"
The older we get, the more... you realize there's a whole range of things that you will never do, of things and people you will never be. As life becomes more and more limiting, there is something wonderful about being able to get inside the skin of people unlike yourself." -Lee Smith
I know, according to some, I'm young. But there's really no way to tell, until you get really old. Because when you're young you could still die at any moment. In fact, you probably will. Death may come slowly, but it surely comes. And in perfect time. Death is a conductor. And I'll be second chair violin, screeching out notes with my halting, graceless movements and good habits almost entirely lost. Eeking out a painless elegy for the perfunctory heroics expected at that time when Death signals: intensity!
We're grown to consume. Even the pequininos were grown. Literally, in a tree. Eating their way out to the light. To grow and thrive and meet an end or a beginning. Ends for science. Beginnings for little ones. At the moment, I feel something different from young. Disconnected, tree-like. Watching the scenes of the overwrought strangers from a safe distance, vicariously consuming their pains, their speckled hive scribed and rolled, their silent voices curling and unfolding and wasting away from the hearts they know best, from hearts that have forgotten how to beat. This "something wonderful about being able to get inside the skin of people unlike yourself." It tastes like chicken. So does disappointment. Grief, is one of the few things that does not taste like chicken. If anything, cheap salted ham on a cheap white roll. And it is to be frowned upon and everything done regardless of circumstance. Or perhaps in spite of circumstances. The nose. The spite. The uncaring face.
"...And sometimes his mind was almost devoid of thought, as he stood or sat or lay in the grass, too numb to weep, her face passing through his memory, his lips and tongue and teeth forming her name, pleading with her silently, knowing that even if he made a sound, even if he shouted, even if he could make her hear his voice, she wouldn't answer him.
Novinha." -OSC
XenocideI suppose there are many people who would feel their life fulfilled, or at least passable, if given at the end of their lives they had the one they love. Love so rarely matches up one side with the other. It pretends and we're all just puzzle pieces ramming into eachother in the hope that if we do that enough, the puzzle piece might fit. We look for (dream of) the perfect fit in 6 billion. We want our very own swan or gray wolf. Our vulture or angel fish. The perfect little existence, bound up in spark plug wires, zip ties, electrical cord, and a house with a picket fence. From snide to sincere in under 3 seconds. Every piece a piece pretending. And all pretending pays a price.
In the morning, when I wake, I shiver waiting for the shower water to heat up. Bleary eyes glance back and forth between fans, corners (check for spiders), mirrors, reflections, faded ink, and doubled up shower curtain. Mornings are the times when one is closest to eternity. Cold is unending, and the dread of the day sets in slowly, increasing with consciousness, until you're brushing your teeth, spitting green and white against porcelain thinking,
I have arrived. Today is here. Tommorrow is the new, the only goal. Eternity is the way things are and the way they were and the way they are going to be, and stay away BG witches, cause when you play with fires and fulcrums you're bound to get burned, even if only your pride. Pride sizzles. It does not bubble like apple pie. It sizzles like a BLT.
Today I had not enough sleep to compensate for the disgustedness of the world and the cold and the hot of the weather refusing to decide just what it will be. People dead for no reason. Copy cat crimes. Attacking those who most want to be alone, quiet, humble. Attacks on existence. They happen here at home just as much as they happen in the war. To me the world seems far too relevant lately. All of it is inextricably tied together, and there's no way to separate any of the horrors in other worlds from the horrors in our own. They are not only similar, but created by the same ideas, the same people sometimes, the same mistakes. So we must assauge one problem somehow. And then another. And then run back to the first, because sometimes things just don't take, and over and over, until the sky clears a little bit. Until people can sleep and girls won't be gathered together like cattle to be misused. Until hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians don't lay dead on the ground, bodies befouled. I am ashamed of the people who claim their words and motives are "pure", but when put into action are malicious, disgusting, unworthy. The world and I do not get along very well right now. Perhaps it is because I like people too much. Which is strange, considering what a hermit I am. Maybe I like the idea of people more, very egotistically preferring my own view of people and humanity to reality. So yeah, I was a total grouch today.
This has been another rambling, dull entry. Venting angers at the world and time and space and synchronicity. But it is a disguise. Depending upon how you read it, this all can be incredibly optimistic.
I worry that maybe. You know, just maybe, I am a lotus eater. Or maybe I'm not. Maybe I want to be a lotus eater. Let us hope to the contrary. 
"There are more ideas on earth than intellectuals imagine. And these ideas are more active, stronger, more resistant, more passionate than 'politicians' think. We have to be there at the birth of ideas, the bursting outward of their force: not in books expressing them, but in events manifesting this force, in struggles carried on around ideas, for or against them. Ideas do not rule the world. But it is because the world has ideas... that it is not passively ruled by those who are its leaders or those who would like to teach it, once and for all, what it must think." -MF
