and everyone left feeling better about their existence.
Canada Day is the Ultimate House Party. It's our collective house. We share this planet, this nation, this province, with one another. It can be an amazing feeling. Can be.
This most recent of Canada Day's, for which I have been absent from for the last four years was quite subdued. Positive for all intents and purposes, just quieter than expected for being the big 150.
We are shell shocked. The world seems in a precarious state and that's okay. The reflective attitude was certainly palpable.
The problem was not the event itself but the aftermath. Like any good house party, shit gets fucked up. The realization of how bad is not fully swallowed until the crowd disperses.
Fuck you Canada on your 150th birthday, is what our wake spoke of.
The newly minted garbage receptacles were overflowing to such a degree that it seemed bizarre. The grassy knoll upon which I viewed fireworks was so encrusted with debris that it was a shock to the senses. I was overwhelmed by sadness that this how we treat our home. On any day, not just on it's conceptual day of day's. We shit where we ate. Literally. The ground upon which provides us with our very nourishment, we've poisoned. In more ways than one.
So Happy Birthday Canada. Fuck you for providing us with this much liberty and fresh air. We'll be sure to prevent any sustainability going forward.
I adore a good house party.
You know the kind where everyone has a splendid time and no drama transpires? Yeah. There is something so satisfying about the fact that only positive vibes were shared and everyone left feeling better about their existence.
Canada Day is the Ultimate House Party. It's our collective house. We share this planet, this nation, this province, with one another. It can be an amazing feeling. Can be.
This most recent of Canada Day's, for which I have been absent from for the last four years was quite subdued. Positive for all intents and purposes, just quieter than expected for being the big 150.
We are shell shocked. The world seems in a precarious state and that's okay. The reflective attitude was certainly palpable.
The problem was not the event itself but the aftermath. Like any good house party, shit gets fucked up. The realization of how bad is not fully swallowed until the crowd disperses.
Fuck you Canada on your 150th birthday, is what our wake spoke of.
The newly minted garbage receptacles were overflowing to such a degree that it seemed bizarre. The grassy knoll upon which I viewed fireworks was so encrusted with debris that it was a shock to the senses. I was overwhelmed by sadness that this how we treat our home. On any day, not just on it's conceptual day of day's. We shit where we ate. Literally. The ground upon which provides us with our very nourishment, we've poisoned. In more ways than one.
So Happy Birthday Canada. Fuck you for providing us with this much liberty and fresh air. We'll be sure to prevent any sustainability going forward.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Do You Know The Mushroom Man?
I have a hole in my ankle the circumference of a dime, can barely stand and have the worst gas I've ever had...this was how the night ended.
This is how the night began...
I ventured out to witness the local drunken creatures of the eve. I got what I came for. As the night drew to what I conceived as being its close, I met a man named M. He had a friend with the handle D. I smelled a set-up. M gorged on something fried then buggered off. D began conversation with me immediately after M bolted by confessing his wife had just left him. Keep in mind, I did not ask, we had just met and he didn't know my name yet. So, clearly the man needed someone slightly more sensitive to speak to than a counterpart who fills his face with samosa's then jets. I invite D to open up. He mentions that this is a 'having a smoke kind of convo' so he gives a chick with rainbow hair five bucks for one and begins his woeful tale of love lost.
He had just purchased a new lawn-mower to landscape his three properties that him and his lady owned together. He has money. She called to him from one of their superfluous and somewhat unnecessary porches, to come on inside. Once inside, she said she wanted to split. No warning or explanation to the end of an eight year relationship. Boom. Done. Take your new lawn-mower and go fuck yourself. Of course, this is how he tells it and he's cute and vulnerable so I sympathize.
D then mentions he needs to go home and walk his puppy. I am invited to attend to such matters and of course I go. It's 2am, I've had four pints and there is a dog somewhere that needs to poop! I'm there. He gallantly pays my bill and off we split. He apologizes on the cab ride over for the state of his shitty 'apartment'. Clearly embarrassed that he's not showing me one of his three mansions that the wife now owns. His 'apartment' is a two storey palatial heaven. Not what I would ever designate this manor as being an 'apartment' but, ok dude, you feel bad about this. Anyway, his place is awesome and his dog is adorbs, win win. He supplies me with an alternate pair of shoes for puppy time as I decided on heels for my evening of exploit. This guy starts checking some boxes for me. Chivalrous, caring, dog owning, rich, trained by someone other than myself...so far so good. After the incorrigible mutt was walked and pooped, we cracked a beer and blasted some tunes. The first thing he plays is The Beatles. Check. Then he asks me if I want to do some mushrooms from the giant bag stashed in his fridge. Checkcheck. They were capsules so I took one, not sure on the affect that they would have. He says he's been popping them all night and he seemed pretty level headed.
As I wait for the awesome high I'm sure to experience (it is BC psychedelics by the by), we chat by one of the three fires in his 'apartment'. Then shit begins to unravel. By shit, I mean D.
An Alan Jackson song comes on and he bursts into tears. I feel somehow responsible for the improvement of his heart situation so I squeeze him tight while he sobs uncontrollably and speaks through weeps of the times shared with bitch-beast ex-wifey. We've all been there. Also, for a moment, I wasn't the most pitiful excuse for relationships gone wrong in the room and I took solace in this.
Then the farting began. Having taken however many mushroom capsules from the six hundred dollar feast on his kitchen counter was beginning to affect his guts in a most inconvenient way. If you've never done shrooms...they can give you what's so affectionately known as 'gut-rot'. You are ingesting a poison for which your body now spends six hours or so, trying to deal with on a few different levels. The capsules were causing some toxic gastrointestinal release. So through the tears, D farted. A lot. It smelt bad. I didn't want to laugh for he was in an altered and fragile state. I tried to keep my attention on the cute rescue pup and the fact that we had the same shower curtain. After a time of mournful country, loud and oppressive farting, and a perfectly would-be romantic sitch ruined, D jolts up and says he needs to remove his contacts. He takes off his shirt, for some reason, asks me my name and what I do for work for the third time in two hours then heads to one of three ensuites to take his eyeballs out. I ask if I can watch as I find it so satisfying removing things from the body. He takes out his ability to see, puts on a hat and then tells me the reason he left his wife was because they weren't fucking anymore. Wait. Several mushroom caps earlier you said she left you and there was no rhyme or reason. Kk...I'm a apart of this train-wreck now...let's see how many passengers we find.
He calls me Lacey for a little while, I let him cuz he is now my experiment. Back on the couch I ask him about his work as he's a producer for a video game company. Hence the extravagant expenditure of coin. The guy literally doesn't know what to do with it all so he buys bags of mushrooms and homes he doesn't need for a love that is now irrelevant. I ask him if he plays vids and he yells, "I'm a MAN! I don't do such things." I was asking as there was a play-station controller on his solid oak coffee table.
"Oh. Well, sometimes I get high and play," he says shrugging off the obvious previous fib.
I'm growing weary of the falsities and the fact that my mushrooms aren't affecting me in the least. I decide to crash for a bit as it's now four in the a.m. He takes off his pants, and asks me join him in his room. He has a pretty alright body but he's morphed into such a gradual douche that I can't even be bothered to sit on his face for which he asks me repeatedly if I would. He then tells me he can dance and kind of kills it in the center of the room. He becomes this whirling dervish of fancy feet and killer moves. Who is this fucking guy? One minute he seems like such a catch, then he can't remember my name, cries, farts without remorse and removes a piece of clothing.
It's time to go. I grab my shit and head for the door. He gets indignant. True colors are so palpable when you don't spread your legs.
"So it's gonna be like that then?" He says pointed and dismissive. I say nothing, put on my patriarchal torture devices that make my calves pop(yes I get the irony in this composition), and out the door I head...into the fucking rain at 4 a.m. I call a cab but the driver's an idiot(story for another time) so I decide to walk the rest of the way in heels with mushroom capsules beginning to wreak havoc on my tummy-tum. I arrive alive, smelling like a wet dog as I had just played with a dry one for a few hours previous. My feet are killing me, blisters have formed and popped several times over and the gas is now commencing. I spend the next five hours with a bloated gut, bleeding feet and a story to tell.
A successful night indeed.
This is how the night began...
I ventured out to witness the local drunken creatures of the eve. I got what I came for. As the night drew to what I conceived as being its close, I met a man named M. He had a friend with the handle D. I smelled a set-up. M gorged on something fried then buggered off. D began conversation with me immediately after M bolted by confessing his wife had just left him. Keep in mind, I did not ask, we had just met and he didn't know my name yet. So, clearly the man needed someone slightly more sensitive to speak to than a counterpart who fills his face with samosa's then jets. I invite D to open up. He mentions that this is a 'having a smoke kind of convo' so he gives a chick with rainbow hair five bucks for one and begins his woeful tale of love lost.
He had just purchased a new lawn-mower to landscape his three properties that him and his lady owned together. He has money. She called to him from one of their superfluous and somewhat unnecessary porches, to come on inside. Once inside, she said she wanted to split. No warning or explanation to the end of an eight year relationship. Boom. Done. Take your new lawn-mower and go fuck yourself. Of course, this is how he tells it and he's cute and vulnerable so I sympathize.
D then mentions he needs to go home and walk his puppy. I am invited to attend to such matters and of course I go. It's 2am, I've had four pints and there is a dog somewhere that needs to poop! I'm there. He gallantly pays my bill and off we split. He apologizes on the cab ride over for the state of his shitty 'apartment'. Clearly embarrassed that he's not showing me one of his three mansions that the wife now owns. His 'apartment' is a two storey palatial heaven. Not what I would ever designate this manor as being an 'apartment' but, ok dude, you feel bad about this. Anyway, his place is awesome and his dog is adorbs, win win. He supplies me with an alternate pair of shoes for puppy time as I decided on heels for my evening of exploit. This guy starts checking some boxes for me. Chivalrous, caring, dog owning, rich, trained by someone other than myself...so far so good. After the incorrigible mutt was walked and pooped, we cracked a beer and blasted some tunes. The first thing he plays is The Beatles. Check. Then he asks me if I want to do some mushrooms from the giant bag stashed in his fridge. Checkcheck. They were capsules so I took one, not sure on the affect that they would have. He says he's been popping them all night and he seemed pretty level headed.
As I wait for the awesome high I'm sure to experience (it is BC psychedelics by the by), we chat by one of the three fires in his 'apartment'. Then shit begins to unravel. By shit, I mean D.
An Alan Jackson song comes on and he bursts into tears. I feel somehow responsible for the improvement of his heart situation so I squeeze him tight while he sobs uncontrollably and speaks through weeps of the times shared with bitch-beast ex-wifey. We've all been there. Also, for a moment, I wasn't the most pitiful excuse for relationships gone wrong in the room and I took solace in this.
Then the farting began. Having taken however many mushroom capsules from the six hundred dollar feast on his kitchen counter was beginning to affect his guts in a most inconvenient way. If you've never done shrooms...they can give you what's so affectionately known as 'gut-rot'. You are ingesting a poison for which your body now spends six hours or so, trying to deal with on a few different levels. The capsules were causing some toxic gastrointestinal release. So through the tears, D farted. A lot. It smelt bad. I didn't want to laugh for he was in an altered and fragile state. I tried to keep my attention on the cute rescue pup and the fact that we had the same shower curtain. After a time of mournful country, loud and oppressive farting, and a perfectly would-be romantic sitch ruined, D jolts up and says he needs to remove his contacts. He takes off his shirt, for some reason, asks me my name and what I do for work for the third time in two hours then heads to one of three ensuites to take his eyeballs out. I ask if I can watch as I find it so satisfying removing things from the body. He takes out his ability to see, puts on a hat and then tells me the reason he left his wife was because they weren't fucking anymore. Wait. Several mushroom caps earlier you said she left you and there was no rhyme or reason. Kk...I'm a apart of this train-wreck now...let's see how many passengers we find.
He calls me Lacey for a little while, I let him cuz he is now my experiment. Back on the couch I ask him about his work as he's a producer for a video game company. Hence the extravagant expenditure of coin. The guy literally doesn't know what to do with it all so he buys bags of mushrooms and homes he doesn't need for a love that is now irrelevant. I ask him if he plays vids and he yells, "I'm a MAN! I don't do such things." I was asking as there was a play-station controller on his solid oak coffee table.
"Oh. Well, sometimes I get high and play," he says shrugging off the obvious previous fib.
I'm growing weary of the falsities and the fact that my mushrooms aren't affecting me in the least. I decide to crash for a bit as it's now four in the a.m. He takes off his pants, and asks me join him in his room. He has a pretty alright body but he's morphed into such a gradual douche that I can't even be bothered to sit on his face for which he asks me repeatedly if I would. He then tells me he can dance and kind of kills it in the center of the room. He becomes this whirling dervish of fancy feet and killer moves. Who is this fucking guy? One minute he seems like such a catch, then he can't remember my name, cries, farts without remorse and removes a piece of clothing.
It's time to go. I grab my shit and head for the door. He gets indignant. True colors are so palpable when you don't spread your legs.
"So it's gonna be like that then?" He says pointed and dismissive. I say nothing, put on my patriarchal torture devices that make my calves pop(yes I get the irony in this composition), and out the door I head...into the fucking rain at 4 a.m. I call a cab but the driver's an idiot(story for another time) so I decide to walk the rest of the way in heels with mushroom capsules beginning to wreak havoc on my tummy-tum. I arrive alive, smelling like a wet dog as I had just played with a dry one for a few hours previous. My feet are killing me, blisters have formed and popped several times over and the gas is now commencing. I spend the next five hours with a bloated gut, bleeding feet and a story to tell.
A successful night indeed.
Friday, May 12, 2017
To The Meat
I scratch at his flesh and it opens like a gaping wound of nothing and silence. There exists tissue and muscles, veins and sinew. I scratch harder, deeper, longing to unearth something more. I reach bone and it just is. He just is. He's like the rest. He's just like the rest. Easy. Simple. No resounding discovery of mysterious delights. He says and does what one should. He's honest. He's kind. And it bores me. In fact, I find it almost grotesque how unaffected I am by his sweet, transparent ways. He wants what I'm sure we all think we want. He has his identity set to fact and relishes the incomplex. I should want this.
Then I scratch you. I dig and I plunge my hands inside of you and I rip you to shreds and what do I find? You bleed. Scarlet, substantial, and full of secrecy. You bleed and bleed and I have yet to reach bone or tissue or normal things found in the human man. You are rare. You do not bore me. I could descend into you and fade out before ever reaching the truth. I find this so exciting. You excite me. You stimulate a part of me I thought I had eradicated. I feel like the person I was suppose to be around you.
Alas, I cannot be with you. You are not mine to have. I will suffer and wither. Alone.
Then I scratch you. I dig and I plunge my hands inside of you and I rip you to shreds and what do I find? You bleed. Scarlet, substantial, and full of secrecy. You bleed and bleed and I have yet to reach bone or tissue or normal things found in the human man. You are rare. You do not bore me. I could descend into you and fade out before ever reaching the truth. I find this so exciting. You excite me. You stimulate a part of me I thought I had eradicated. I feel like the person I was suppose to be around you.
Alas, I cannot be with you. You are not mine to have. I will suffer and wither. Alone.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
A Cruel Joke
You told me I smelled of strawberries
and looked beautiful in the sun
grasping through the open window.
Then conversation turned abruptly
and you confessed that you were
betrothed to another.
The body reacted before the brain
could conceive.
Such an unexpected reaction of
lust and regret.
I was a big bird in a small cage.
Then freed by the beauty in
your words and the touch so
serene.
You remind me of possibility,
how can I be asked to let that go?
Please don't ask.
I watched you enter the orange room
and the din disappeared. Your people
were there as were mine but all went
with the depth in your eyes.
Timing kept us apart and now circumstance,
so what now lover? Can you come over?
I will swim in your eyes, feast on your flesh
and drown in your words.
The you will return to the one before me
and I will be bones and skin and nothing
no more.
and looked beautiful in the sun
grasping through the open window.
Then conversation turned abruptly
and you confessed that you were
betrothed to another.
The body reacted before the brain
could conceive.
Such an unexpected reaction of
lust and regret.
I was a big bird in a small cage.
Then freed by the beauty in
your words and the touch so
serene.
You remind me of possibility,
how can I be asked to let that go?
Please don't ask.
I watched you enter the orange room
and the din disappeared. Your people
were there as were mine but all went
with the depth in your eyes.
Timing kept us apart and now circumstance,
so what now lover? Can you come over?
I will swim in your eyes, feast on your flesh
and drown in your words.
The you will return to the one before me
and I will be bones and skin and nothing
no more.
Saturday, January 21, 2017
Anti Protest, Protest
People will march tomorrow. Several thousand people will protest the state of things and convince themselves of progress. This is unskilled thinking. To remove one evil to be rapidly replaced by another. We are in this now. The most absurd and laughable leader has been chosen. It is done. I understand the sadness. The shock. The unwillingness to accept. The problem now is not what's done. No amount of dissent will save us now because of our inability to accept the true nature of what is. We did this. We created this with our apathy, our hatred, our fear. We brought this to be because of our externalization of reality. The new *gulp* president merely embodies how messed the world has become under our dutiful watch...when we're not on our cell phones, computers and generally ignoring one another. We have forced the hands that guide us by electing a man to power whom only serves one man. We wanted an answer. A quick fix to a delicate and intrinsic tangle. It serves no one but oneself to protest and march and chant and rally. We do this because we are at a loss as to what to do. None of us truly understands how to 'fix' the world or to make existence 'better'. So we cry out in divided unison. We cry out to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. It serves the one and only one.
I protest on the inside. I challenge internally how I turn so quickly to judgement when I could show a glimmer of compassion. I disapprove of my actions if they resemble disrespect to a fellow man regardless of race, creed, colour or sex. I question my speech if it offends or portrays anything but empathy. I choose not to protest a broken leader in an inefficient system out of a mock sense of self righteous indignation. I could pretend that the leadership is the problem and not the reasons behind why this particular leader is now ours to endure. I could pick a side and bury my head in the deep end of the sandbox with images of what grand deeds shall be accomplished. I could put on airs that I know the answer and write a smarmy blog post proving such. Or I could just do the best I can everyday. For nearly most of us, that's all anyone is trying to do. So let's support one another in that! Regardless of where your vote led, let us be there for one another. Enough torturing one another with endless debate over who is right and whose a racist. This is a game for which you both look like assholes. Turn awareness inward, silence the ego for just long enough to hear what needs to be done. We only serve to entrench ourselves in disillusioned dialogue that will never provide the remedy. Pick your feet up not to march but to take you to someone in need of a hug. Open your mouth not to scream a pithy rhyme but to say a consoling word to someone in need. Spread your fingers wide not to hold a sign within them but to wave hello to a passer-by. It sounds small and insignificant and myopic, maybe. If we are incapable of beginning with you and I, I fear we will be consumed by the hallucination that seems to fit and not the one we design.
I protest on the inside. I challenge internally how I turn so quickly to judgement when I could show a glimmer of compassion. I disapprove of my actions if they resemble disrespect to a fellow man regardless of race, creed, colour or sex. I question my speech if it offends or portrays anything but empathy. I choose not to protest a broken leader in an inefficient system out of a mock sense of self righteous indignation. I could pretend that the leadership is the problem and not the reasons behind why this particular leader is now ours to endure. I could pick a side and bury my head in the deep end of the sandbox with images of what grand deeds shall be accomplished. I could put on airs that I know the answer and write a smarmy blog post proving such. Or I could just do the best I can everyday. For nearly most of us, that's all anyone is trying to do. So let's support one another in that! Regardless of where your vote led, let us be there for one another. Enough torturing one another with endless debate over who is right and whose a racist. This is a game for which you both look like assholes. Turn awareness inward, silence the ego for just long enough to hear what needs to be done. We only serve to entrench ourselves in disillusioned dialogue that will never provide the remedy. Pick your feet up not to march but to take you to someone in need of a hug. Open your mouth not to scream a pithy rhyme but to say a consoling word to someone in need. Spread your fingers wide not to hold a sign within them but to wave hello to a passer-by. It sounds small and insignificant and myopic, maybe. If we are incapable of beginning with you and I, I fear we will be consumed by the hallucination that seems to fit and not the one we design.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Anti or Pro?
Our ego enjoys the juicy nosh on controversial subjects. We love to pick a side and chew on the remains of the day. It's so lovely to debate. It's so satisfying to see the glint of discord in a fellow beings eyes when you've 'trumped' his opinion for yours. Which of course is the only true and just opinion to have. Your opinion has been mulled over and thought upon at great lengths. You've probably spent a fair amount of energy researching why you're so very correct. But that's the just of it. It is just your opinion. The universe doesn't care about what you think is right, or fair or just. Wars have been waged over what is thought to be right and fair and just versus the other guys opinion to the opposite. People are dying everyday over what one believes in friction to another. Often times the ones so content to be right are the most violent and toxic people this world has ever known.
I ask of you, in what revolution has one ever found success? In the history of mankind, there is not one. Real and lasting change does not come from rioting, rallying, nor masses gathering in peaceful outrage. The Vietnam war did not cease to be because of protests. Monk self-immolation and the Kent State four did not sway those in power to cease and desist. These tragedies were mere dramatic epilogues in a beast too large to fell. Women suffrage did not occur through numbers even though we had them. It came to pass through the democratic process of lobbying and petition. The Civil Rights Movement is still moving through years of bloodshed, destruction and disillusionment.
So now I remain confused. I have been invited to participate in the March of Women to protest Trumps' Inauguration. Why? This will not alter the past nor steer the future to a more positive outcome...whatever that means. It means that a bunch of people will be 'seen' as activists. Some wonderful photos will be taken and everyone will pat the other's ego in a 'Mission Accomplished' type scenario. Not only will the foe of today's fight be quashed but the ego can now rest assure that the right side has won out against evil and tyranny once more. This is a dangerous game to be playing at. To vilify the other has never gotten society anywhere but deeper into the pit of distraction and dis-ease. We divert attention to things we 'feel' matter when in reality, this is not so. The reality isn't that Trump is going to be the leader of the free world although, that is for sure happening regardless of protest. The reality is that society is crumbling at a ferocious rate and the population is disillusioned and dissatisfied with life as we know it. People are out of work. Homelessness, illness, climate change, pollution, rape, inequality...this is the reality faced by so many. Instead of addressing these real and tangible problems, we obsess over an ineffectual political leader. Do we obsess because we have no idea how to actually help one another and our planet? Are we so lazy and self concerned that a 'March' is what will suffice as actual change? Would we rather debate until our eyes glaze over and mouths turn purple then effect true societal and humanitarian arising?
Civil, Racial and Equal Rights are not going to regress because of the carnage about to enfold in the White House. They regress because we distract ourselves into thinking about the unreality of nature and forget that we are in control over how we treat one another and the planet every moment of every day. It's dangerous to think that choosing a side on any matter is going to solve the problem. We must look deeper. Deep into our own consciousness to realize that change begins in our thoughts and that leads to correct action. The ego must not be our guide if we are to survive on this rocket ship around the sun. I cannot help another if I'm caught in the story I want to tell myself about what is good and what is bad. Such dialogue leads to picking a side and blaming the other. Turn the blame inward and that's when real progress begins.
P.S If any reader thinks this was pro or anti Trump in any way...give your head a shake. The two brain cells remaining may rub together causing enough friction for a fire and rid us of your stupidity.
I ask of you, in what revolution has one ever found success? In the history of mankind, there is not one. Real and lasting change does not come from rioting, rallying, nor masses gathering in peaceful outrage. The Vietnam war did not cease to be because of protests. Monk self-immolation and the Kent State four did not sway those in power to cease and desist. These tragedies were mere dramatic epilogues in a beast too large to fell. Women suffrage did not occur through numbers even though we had them. It came to pass through the democratic process of lobbying and petition. The Civil Rights Movement is still moving through years of bloodshed, destruction and disillusionment.
So now I remain confused. I have been invited to participate in the March of Women to protest Trumps' Inauguration. Why? This will not alter the past nor steer the future to a more positive outcome...whatever that means. It means that a bunch of people will be 'seen' as activists. Some wonderful photos will be taken and everyone will pat the other's ego in a 'Mission Accomplished' type scenario. Not only will the foe of today's fight be quashed but the ego can now rest assure that the right side has won out against evil and tyranny once more. This is a dangerous game to be playing at. To vilify the other has never gotten society anywhere but deeper into the pit of distraction and dis-ease. We divert attention to things we 'feel' matter when in reality, this is not so. The reality isn't that Trump is going to be the leader of the free world although, that is for sure happening regardless of protest. The reality is that society is crumbling at a ferocious rate and the population is disillusioned and dissatisfied with life as we know it. People are out of work. Homelessness, illness, climate change, pollution, rape, inequality...this is the reality faced by so many. Instead of addressing these real and tangible problems, we obsess over an ineffectual political leader. Do we obsess because we have no idea how to actually help one another and our planet? Are we so lazy and self concerned that a 'March' is what will suffice as actual change? Would we rather debate until our eyes glaze over and mouths turn purple then effect true societal and humanitarian arising?
Civil, Racial and Equal Rights are not going to regress because of the carnage about to enfold in the White House. They regress because we distract ourselves into thinking about the unreality of nature and forget that we are in control over how we treat one another and the planet every moment of every day. It's dangerous to think that choosing a side on any matter is going to solve the problem. We must look deeper. Deep into our own consciousness to realize that change begins in our thoughts and that leads to correct action. The ego must not be our guide if we are to survive on this rocket ship around the sun. I cannot help another if I'm caught in the story I want to tell myself about what is good and what is bad. Such dialogue leads to picking a side and blaming the other. Turn the blame inward and that's when real progress begins.
P.S If any reader thinks this was pro or anti Trump in any way...give your head a shake. The two brain cells remaining may rub together causing enough friction for a fire and rid us of your stupidity.
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