Who gives a shit?


          Each day that we wake we are given the opportunity to brush our teeth, comb our hair, wash our bodies- take showers, while checking our phones for notifications, and prepare for what befalls us.  We are given the opportunity to generally do things which are perceived as socially acceptable, things that have been done for years.  These socially acceptable things are finely attuned and have become routed into our daily lives.  I wonder do we actually speak true words, or do we just say what we have to- are told to say?  Have we ever actually lived outside of the social constructs of our civilization?  Was that thought dead hundreds of years ago and planted in my genes to reflect on it now by my severely late distant relative?  I have to wonder, why do we give a shit? 

          Is there a fear of appearing not to appear?  You’re only as relevant as the things around you. 

          It is easy to create an android self, unreal to our tangible urges and convictions; something fabricated, synthesized, and enacted to create a façade, something that others will like…  But is that us?  I want to go to heaven, but pre-marital sex is awesome.  I am animal; I should howl, fuck, eat, and bite, right?  Have you burped, farted, spit, bled, or cursed and felt hot eyes of disapproval move on you?  Yes.  Most people do these things, if not only in the privacy of their home, behind closed doors, but out in the general public unannounced.  Some even do these things in public.  Some people even poop in public; I’ve seen it around town, or the aftermath.  Now my stomach rumbles. 

          My mother told me to hold my tongue because it might get me into trouble.  I respect her.  So be it, I spoke my mind.  And it felt wonderful.  Maybe I enjoy the excitement of getting in trouble, or venting, or not holding in my opinion, actions.  Who cares?  Who really gives a shit?  I tell people what I think because I actually think that.  There is nothing to apologize for- nothing.  If someone is being a dick label them a dick.  If they love you they will forgive you. 

          I tell others to call in sick, to quit the jobs they hate, and to think differently, because you might die tomorrow, because people I respect once told me that same shit.  Say whatever you want to say, you are a brave and thoughtful person.  My father told me not to worry about death or plans, because he could walk across the street and die right here, right now- well not anymore.  I have taken that with me. 

          Is the reality so hard to see?  We all have double chins, drinking problems, beer bellies, errant hairs, torn jeans, repetitive fashion, pimps and blemishes.  Some people like to stick needles in their arms to feel better about their life as a whole- these “junk abusers” as my predecessors have coined.  Some people like to have lots of money because they lack morality and will stop at nothing to attain it.  Some people have fancy cars because possibly they have small penises.  I see legs exposed to the sun with words scrawled of raised flesh which scream cutter.  Does it seem as sexy now?  Is that sort of display a problem?  Why hide them?  No one cares. 

          Embracing our flaws makes us different, unique, and human.  Once I was running across the Stone Arch Bridge while listening to the Muse and I started crying for no reason, it burned.  I didn’t care.  I was a crybaby, but it didn’t matter.  Around campus a person can see mini-skirts, fake tans, breasts in push-up bras, bandanas, muscle T’s, sports apparel, and perfectly did hair, but is that exciting?  Does it matter?  I find it hard to take people seriously when their make-up appears better than their attitude.  Attitude is everything, and in a sense, one can’t fake that.  Attitude doesn’t give a shit.  Das ist ein Fakt.

          But what if your attitude is iconoclastic?  Should it give a shit too?

          If that be the case, hopefully they don’t treat you like they did in elementary school.  Sit in the corner!  You miss recess, and you don’t get to talk, or walk, or play.  Eat your Cheese Dunkers and shut it!  What you did is punishable by demerits!  That is an infraction!  At times kids had been so bad that they had to sit for two hours after school in a library and be subjected to a horrible old codger.  He is dead now- RIP, so that is payback for his ill mannerisms during detention. 

          Everyone has bad days and good days, but what is there to feel good or bad about?  I don’t think one moment has ever defined me as a person, good or bad, not even this moment.  Moments have stuck for years, but change is always in the air.  Nothing is really stagnant, not even ill will.  Is there a good or a bad, or is there a just is?  Life happens, it just is.  No one chose to be born, to be white, or pink, to be male or female, to be disemboweled, or a whimper, or to be drunk (well maybe not the last one). 

          I enjoy the idea of getting drunk, but I don’t like being drunk.  I enjoy the idea of being born, but I don’t wish to be born my whole life.  Some Christians want to be born again, but I find the act disgusting, painful, and abusive towards women.  Wasn’t your first birth traumatic enough?  I feel bad for your mother.  However, it would be an act where someone does something, which is.  The act of doing, the Funktionslust- the joy of doing is what moves and molds us.  So, I guess if one likes to be reborn they should be reborn all the time, immer.  My judgment is unimportant, and sedimented in bias language. 

          Doing without caring; everything is improvised, even this writing, this conversation, and this alarm-clock slap.  It was sort of not really maybe planned out, and it transpired- so there, now it is almost over.  Done.  It just is.   

          Most people are afraid to give speeches, public speaking, or to even present themselves as they are, but there is a need for that.  You must tell people what you feel, what you think, without being afraid.  Fear and excitement and anger are a person’s best friend, they motivate and create contrast.  Daily life can become humdrum and boring, make it a party; tell people to fuck off.  Do something outrageous, let people stare, you are in the exact spot you are in for a specific reason, and whether it is fate or coincidence it is happening. 

          At times I am terrified with what I might say because of social sanctions, stigmas attached, and mislabels, however, it is easy to be afraid of something you don’t understand.  Yet, maybe the thing you fear doesn’t understand you, so maybe it fears you just as much, or more.  See?  It just is.


          Life happens, alongside the social standards, the folds we crease, the hats we wear, with the judgments and fears we face.  I see people portrayed on Facebook (and other social media) as they would like to be seen, they give a shit.  They care about the amount of likes they will achieve, the positive feedback.  Yet, did they do anything new, different, transcendental, or did they just fill a part?  -A trivial marketing part, at that.  Let’s start to not giving a shit, because life just is.  Let’s have fun.  Who enjoys social norms anyway?  Normal is boring!  But normal is just a label, a metaphor signified by a sound (ah, the modern episteme; knowledge, language.).  Who gives a shit? 

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Language and Real-Life; Bugs, Viruses, and Human Beings

The Mississippi River, Lake City, MN.

The Mississippi River, Lake City, MN.

            Appeasement, atonement, euphemisms: these expressions wouldn’t matter if they were really real, but they are not.  They remain excuses for the hot-winded.  If a butterfly didn’t have wings it would be no better than an ant.  If a butterfly was never a caterpillar it would have no chance of rectifying itself, or reflecting on what it could have been.  There it would be, just a worm.  Irony, I call it.  Something of the sort, the like; the kind, ideally… -I bet that wingless ant is apologetic even without knowing what it lacks.  Crawling across the ground, low to it, in an army, marching, in the dark, automated by commands, such is the life.  However, the ant is not a worm.  I wonder about the Queen Ant though, and these restrictions we must follow- rules, morals, ethos, law, grammar.  And I bet she never read Nietzsche. 

            This town is full of sales men and women, marketers.  They are not unlike the ant, or the worm, or certain lawyers, they are low to the ground.  Not all I say, but a few I know lack moral and imagination- the insects that is.  They look for one thing, fibrous, pale-green, marked with historic faces and statements of trusting God, dollar bills; which accumulate whenever your eyes dart at a canvas (I use canvas loosely): words, models, statements.  They want you to look, subconsciously, to remember a slogan minced with sex, alcohol, drugs, wants-for-needs, like that, you go home and think, ponder, fancy.  Pharmacies were built bottle by bottle, and they drew up the blueprints.  You say: I need that, I need that, I need that…  Every little space you see in front of you is used for some purpose, but what?  Even if it is the air you breathe. 


            We sat at a coffee shop, inside cold air-condition, Mapps, and thought of smoking cigarettes.  The pink and orange clouds moved across the cityscape followed by darkness, heavy, symbolizing precipitation.  I estimated it would get wet, it did eventually.  The patio was shaded by the newly remodeled building.  Cars drove by.  People spoke.  We lacked a lighter as we mentioned death.  The only really real thing in life is death.  Just like nothing is impossible, not even saying that everything is possible is possible- that is impossible, so everything and nothing is impossible.  I read the over hyphenated obituary and thought of tUnE-yArDs.  My India Pale Ale was nice, full-bodied, and yellowish-amber, sat cold in a glass.  The waiter was healthy.  He had to find us a lighter. 

            To “Jerome” (fake name),

I noticed your email.  It was tender, kind and honest…  I am just fucking around.  Your email was nothing short of trite name calling, a misunderestimated effort…  I am sure you moved those newsstands on to the sidewalk, you paid to have them there, you set them up to draw attention, and some little punk stole your goddamn space.  You never imagined me.  Funny how things work both ways; it so happens that if you put your paper there and then I come by and put my paper there, after, covering your paper, your attempts become void.  Threats are provocation, insults are inspiration.  Everyone around this town knows a thing or two about that, in some way or another.  We are the same in that we are different, so let’s get along with one another. 

Free to all.  I stand behind what I print, even if it stands in your newsstands.  Also, they stand on my sidewalk (via: tax dollars).  I wonder if that feels good.

“When you wear a mask always sound like a liar.” –tUnE-yArDs

            The problem with language is the person using it.  Not understanding language is the folly.  Not reading, or being unable to read is a tragedy.  Avoiding the conversation is possible.  I don’t know… I think people are objective until something is at stake, and then we introduce the modern episteme; we have fight or flight, we do one or the other.  In this case there is a third response, a subterfuge.  Still always remain these ubiquitous labels.  We have a break in the connection.  One party is the somnambulist and the other is lucid, awake, alive, controlling the circus, contorting the concepts, and skewing the margins.  What for?  Self-gain.  And no one is the wiser, mostly.  Nothing is all that sad, except for the idea that some will exist solely to bring others down, to live off of their accomplishments, while offering nothing of their own, boasting, verbose, delusional.  That is how they exist, not unlike a virus.  Not unlike ants or worms, never taking flight, very close to dirt. 

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Stewart Anthony; stuck in time

10603405_10203481050599662_622607921470157463_nStewart Anthony, cruising on top of paved world only being brought down by circles and circles and circles, to the left; grotesquely contorted accidental acrobat; unfortunate excite- unfortunate.

Sound of a revved engine.  Once touting a broken leg and ego, and only with an underdog tenacity; the All-American aggressor.

But that is his sport.  He is a product of his environment.  Emulating those from a by-gone era, that of stock car racing; just after the moonshine.  We say Nature vs. Nurture.

Spawn child of backcountry man-proof, unlawfulness.  Now, immensely corporate, while urbane enjoyable; leaving the yard in leathers soaked in champagne, ladies follow with fake tits and platinum blond hair, arm in arm, just for the camera.  Give the king his fucking crown.  The Paparazzi begs for a kiss, PLEASE, JUST ONE!  -The women, the fast cars, the media, glitz and glam and everything right.  -Don’t let them down.

Then a black hole opens up above the tracks overhead.  You stay, but everything else is sucked up and pulled apart, piece by piece.  Paramedics run with arms out like they are in shock, the worst feeling.  No human being can fix this.

I remember Sundays it brought the family together, over beans and ham.  Grandma would scold.  We had come from scripture and hymns- that proud.  And he had it all.  Grandpa was there, Dad was there, Grandma was there, but they are all gone now.  He thought-

I have this one,

It won’t get away,

Then again

I was once that young boy he thought, again.  His heart raced.  Quick to wag finger a gesture of aggression, just as his idols; pedals and metal frames, the sort, gas-brake exchange.  An empire built around him, his panache, his disdain, one couldn’t miss the complexion gave pink on his face under black mane.

Was it an act?  It happened all the same.  He sits staring at his reflection marble pillars alone.  Sitting, idle, staring at the rearview mirror, breaking it off with gloved hand.  Splintered mirror bloody hands.  This is incredible.  Let’s take it back.

No more bullshitting about fucking off.

A moment later you can’t take back that moment.  This bad moment defining a lifetime; forget everything good you’ve ever done.  Tears for anyone with empathy enough to live through death (on both sides; the living and the dead alike), everyone, tears as big as October Cabbages, even in June, July, and August.

Could he get behind that wheel again?  Drive it backwards like Ferris Bueller’s Day off?  It never happened.  Cameron kicks it through the floor to ceiling window, though; suspense thriller in this classic feel-good- Spoiler Alter.

A life surrounded by cars, even when biking.  So many thoughts, nothing is right.  All is uncertain, that is life.  -Pulling to the side, at a loss.  -Looking back, cameras on you, unable to move.

The young, the hit-baiters, media-fucks, those seeking views for viewpoints print unwarranted opinions which fall flat against fact.  Yeah, I said that.

There remain two events which are objective:  One, someone has succumbed, died, passed (whatever euphemism you choose to use with an –ed suffix), and two, someone will be blamed, even if by accident, even with good intentions.

Stewart Anthony will forever be frame-by-frame a (that word), stigmatized.  Judgment passed, we sit and relax, but he sits and has to live with his life, as it is, as another life is lost, try and wash your hands Macbeth.  Screams couldn’t describe despair.

No one is to blame.  It’s funny how things change, though this change is not funny.  No one forced anyone to race for the checkered.  An argument before you are breathless, never to regain; one foot in front of a speeding car, reckless.  Watching eyes made to retain.  And one wonders what one was thinking.  One just has to think, what did he see?

And in an age of technology, ubiquitous cameras, camera phones, and high-tech recording devices, nothing is private, not even death, not even grief, not even accusations- these things we must live with, at least…

The announcers almost pulled it off gracefully, but I could imagine them seeing only one image.  I saw it over and over again, back and forth, in slow-motion, from one angle as most.  We needed another angle.  I agree.  I thought it could be a life motto.  A new perspective on everything, and we lose that one thing.  But what if we had it still, would it change anything?


An interlude: Not specifically for this piece:  I could never live with that.  I will never consent to go to war, to kill, to malign.  I will never change someone’s course.  People do what they want.  My religion is peace.


They were set out on that road, and they crossed paths.  That is all that happened.  Those are the only facts.  Stewart Anthony must, for indefinite lengths of time live with this surreal reality, likened to the Twilight Zone.  You do not sleep, you do not eat, and you do not exist without thinking about certain things.

Those involved will have night-terrors.  Wake up sweating, that thing is coming to get you, it hides in the shadows and behind doors.  No face, long fingers.  Unnamable offenses can only describe.  It is silent when you scream, and then you wake up never wanting to go back.  Black bags under eyes reflect that, as if they’ve been packed.

What we can do now is show respect.  Stewart Anthony, now, it is you we will never forget, and for what- such is life.  I dream of days before, talking on the phone, not knowing.  All are innocent, painted evil by confused people.

The missing piece of the puzzle is lost, puzzling us.

Posted in @sirterryscott, Creative Non-Fiction, Essay, Houston County, Houston County News, La Crescent, Midwest, Minneapolis, MN, Photography, Poetry, Prose, Twin Cities, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

When I was a Bird (Living in Bush Valley)



On a whim,

On a branch,

On a hope,

On a past.

Broken sticks for bones, they come draped in tattered sheets; these are wings attached to me.  I am this sad bird, no tears show a melancholy.  I cannot fly, I never have- never will.  I look up as if I have aspirations, few.  I look down more often, thinking, had they done this before?  Am I setting precedent?  How hard will I crash on impact?  The sun is proving limelight this event.  This tree is tall, apathetic, and old.  How bold am I?

The joy of being young, a boy, naïve, astute, and poised, is obsolete now.  Feelings die too.  Factions and attraction fill this fleshy head.  I have no need for money, labels, or plans.  Instead I relish now; no past-tense, or future, somehow.  Standing on this feeble limb looking down- it bends.

Failing industrious mentality, the gears inside my skull give out black smoke as they grind to a halt, working too hard on thought too deep.  Hear the sharp metal sound of grinding components which accompany this orchestra of confusion, breaking off one piece at a time… in my mind.

Dirt below, dark, rank; gathered dead leaves, fodder, debris.  My father used to hunt this forest in the morning, both sides of the valley, at that time the fog had not lifted yet- seasons we remember.  12 gauge relevant ascending the hillside.  He would live three days in one.  His energy, whether good or bad, would never tire; thinking on that now I feel lazy, I see others and I think how lazy.  What a waste of time they have become- I shouldn’t be so judgmental.  This, and these words, may be a waste of time.  Making time for it, I find.

We were young, waiting at the bus, me and my sister.  The yellow mass box would lurch and pull and move towards us with a howl, post-fall wearing chains on its tires, proper traction.  I feared this vehicle as much as I needed the shelter it gave, especially in subzero winter months.

A venue for bullies ubiquitous, having imagination made you queer, and a target, being big-boned made you fat, and different, also a target.  Reading slow made you dumb; you sat with the “special needs kids” at the “special needs table”.  Fists bruised your flesh, laughing and calling they gathered, but only to watch your demise.  Obscurity took away helping hands and orphaned you institutionally.

Cold, we stood at the end of the driveway, though, having to trek there first.  It was Sleepy Hollow walking to its end; under massive cottonwood trees with outlined grotesque hands and fingers, grabbing at nothing, carelessly free.  Looking up one could see the eerie morning moon still chasing after the night, that close- yet still seen.

I thought it counted for dark, especially closer to winter, just before the snow had fallen.  Daylight savings changed the playing field by shades of gray, a feeling uneasy, entirely.

It was deer season opener.  My dad had taken Pastor Mark into the woods to hunt deer, on our land- God’s land.  I knew he was watching somewhere in the distant thick foliage.  He was out there, but then again I thought of how far away he must be.  I thought he couldn’t see us.

Then I heard the bus coming, the bird said my name, “terry”.  Bush Valley surrounded and shaded the rising light.  A fresh cut woodpile held to the ground near a ditch, tan and pale, grandpa had just tended it; as evidence sawdust lie matted gathering dirt color more as the days grew short.  The other side of the road a creek ran. This was our drinking water.  We’d catch frogs frequently, here and there.  Little bugs swam in it, translucent.

All was green and covered in frost; fall was upon us.  We saw the lights coming, the stop sign swung out.  Standing, waiting, backing up, noticing; Ma had a flower wheel at the end of the driveway near our mail box- it was white at a time, dinged and peeled now, warm nostalgia.  A comforting feeling spread out on the cut grass.

Things were all right then.  The bus came down, stopping with a screech.  We always looked both ways, checking the street for our safety before crossing.  We pulled ourselves on, and then we were off.

Our neighbor’s dog was out, always, it was white and black, some sort of collie.  It would run along the bus just to the edge of the property near the pond.  The dog would stop and watch for a moment and then turn around, tail wagging, and saunter back.  You could see this out the emergency door of the bus as it went down the road holding the pavement.

The birds kept calling my name.  I was ready to fly, but I had no practice or patience.  I bounded on the branch to get some lift.  One, two, three… And that was it.  I fell right into my plastic-for-leather bus seat and sat.

Posted in @sirterryscott, Creative Non-Fiction, Essay, Houston County, Houston County News, La Crescent, Midwest, Minneapolis, MN, Photography, Poetry, Prose, Twin Cities | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Radom Radio Resources

192879_10150251550197051_4848268_oUtilizing resources seems to be the difference between those who struggle and those who don’t, only to succeed. Wasting time and not knowing facts on issues runs rampant in the States. We live in a society where there is separation of church and state, yet the currency we are partial to suggests in bold letters: IN GOD WE TRUST. This may seem a bit hypocritical and wrong, but this morning I found out where my tax dollars were going: to Russia, to Israel, to the Mexican border. What say do I have?

The whole idea that the U.S. is run by those who don’t actually care about the people who vote them into office is merely a suggestion. I got my idea from the news. It was from an unbiased coverage of an event from multiple pundits, which most people don’t really get. That is just an assumption though, I believe there are people who get their news from more than one resource; there are those who bank at two different banks; drive two different cars; wear two different shoes; and there are those who diversify their interests in play. Why not?

The radio has shown me, NPR/MPR specifically, that random diversity keeps life interesting, especially entertainment-wise, information-wise. These broadcasts fight against the monoculture which is corporate radio, ad-laden leaders of selling whatever shit they can push. I am sick of the cacophony of noise promoting this and that, while avoiding things that I actually care about.

MPR changed me a bit these last few days. While cooking lunch I found my thoughts going from Chocolate to Ebola, from Credit Unions to Gaza, Ukraine to Russia, and then on to women in leadership roles. What more could I ask of the news?

I was baffled at where I had been in 15 minutes, from jokes on politicians and fake campaigns to conversations about new ways of education, sans a teacher. Moreover, striking insight on death, nightmares, and burying corpses that have been lying in the African heat for 3 days.

The night before I was fortunate enough to catch a Ted Talk on MPR in relation to leadership; the speaker, Drew Dudley, spoke on how leadership is about doing something that is being done right now, but making it your own, by doing it better and in a different way.

I find this interesting when considering the web(internet), ubiquitous as it is, this mass media outlet; we have a plethora of complaint, ads, sales, judgment, lies, and misleading content to contend with. How does one weed out the truth from fiction, the fact from false? I would say as the plants and Mother Nature do, by utilizing all of the resources available; by turning your radio dial from Cock Rock and buzz-word ads to non-profit news organizations inspired by presenting objective material- details that matter. Interpretation can be misleading as well, so use the internal resource of intuition and logic to help you better decide.

The more viewpoints you utilize the better viewpoint you gain.

And that is why I always watch Fox News right before I get objective perspective. I’m not running for office or promoting someone who is…  Sorry, I’m more concerned with Temperance Laws from Prohibition times existing in 2014, interfering with my ability to vote with my dollar (Sunday sales of liquor/beer in MN), world peace, urban gardening, the legalization of Marijuana (in a world of legal narcotics; western medicine: big pharma), and Equal Rights, not necessarily in that order.  But no one is talking about that stuff…  They are crying over keyboards trying to crunch ads in between small print and meta-photos, stressing about hits, this and that.  Reality is out there, open your eyes.  I am having fun, I just got new frames.

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What Prohibiting Potlatch did for Assimilation

1170821_10151568895722051_1590224788_nWhat we all need is a vacation. We need some time to ourselves. There is so much time in everyday life spent being stuck in a collective pool of collective shit; Facebook, Twitter, Reddit et al. –social media life- this is a small list of things that make up our lives. What does it mean? Do we exist? I ask, where is the forest adventure, the nature submersion, and the fulfilling exercise routine? Assimilate me into the wild again goddammit! Thought process we think, but these are ads, page space concerns, and hit-bait. These entities give boners to big-pharma and counselors and western medicine, creating needs out of wants.

Now you can complain anonymously on a website, but can you change the situation in real-life? Where are the drug-free liberations from prescription pills (that you need), and the exposés on new-fangled procedures that make everything better in an instant (which don’t)? These are the I-have -depression-fix-me-quick labels that print names on pill bottles. Prozac works fine if you don’t want to be a part of your own life. Bad things happen, good things happen; deal with it. We need more belief that Self creates and fixes all; and everything else is made-up to take advantage of us. I don’t know. I think these tactics are shit. I think we are better for lacking. I sit at a desk and do the best I can. That is it.

Last week I had an incident on my computer where all of my photos were lost from existence, deleted, all 5743 of them, or whatever- three-years-worth of memories. All is not lost. Life happens. More memories and photos will be made. Where did the photos go before computers? Those flip books of retro area dads and moms, relatives with old beer cans, past fads. That was a time too. Those booklets were harder to lose, or maybe just as easy. I guess it’s how you look at it- picture that, a photo is worth a thousand words, and I lost a lot of words with just a click. Maybe I’ve written that many, it goes both ways. I imagine funerals where pictures adorn ipads and laptops, open to see, follow closely the procession.

Biking is great. I love biking down to the Stone Arch Bridge near St. Anthony (namedrop) Main, and almost always getting blindsided by inattentive walkers (simpleton pedestrians). One would think they never look down, or forgot how to read the giant white letters in paint. That same pedestrian wouldn’t step into the road, highway, or street, in front of an oncoming car, so why not imagine the bike path as one of those for cyclists? Why not be proactive about surviving; life one step at a time.

Someday someone will get into some tragic bike accident- and then who is to blame? Will it be the person who couldn’t read, or the person following the rules? I can’t wait to find out. Whenever I see people walking in the bike lane I imagine a monster truck plowing through them, loud as fuck, some announcer describing the devastation, while an 80’s metal song accompanies the chaos. I sort of laugh, but I feel somewhat bad. My whistles are not cat-calls, they mean get the fuck out of the way.

I guess everyone copies everyone. I should start charging my contemporaries. Well, everyone should start charging me, I guess. People start blogs, shoot videos, and scribe poetry- it’s been happening for eternity. They won’t make a profit. Sometimes people actually read the words I have written, surprisingly. There is no money exchange, and I like this. No surprise that millions, if not trillions, try to do the same thing that I do- have been doing, -for five minutes, and lacking the results they desire quit. Where is the conviction? Where is the passion? You had it while talking about it so loudly. That storm has left your attempts like words on the wind, just off the tongue. Writing is not for money. Written word is for sharing thought, expanding minds, and exercising the brain. There is a quote about the poet who writes for the king’s money speaks in the king’s tongue, I forget the title, and the author, but I read it in a book, so it’s fact. Everything changes when money is involved.

People will be very upset when they realize what they have bought isn’t worth shit. Google search whatever you want, there is a way to get it for free. Everything can be given at no cost, so why by words? Why pay for ads? Why? Think of the external cost. We have libraries, institutions which offer free materials, websites using far less resources than publishing houses. What an exclusive bunch.

It must be the American Dream. Get famous, get a name, have a book, pay bills, pay membership dues, and die- remembered, legacy, and so on. That is why the American government did not understand Potlatch; it is the epitome of American culture to charge for art, to reign supreme and exclusive over those who don’t sell, but it will be a major let down your passion does not pay your rent. The natives couldn’t just give things away because that made the new currency worthless, and made it almost impossible for them to be assimilated into American society. Never expect anything, it changes words, reality, everything. Just do something because you love it and share it with the world as a gift, otherwise stop wasting your time.

Spreading complaint is a backward task. Sit all day and write something about what you dislike- while you become that dislike, embody it, generalize it, when you could have taken the time to address the issue, act on it, and better the situation as a whole. I think that is great idea, but others think it is more important to complain. Complaint is boring- now change, that is something to be excited about.

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Just like Everyone Else

SONY DSCA day where the sun hangs above you like tree limbs in a forest, walking the corridors blue and green. To the office, to life, to whatever may be inside. What it might, or might not. Watching the clock on a pale wall; watching time. Remember the time you didn’t do that so much? The time your mom made you lunch every day? Where you would sit and play, or take naps and watch shows which were meant to inform, intrigue, and even excite you? Now you scroll through this and that, something to forget momentarily; the Facebook blue giving me the Facebook blues. Wasting everything for nothing, collecting a check being told what to do, with no passion, no hope, NO nothing.

Your mind off somewhere, the beach, nipples erect, goose pimples; cold from the water, warm from the sun. Worrying about a sunburn.  The sour smell formaldehyde wafts open nostrils, hairs in between. You come back to life.  Nerves shoot pain where you are not sore, where you are not sore is few and far between. Breathing, one breath at a time; breathe in breathe out. Bike lies in pieces; how did I get here?

Just asking questions makes people afraid.

We used to go fishing, get drunk, and talk trash. We used to have real-life fun, and then reality happened. Jobs, cars, careers, and relationships; things just got in the way. Not in a bad way, but in the way.

Aspirin necessity on the tip of your tongue as pain stings the tip of your brain. Tied shoes, zipped jeans, something is too tight. You are too big, too fat, not normal, too unrealistically human, and here. The being itself is the hard part; just being. Why is it, they say. And they told you to get a job, save money, get an education, get married, have kids, but they never told you they would die and not be there, or that you would die someday too, and not be there. That makes it hard for you to be a human being, be a human being, when you aren’t. Death makes you a human with no last name- just human, no being. Coming and going in strange little ways, on a clock. A piece of cake and you thought of pie. Worrying about the idea of worrying, the concept, theory, thought, action. And things happened, as they always do… except without you.

Others just talk. Some try to walk, but they have broken legs. They never practice. They beg and plead for you to see. As flowers hidden beneath weeds; the hours and days we want, we wait, we wish, and hope to forget, in ways. It’s the theatre; this play. Time we’ve spent thinking about time. Thinking about death, breathing and not; fine line. Nothing changes when you sit. The paint stays on the wall, only fading some with the light. The appliances become old and replaced by newer, more efficient, of better quality- they say, make and models. But only as you do, this happens to you. This is mere fact to prove the truth.  Time to conclude.

Sort of ashamed at the way we’ve complained. There is nothing wrong with today, only our labels, interpretation, interpolation, assimilation; the way we fucking get on… And off, maybe.



Off to a good start on a bad topic, on a bad thing, just babbling. About things, and about that: Everyone loves biking, beers, and talking about doing- the act.  Not acting so much though. They love writing, they love poetry, and they love being completely and utterly fucking unique, just like everyone else.  Me too.

There are no problems, only what ones we make. A pleasant day on a pleasant date: July 10, 2014. This is no 9/11, or 12/25, or 06/21, any year. This is right now, today: Heute. The sun is in the sky, the clouds are flying high, and the birds are chirping outside, but only if you believe it. I hit my head really hard last night, and this is the most important day of your life.

Let’s pretend like we’re not pretending.

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