And here is my favorite comment that I saw.

May 2 2009 12:22 PM

I wuv yu ObAmA
i thiink yu R dA pr3siid3nt dAt we ne3ded fiinAlLy 
w3 tRuzt iin yu n w3 knw dAt yu R gOiing 2 dO A gR3At jOb ;)
ke3p iiT up1.!! 
gOD bL3sz Am3RiicA

Sometimes nothing is the best medicine.
Sometimes medicine is the best medicine
Sometimes medicine is the best lover
Som times art is the best lover
sometimes art is medicine
sometimes medicine is not the best art
art is nothing
sometimes



don’t crack a smile and tell me that nothing is the best medicine
don’t crack a piece of art and tell me it was nothing
I want some medicine for my art
I want some art for my lover
I want some love for my medicine
I want some drugs for my head.
I want some head from my lover
I want some art from my lover
I want some love from my lover
I await the onslaught of aphorisms
I await your dreary points I await the awaiting
I wait for medicine
Medicine waits for love
love waits
for nothing



Nothing waits for art
art waits for drugs
drugs wait
form waits for content
Contentment waits for nothing
Nothing waits for me in heaven
Heaven waits for drugs
Drugs wait for medicine
Medicate my lover
Await my lover
Drug my lover
Feed my lover art
until my lover throws art up on the carpet than feed my lover
medicine until my lovers throws up nothing on the carpet
feed me carpet until I need medicine
Feed me carpet until it is art
feed me art
until I am nothing

Day 1: Monday
Driving up to Portland I looked out at the wet Highway in front of me.  Vehicles in front of me spitting rocks and rainbows as the sun shone bright in between sputters of rain.  In Portland, dropped off my vehicle, had a short meaningful conversation with Elsbeth in fifteen minutes that it took to drop me at the airport.

After all this rush, I am to wait in the plane for an hour while a baby cries, sitting between two grown men in a seat not large enough for any of us.  The oil leak in the engine is fixed an hour later and we fly.  After a time, I meet my seatmate, a well-groomed, fastidious East Coaster in a suit with hip glasses and one of these:





He is an interesting guy with a fashion magazine on his lap.  I ask if he is involved in the fashion industry.  Yes, to some extent, he is working on the design for uber hip Nike Fort Tent party, designing some badass dance party in a warehouse and whatnot.  There is a big time headliner for this party but he can't tell me.  A part of me still burns, knowing that he couldn't tell me.  I'm used to having The Secret, it humbling to have The Secret held from me.  Regardless, I enjoy meeting this man, he was raised Amish for 16 years in Ohio, he listens to obscure indie rock and is fascinated by fashion as a way to distinguish ones image from others in part, he guesses, due to the uniforms he had to wear as a young Amish child.

The plane ride ends and, by mere coincidence (fate?) Jordan is on the exact same flight as I am.  This bit of luck translates to a string of other good fortune, unplanned and pleasant.  Jordan's ride becomes my ride and Jordan's place to sleep becomes my place to sleep.  And Rion and his friends become my friends.  We go to the bars and meet up with Cerridwyn, she is on bike and lives far away, it is decided that I should just stay at The Compound then Jordan, Rion and I hit up a couple bars, I dig the patio in the bar we visit as well as the Texas feel.  It's familiar and alien at the same time, like an old western movie but with TVs and neon lights.  A couple pizzas fill us up and we head back to The Compound.  Cerridwyn comes over and knows one of the people living here.  We smoke and chat for a while, before I crash out on a very comfortable couch.

The Compound is an Old Texaco filling station, a warehouse by the train-tracks in a semi-seedy, Wrong Side of The Tracks, kind of spot.  They are gracious hosts in their warehouse by the railroad tracks.  I am offered a couch, food and various useful items.  Several people live here, apparently and they are all friendly and open.  These people are Sound Engineers and Production Managers, running stages all over the place, they know the place and know the people, they know the parties and, in fact, the Warehouse in a couple days will be a venue, rumor told to me is that Gza will be there at some point, as well as free beer and free music all five days.  Seems like a good home base.  But, I am offered several places to stay, due to friends in town, Cerridwyn and Olivia.  Thanks for making me feel welcome, Austin!


Day 2: Tuesday

I wake up to everyone getting ready to go, it is 10 AM here, but 8AM in my mind clock.  I wake up slowly.  This may be the earliest I have gotten up since I went to LA to visit family.  They gather up gear and set up stages around town.  I check email and respond to issues.  Last night, I discussed with Rion, his letting me use his bike, though I have a minor headache from last nights paltry two beers and a shot, I am glad to walk out into the sun.  The bike shop is a block away, he fixes the tire, we chat, naturally, he knows Cerridwyn too.  The bike is fixed and my transportation issues are solved.  I feel some reminiscence of Burning Man, except it costs me about $50

Now, I'm off to register for SXSW, travel around and see some shit.  TTFN!

I register and receive a bulky tote bag.  Suddenly, I really need a place to put my stuff down.  A laptop and a stuff-filled bag need a place to go, it ain’t easy to take this on a bike.

Time has gone by and my memory has faded, as I recall, I checked in and grabbed a bag of swag from SXSW headquarters.  Got in touch with Abe and he put me in contact with Bill.  The hotel I will be staying at is up a hill a bit but right downtown.  It will take me a while to understand the structure of the city, maybe a day or two.  Right now, it appears that I have received quite a bit of luck, my home bases are within only two or three blocks, I have a bike and this is all very well and good.

I drop my laptop at the Hotel, now I no longer need to worry about it being lost to the vicious and unpredictable vampire universe.  The safety and sanctity of The Sheraton is beyond reproach.  I open the schwag bag and sort through it, I had forgotten my earplugs and inside, I saw a little metal container, perhaps this was where my earplugs were?  The vast majority of the bag’s content is flyers, advertising, magazines, schedules, coupons, mostly worthless garbage, the exceptions to the paperwork, magazine and ads are three very telling objects: a package of bubble gum, throat spray, and in that metal canister, two condoms.  This is very bizarre to me.  I was searching for earplugs, a music related object, I found condoms, a fuck related object.  Suddenly, it became clear, this wasn’t about the music it was about sucking cock.  Here, I had three objects, bubble gum to freshen up, condoms and a Performer’s Throat Spray, to help sore throats.  The implications are obvious.

I ride my bike to Café Mundi, to meet with Cerridwyn; this is where she works.  It is a cozy little coffee shop hidden in the bushes across from the train-tracks and a tortilla factory.  The walls of the Tortilla Factory are covered with graffiti, I suddenly regret not bringing my camera, Austin is very photogenic.  I smoke a spliff on a rooftop nearby where I am informed that such things are done.  I eat a Sandwich and drink Ginger Ale with Cerridwyn and an assortment of guests that come and go, lesbian baristas, pleasant, vaguely exotic folks.  I briefly offend one of the girls at the table, due to the strange nature of my gift schwag from SXSW: the condoms and the throat spray etc.  I attempt to spray my throat and accidentally angle it out into her face, an awkward moment, for sure.  Cerridwyn helps me make cut offs out of my jeans and suddenly Austin is a little more comfortable.  We go back to Lovejoy’s.  I run over to see what Jordan is doing with the local sound company, Nomad Sound.  The show that he is doing is a St. Patrick’s Day party thrown by somebody local.  It is a huge tent taking a whole block with a stage on one side.  Hundreds of people are packed in, the cover is $20 and my badge means nothing here.  I wait patiently at the back gate with the security guard until after quite awhile Rion notices me and lets me in.  The band is a U2 cover band.  I last three songs and go back to Lovejoy’s.

We ride bikes to her friend’s house, where she informs me, there is a party we should attend.  Our bike ride takes us about twenty or thirty minutes into the east side of Austin.  At this point, I am growing concerned about the state of this bike I have borrowed; I replaced the inner tube of the front wheel and bought a bike lock for it.  The rear tire is wobbling and begins to concern me.  However, we head to the party and arrive without drama.  When we arrive, there are roughly a dozen people.  The folks here are gathered around a large homemade castle with a dragon’s head erupting from the cardboard stones, set up in someone’s backyard.  This is no stage prop; it is a legitimate stage structure.  The look of this building is decidedly gruesome, well done and theatrical, they tell us that they will be killing the dragon at the end, tearing off it’s flesh, that it will melt and whatnot.  This is all preparation for a personal renaissance faire put on by a small local group of people.

I hang out with Cerridwyn and her friends, smoking and drinking, sitting and chatting.  Most notably, The Littlest Mexican in Texas and a French girl who had never been to Texas before.  We had a passionate argument about the business of marijuana cultivation.  The depth of everyone’s opinions shared, are varied and often quite intense.  The brutality of capitalism and the black market mixed with the positive aspects of one of humanity’s favorite, least detrimental drugs.  The degradation of culture and society is always a brutal conversation.  Especially when there is a deep history involved.  Folks here salt their beer.  Lone Star Beer.

I find out that I wont be able to sleep at The Compound tonight, there are people in every room, on couches and on the floor.  Cerridwyn has a couch for me.  We ride even further east.  Cerridwyn explains that there is a patch of sidewalk in front of their house where the locals hang out.  Cerridwyn lives in an impoverished, mostly black neighborhood, she explains that the cops can’t bother the people in this spot because they are on their property.  This works out well, in some ways, it keeps the relationship with the neighborhood cordial.  Cerridwyn says they respect them because it’s their neighborhood, not her place to tell them what to do.  She can go outside and tell them to quiet down if necessary and they would.  They also have asked them not to deal crack there.  Sometimes they do.



Day 3: Wednesday

First thing’s first, food thing’s first, we must eat and handily enough, there is a restaurant across the street called, maybe, Captain Catfish, Ok, it was called Mr. Catfish but I think Captain Catfish is a better name.  We have delicious Po’ Boys in the Texas way.  And it is back on the bikes and back to downtown, Devil Makes Three is to play today and Cerridwyn needs to meet them at Lovejoy’s.  So far, I have been introduced to two bars, there are 60 -70 official venues and probably 20 – 200 alternative/anti-SXSW events being held.  It is a ridiculous event, people teeming every which way.  I meet up with Abe, Beth, Bill, and Mike Thrasher.  Mike talks to the people at The Ticketmaster Party, Bill and I receive wristbands that allow us into the party.  They have a free bar, some chairs outside, a fatty techno DJ set up (Crystal Method is playing on Friday) and a video feed on the wall from Stubb’s BBQ Stage across the street.  This is a hip spot for folks meant to feel important.  We eat delicious Kebabs at appropriately named, Kebabalicious.

I go to The Mohawk to see Yoni Wolf (of Why?) and Themselves, they have a special surprise guest, Buck 65.  This is my ideal line up, three of my favorite artists in a row!  What are the chances?  I am disappointed by the sound system at Mohawk but I enjoy the show, nonetheless.  I sit with Yoni and discuss potential future WOW Hall shows.  At around 2:30 AM I return to the hotel. The door is locked, I have no key and no one will answer my phone calls.  I knock until Abe lets me in, I sleep on the floor, it gets cold and I find myself snuggling the tale end of some blanketing on a rock hard floor with a pillow, sleep is sporadic, Beth’s friend arrives shortly after me and views me incredulously.

A dozen crystal cups sit on top of a broken table in a gallery to the north of the business district.  The crystal cups are part of an installation constructed by a prominent artist.  Her knowledge of modern societies, sensitivities to social and philosophical integrity along with her keen sense of the absurd has landed her squarely on the front page of The New York Times’ Arts and Culture pages.  

Or, at least, her art is on the cover.
A photo of 12 crystal cups - set up in a circle on a broken table.  

The table is round, marred by two distinct cracks. The cracks cross the table diametrically, intersecting in the center at ninety-degree angles.  From an aerial view, it is a circle with a cross in the middle.  The overall effect is that of gun sight or the zodiac.

The center of the table has three drops of blood near the Bull’s Eye of the target.  
 
Next to the First Drop, it reads DAY 1: TAKE CARE

Beneath the words, there is a glossy print image of a man playing with his son - it looks like an advertisement, possibly torn from a catalog for JC Penny, Wal-Mart or Target. 

Beneath the Second drop of blood, it reads, DAY 2: DON’T STARE

Beneath the words, there is a yellowed Polaroid photograph of the sun burning in the sky – a pure white dot, a burn marked in to the center and curled corners of the frame.

The Third Drop is slightly smeared, asking, DAY 3: ARE YOU THERE?

Beneath the words, the photograph is an over-exposed negative, soaked in water and tattered - there is something of a silhouette that looks like a cartoon dog that might, in reality, have been some kind of mold.

Around the rim of the table stand one dozen imperiled crystal cups.  They all appear to be unevenly balanced, each sits perilously close to the edge, perched on an old fragile table, waiting to fall, inches from total destruction.  One of the cups holds 23 ounces of a red fluid that looks like - but is not  - blood.  The other eleven cups stand empty…

If you were to read the article about her art piece, you might be mesmerized.  And feel the urge to investigate, if so, you would not be alone.  The MOMA is overflowing. 

As a part of this instillation, the artist will be adding a new fluid to each of the glasses each day of the instillation.  Today, the red fluid, tomorrow, who knows?  By the end of the 12-day show, she plans to release one mouse on to the table’s surface. She predicts that the addition of one tiny mouse to her instillation will cause the destruction of her artwork.  She feels confident that this is for the better.

Her quote is this, “Anything that fragile, deserves to be destroyed.”  It is this lack of compassion for her creations that fascinates the public.  They are eager to bask in her indifference.  They are learning to destroy themselves and she is leading them to the gates of heaven on earth with what she calls, her “passionate indifference.”

She refuses to explain her work beyond this.  She says that everyone knows what her art means, they don’t have to ask.  It’s obvious.  The ones who claim confusion are the ones who know all too well the significance of her art.

She brushes her thick auburn hair reflecting in a full-length mirror located in the bathroom of a motel in Brooklyn.   She is in a motel due to the fact that, unlike the vast majority of elite cultural critics, artistes and artists she does not live in New York.  She lives in a large van and drives somewhere new everyday.  Sometimes it is not far but she is diligent.  She feels that it is her duty every day to do one of two things, either drive her van or break the law.  Most days, she does both.  She is incredibly lucky.

Her entire life has been a series of random happy twists of fate.  Most of her life she painted pictures and gave them to friends for birthdays and Christmas and whatnot. At some point, she sold someone a painting for $9,000 dollars because they wanted to buy it from her.  After that happened, it happened again and again.  She quit her job and started painting all the time and people bought her paintings from all around the world.

The reason she is so famous now?  She gave a painting to a friend for their birthday, he had recently moved to New York City.  One night, her house was burglarized and the painting was stolen, along with a number of other things from her house, antiques, jewelry and electronics.  Her painting ended up in a pawnshop near SOHO.  A well-known gallery owner in the neighborhood walked by the pawnshop and noticed the painting through the window of the pawnshop.  She walked in and asked him where it had come from.  He replied that it was a hot new underground artist that had come out of leftfield, that he was getting offers on the painting.  The gallery director called the pawnshop dealer’s bluff.  No one had heard of this artist and the painting was worth no more than $50.  The pawnshop proprietor noted the $9,000 price tag on the painting.  The art gallery director laughed and purchased it for $100 dollars.

When she brought the painting back to her gallery she affixed a $9,000 price tag on it and sold it two weeks later.  After selling it, she began to search in earnest for the artist who created it.  Her search proved fruitless until the man who had purchased the painting for $9,000 returned to her gallery visibly flustered.  It seems that his house had been burgled and the painting had again been stolen along with many other vastly more valuable paintings.

It was only a matter of a few weeks when the paintings were found in a warehouse during a sting operation that busted open a smuggling ring operating in Brooklyn’s lower east side.  But the police were confused when they realized that the stolen painting fit two separate descriptions.

Ultimately, this lead to a long conversation between The Artist, the artist’s friend, the gallery owner, the gallery owner’s client and the eventual outcome was, a closed pawnshop, a reprimanded gallery owner and an artist with a check for $9,000.  And the artist’s friend, he had his painting back.  And the gallery owner’s client was prepared to pay another $9,000 for his very own original piece of art from The Artist.

What are the chances?

Eventually painting pictures grew tiresome and her status in the artist community was cemented, she began to do installations.  Now, here she is, pouring vodka into a crystal glass, pouring urine, semen, violet viscous unknown fluids, pouring sugar water, pouring gasoline and chemicals into another cup until it overflows.  Here she is letting a mouse loose on the table, watching as the table shudders under it’s tiny paws, watching as it scampers toward the sugar water, knocking the glass enough for it to tumble from its precarious position, unbalancing the table, it splits into four pieces and all twelve glasses shatter below, as predicted.
 

You bubble up
Don't be that one thing
that something that's ugly
Floating and bloody
Don't be a body


Be Someone
Be anyone
Be one of the sun's
The sun's children



Dropped here from heaven
Here and then gone
submerged and then done

Down at the town's end
search around for my drowned friends

Down where the sound ends
I found a doorway to Atlantis
One more way to advance this
I'm Dreaming for practice
I'm seeing this happen
And keeping reactions
you see me distracted


You need me You actress,
to move with your actions
And follow your last wish
Right down to black magic


Blacka blacka blacka magic

Feet first hittin pavement, I've made it
Out from the water of hatred, soaked in my fake skin
I pray that I make it. The beat as I laced it
I claim this: Chaos is the price paid for being shameless.
Like fat fire flies flying high and flying flameless
Lacking fire fueled by pure desire burnt bright black
Burnt by lack of patience

and a dream to be famous
Insane and heinous

lame and wasted

Angel of Death

Come and SAVE US!

Not, that, we'd never been introduced.

No, in fact, I grew up with my grandmother in my life. I'd visit her in sunny Southern California during winter; the sun would shine brighter than a lucky penny. To Disneyland or Magic Mountain we would go with my Uncles and Aunts. I'd eagerly anticipate the morning's Christmas presents. For a while, I was an only son and I was the only grandson. As time went on, our family sprouted and I had cousins but the feeling of love that I had for my grandma was always there. When I say that I just met my grandmother today, I mean that I smoked some hash and talked to her about death and politics.

She started it.

She asked me what I thought about Obama.

And I had to tell her that I thought humanity was doomed but that it's awfully nice to see someone at least trying to make people feel better.

She understood.

This allowed me to do something I had never considered, I began to ask a series of questions that might allow me to understand this woman, her beliefs and philosophies and ultimately allow me to say I had actually met my grandmother.

Our conversation helped paint a portrait of a woman, in my head, one that I didn't really know, but one that I instinctively understood.

The fact of the matter is this, my grandma and I agree on the basic premises of life and we also both agree that that is all that really matters, in the end. She's not a religious woman, I know that now, she married a Catholic but that doesn't mean she became one. She's not all that interested in the after-life, just do what you can with the one you've got and live your life daily. She doesn't think much about death, she says, I suppose that's why she's 88.

Her Basic Tenets:

Be nice to people, treat others well, help them. Be kind.
Enjoy yourself and don't expect anything from anyone else. Earn your life.
Find something to do that you enjoy. And do it.

And this one line, too. I learned this to be true.
Who am I to tell you what to do? Why, I am just a human, just like you.
That's why I let you be who you've yet to be.

Sorry, I slipped into poetry and verse, there.
Well, it's 2am. The night of Christmas 2008.
The first time I met my grandmother and I just thought I should share.

"Lookit, it's a photo I took for you." 

"There's something purple in it.  That's good. Everyone loves purple." 

"I broke your glasses.  I'm sorry."
(we used to be able to see though  them.)

"The sun's coming up, again."

That's good, was worried it might not, this time 'round."

"This time 'round, it's all ablaze."

Good evening, afternoon, morning and night,

It is with a grave and heavy heart that I must share with you the sickening and astonishing state of our international blog economy with you the shareholders of Calyn's Blog Mfg. Inc.

We here at Calyn's Blog Mfg. Inc. have been following closely the global collapses of economic system and subsequent actions of government entities in regards to these economic woes.  It has become stingingly clear that governments around the world view Blogs, such as ours, with little interest and even some contempt.  Those in power have not acted swiftly to protect valuable blogs and blog related icons from self-destruction.  Literally, we see them crumbling under the weight of their own arrogance, we see blog lay-offs in every aspect of the literary economy.  

With the current glut in the humanity sector, we are finding new ideas increasingly fewer and further between.  In this economic slump, we are disgusted by the fact that our growth has stalled, we expected to find ourselves expanding effortlessly and endlessly towards a fantastic future full of the infinite bounties of eternity. 

As a human being operating an expensive and impractical artistic and emotional outlet on Planet Earth in the 21st Century, it has become increasingly obvious that all of this effort is essentially striving for naught.  Would that we could, much as Missy Elliot urges: hold it down, flip it and reverse it.  But it seems we are no longer trying to flip the script and make it do cartwheels as MC Paul Barman once urged.  In fact, as Lil' Wayne points out, A million here, a million there, I am a millionaire, there are clear gaps between the wealthy controllers of major blog operations around the world.  The FBI currently operates a high powered blog in conjunction with Kroger and ExxonMobil.  Though, some of these big money  production blogs, many of which simply arrange words into various sequences and charge an unwitting populace for the mild joy of reading them, they too are feeling the stings and barbs of the economic down turn, with some CEOs of major blogs having to delay taking vacations until government money comes through to fund them. Meanwhile on the dirty streets of Sri Lanka a young girl, Missing In Action, cuts to the chase when she points out with a brash and fiery tongue, "I just want to !BANG! !BANG! !BANG! and take your money."  Essentially, she is speaking the purest language of international commerce.  Would that all of us at Calyn's Blog Mfg. Inc. could simply shoot everyone and take all of their money, we would have no need for useless words digitized for no one's entertainment.

Some among the blogging community seem to take solace that the US of A has finally elected a black man, who is a communist, a terrorist and also, perhaps worst of all, half white.  While, Calyn's blog staff looks upon the change from Faux Cowboy Dipshit to Mulatto Commie Chic with cautious optimism, we are by no means sated.  Since the election, our economy has seen an upsurge in a few markets, guns are being purchased in record numbers as those who fear the apocalypse and tightening of gun laws meet for cups of Joe and purchase automatic weaponry in ever growing numbers.

The system has failed and we are now watching as those who failed are rewarded for their failure, banks propped up by government money, car companies, the oil industry, our whole giant dying mechanism is being sutured and bandaged but it keeps seeping and the dam will burst.  And we will be covered from head to toe in blood.  Hope is meaningless if we are planning to choke the planet to death and hope it doesn't die on us. Magnificent failures of obscene levels are happening and will continue to cause failure in a system that is reflective.  The fact that people are concerned about our faltering economy so much is what worries me most.  The concept of economy is secondary to the concept of survival, yet we are doing things to save the economy before we do things to protect the planet..  Our country is content to rise and fall with the economic whims of an inveterate marketplace.  Meanwhile, blogs like this one will see dramatic cutbacks in workforce and inventiveness, all of this an aspect of the greater problem.


The Greater Problem.

Part A:    New Math

Subsection I: Accepting that infinity and zero do not actually exist.

Subsection II: There never is nothing. 

Subsection III: There can't always be everything.

Subsection IV: One subtracted from one actually equals negative one.

Part B:    The End is Nigh

Subsection I: Only the Good Die Young
Subsection II: ..

Humanity's use of oil has quadrupled the Earth's carrying capacity since 1900.






 

The face of the next twenty years is silver and confused.  Lots of reflecting lights glancing off of metallic surfaces.  You may look into a crystal ball to tell the future.  Chances are, that crystal ball is actually a headlight and you are standing in its way.  We are staring wide eyed at a yawning cavity.  We have already swallowed the globe in our throats.  There is no question any longer of what can we do...  Though, I support all efforts made...  It seems that the question of our time is, what will it be and when?  And when it happens, will we unite and work together to overcome it or will we become bloodthirsty animals hell bent on our own personal survival? 

This is the lurking fear. 

This is the quiet dread. 

When plans go astray and those you trusted to protect you choose to neglect you, what will you do? 

I wish there were an answer: a solemn oath or prayer. 
I wish that I held a stronger view of humanity's inherent beautiful nature. 
I know there are those who would work to save humanity from itself. 
I know that some would strive to give us decency and humility.

Would that they could turn back the clock, re-imagine the future into a more perfect machine.  Perhaps, all is not lost for humanity, perhaps we may tip the scale back towards a stable and sustainable existence.  I'm not talking about economics, I speaking of returning the planet to something stable.

This, is what I fear will never happen.  We will suck her dry, scrape every last resource from her and once every source of energy is exhausted, if this hasn't already caused a cataclysm, we will starve and die in great numbers.  This is the inevitable future that I see.  If humanity is fortunate enough to solve the riddle of how can humans exist without devastating the planet, I will finally be impressed with us.  My fear of humanity's inability to solve this problem is based on simple physics.  Life Sucks.  It's a law of physic.

Life sucks energy from all around it, everything we do, every activity uses energy, takes it from a higher state of potential energy and moves it to a lower state.  This is what we do, we consume energy.  Even this posting on the internet is a fantastic example of what I am saying, the electrical energy required to transmit it is a tiny aspect of all the energy required to get this message to you.  The computer had to be built of fossil fuels and metals and silicon and everything else, human energy which requires consumption of food and resources was required to create the computer, me, my life up to now caused me to write this particular missive.  The entire process that lead to this moment requires massive amounts of energy, not to mention the million simultaneous experiences around the world all happening now, requiring massive amounts of energy in their own right.  All of this energy, initially came from the sun.

All energy comes from there.  If we can manage to gain energy directly from the sun without a plant capturing it first we may be able to solve all of the worlds problems.  Unfortunately, no one had figured out how to transfer the sun's energy directly into energy without wasting more energy to create it than it creates on its own.  This is all purely academic, of course, it doesn't matter and in fact, I believe that we are meant to be here, our job is to transfer energy from one form to another.  To suck out the oil and coal and salt and minerals and metals to process them, put them into the air and water, to really mix things up.  Eventually, this will destroy us, but that is ok, that is what we are here for.

I am grateful for the life I have lead.  The beauty I have seen.  The laughter.  I am torn between wanting to simply laugh the whole mess off and look it dead in the eyes and speak to it.  Ultimately, my little portion of the universe is alright, the sun still looks good in the sky, I still hold hope in locked safe buried beneath my two front teeth.

Teeth tight as Nails,
Blood is on everything. 

You keep changing channels
but it's on every screen.

In a state of
Fantastic Catastrophe

Legs everywhere
We still dance happily

And try to hold our faces on.

Cuz one day, these faces may be gone.

Each shudder and jolt
& Clamorous tumult
threatens

to shake us loose...




Grasping creases of flesh and skin,
We hold on and even manage a grin. 

Cuz the grime
and the slime
the evil and low,
they creak and they crow
all eager to know

What makes 'em all
giggle so?
What makes one's
life livable?

We've ripped out their hearts
We've shattered their dreams.
 
We've slit and we've cut
and torn at their seams!

but then they don't stand rigid

Instead,
They dance liquid,

uninhibited

still stuck in their dreams.

Failing like swollen lips and faulty knees


We fall to knees
We fold our lips
With calm and ease
We hold our hips

All begging please
We Sold our chips
We want disease
And shoulder this

The apple's kiss
Upon our lips
Knowledge rips
Apart our bliss



Offer me more free lobotomies!
Gut Rot constantly and colostomies!
Sure, the Sun's gone & there's not a breeze
But, olive branch ideologies are lost on me.

In all honesty, I'm appalled by modesty
And nothing, is not my idea of a philosophy
Obviously you got lost in the tragedy of reality
and it's a possibility you'll not see positively

Until you've lost the strings to all your things
and you've lost the means to stop and sing
You'll drop and scream.

Lost in dreams





The possum's pleas are soft and sweet.
All hot and weak like rotten meat.
I seek the heat. You sought defeat.

Beneath my feet I saw the beat.

I caught the sun, you lost the sea.

I'm not the one.

You're not for me.

So, as I was sitting back realizing how Governments are making themselves increasingly irrelevant, when I saw this commercial for wecansolveit.org

And I check it out and it makes me feel happy, like there is hope for us and I realize there is hope for us, if we just skip the government and stop buying into this fucked up economy, the key is figuring out how to feed ourselves when food is too expensive to buy.

But, back to the main subject, wecansolveit.org they are more concerned with energy independence and I think wow, we probably can solve it. But what is this, who runs it, do I just trust these people?

So, I read the info and here is the reassuring information about this site.

The We Campaign is a project of The Alliance for Climate Protection -- a nonprofit, nonpartisan effort founded by Nobel laureate and former Vice President Al Gore. The goal of the Alliance is to build a movement that creates the political will to solve the climate crisis -- in part through repowering America with 100 percent of its electricity from clean energy sources within 10 years. Our economy, national security, and climate can't afford to wait.

This is the truth.
A True Story

As I drove to work this

Afternoon


I saw the clock

in front

of


THE MORTUARY


Now this is true.

And what I saw was, too...

Clearly,

The Mortuary Clock

was stuck

Frozen

Unmoving

just

a
bit

past


the



11th Hour.

And I was late for work.