Bumper sticker noted today:

Friends don't let friends plant annuals.


MIDDLESPACE - the space between

So, I am routinely bombarded with "funny" forwarded e-mailings (from "friends"). For some reason people think I find this stuff amusing. Sadly, sometimes I do. Often, I delete these messages before even I read it. I cannot summon the words to ask well meaning people to stop sending them.

Today, I received: "things youd love to say at work but can't" [sic]. You know the kind:

>7. I'm out of my mind, but feel free to leave a message...
>15. I will always cherish the initial misconceptions I had about you.
>25. This isn't an office. It's Hell with fluorescent lighting.

But, one I found particularly poignant and thought provoking for some odd reason; one that sums up my experience is:

>38. I thought I wanted a career, turns out I just wanted paychecks.

How interesting. You never know what route inspiration will take. What the hell is career?

Career: The general course or progression of one's working life or one's professional achievements.

We've been somehow trained to find one thing in our lives, focus on that and do it forever. No diversity, no change. In some corners of our culture it's still admirable to work for the same organization until retirement. Loyalty is a virtue - then we die. We should all have careers and be professional, right? We can be career professionals. That's what I will tell people I "do" when I am asked, "so, what do you do?" I am a career professional! My college major was: Professional Careerism.

Professional: Engaging in a given activity as a source of livelihood or as a career.

I am sitting here because they pay me to sit here.

All I want to really do is make things. Call it art or a calling or my passion, but I just want to spend most of my time making things. I want to make more records - recordings with sounds and songs, I want to take photographs. I want to paint, film things and built odd or useful objects. I want to integrate all medium while ignoring the conventions and cliches of medium. I want to write. I want to juxtapose. I want to think.

In return, I am not really interested in selling any of it or really having much exposure. I know enough people that may or may not enjoy my work. I know enough people to push it on. Most people won't get it anyway. Uh, the questions, "what does it mean?" Hell if I know. What does your nose mean? I just want to do what is already trying to squeeze from my fingers and from my head. It's like breathing...what does breathing mean? Ask yourself what does meaning mean.

Okay, for the first time I will tell everyone what it all means. Simultaneously, it means everything while meaning absolutely nothing. I am not a career professional in reality interpretation. It means what it you. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

I want time. Like fire, we've done a good taming of time; but it is still wild and dangerous when inclined to it's true, feral nature. Where does it go?

Time is my fire.

Thank you for your time.




Run, run as fast as you above. Roosterism: click below:




"It's true that a certain caution had crept into my life. Because of the penury that my slacker ways had brought me, I had been disguising myself as an adult in order to make money. The disguise had been getting better and better. For a period, I wore ties and slacks and leather shoes. In an epic gesture of accommodation, I had cut my hair. But even though I no longer looked particularly young, I thought my pedigree of youthfulness shined through."

- Cary Tennis, Salon



because of the anger unwarranted

the frustration boils over

the pot steaming, red and bitter

if everyone were like me

i would be one of them

so my positions hold - guarded

i cared because i do

without ally nor foe

only the raging, one-sided

debate waged between temples

the lust of power is the lust for death

winds heavy with clinging summer

the ache imagined more hurtful than

the pain realized

no answers no questions

only lies and perceptions

if i hate them perhaps i hate myself

Blind Date - Don't fetishize Sept. 11. By William Saletan


William Saletan at Slate eloquently writes what I was feeling about this weepy, groveling "moment of silence" business:

"When we fetishize anniversaries, we risk squandering their lessons. We focus on the kind of attack we suffered that day—a massive strike by a nation-state, a plane hijacking by Arabs—losing sight of different enemies and methods more likely to follow. We imagine that the problem we face began on the day we were struck, forgetting the years beforehand in which it plagued other regions. And we foster an illusion that the story is over. Sept. 11 threatens to do for terrorism what Mother's Day does for motherhood: liberate us from thinking about it 364 days a year."

No. It’s not that I am "cold" to this situation. I recognize that it is my obligation as an American to persevere, not roll over and urinate all over myself with grief. I don't need Wendell or Bush or anyone else telling me how and when to mourn. I have that covered. This "war on terrorism" is not over. The domestic war on freedom is not over. Let's not turn September 11 into a made-for-Hallmark holiday. Next year, we'll all give cards and gifts, perhaps put our 9/11 presents under our 9/11 tree.

I grieve and reflect on "nine-eleven" all the time - every day, in fact. This world, my place in it, my child's place is something I take seriously and thoughtfully. This paltry, "minute of silence" disgraces the memories of the slaughtered. And, this American flag nonsense? Where do I start? This is exactly the problem. Us against Them. It's not about America. It's about all of us; the entire world. I do not have to wear a flag pin - or, worse: put a flag on my Arab oil guzzling SUV - to be a patriot.

In fact, by not being a lemming, I exemplify America.

Your friend,




Nothing chokes all the blood from your spirit like a little baby, your little baby, your one and only newborn daughter, crying her eyes out - tears pooling in her eyes and dripping down her little, chubby cheeks. Her eyes shimmering in the fluorescent lighting of the hospital lab - lucidly staring into yours as if begging for help. As she bawls, her outstretched hand shakes and her body stiffens. As the phlebotomist feels around for a vein through the baby fat in her bound arm, she assures you that your progeny is only crying because she's being held still; not because the procedure causes her physical pain. We all know needles hurt but the "big comforting lie" actually relieves. The wails penetrate every cell of your being. You hurt - ache - sear for her. You'd take pain a thousand times over to spare her this moment. You tell her everything is fine and remind her that she is a fearless, tough and wondrous girl even though she cannot understand a word you say.

Then it ends. And life continues. She'll never remember it. I will forever.