I have the day off.  My schedule got a little fucked up this weekend, and now I've got to take care of a bunch of stuff, so I'm thankful I thought ahead and decided to take my daughter's first day of school off.  Still won't have enough time to accomplish things that need tending before my own cut-off date.

Couple that with the insomnia kicking in high gear ... again ... and I know that things are going to be rough. 

Saturday night was spent in intense discussions on the topics of female power, sexuality, religion and people's preconceived notions based solely on what they understand (rightly or wrongly) about activities you engage in, mankind's ability to create and destroy and so on.  It was one of those talks where you have to take a breath at the end of it.  It was one of those talks that makes me feel human in a good way.  It was one of those talks that is so rare that when you get it, you treasure it the same way serial killers save the pubic hair or earlobes of their victims.  You make it a type of symbolic magic to be pulled out from time to time to regain power through the memories.

This was especially good since I haven't had my weekly Mirror fix, which is always good for thought-provoking conversation.

Usually I feel fairly isolated from humanity, and I'm very all right with that.  I don't think humanity has always put its best face forth, and I believe it gets its power from the lies that are believed.  Conversations remind me that I'm not alone in the eye of the hurricane.

I also went to bed that night realizing something pretty shocking: I am burned out, operating on fumes, and not sure how much longer that can go on.  I've been so used to operating on anger that now that I am a place of apathy when it comes to that which irritates me, I'm not sure how to find the strength to keep giving.  Those conversations give me that strength.  Those connections found in the candlelight, over pizza, or via the telephone -- they have become the gasoline in the fire.  They have provided what rage used to give.  They have revitalized me when little else would.

Burned out.  Burned up.     

The Spectra Sonic Sound

I love the idea of infrasound weapons.  Infrasound, for those unaware, are sounds not heard by the ears, but felt by the body.  Deep bass notes are one of the most easily understood of these things.  They can induce feelings of panic in subjects and even cause the bowels to evacuate. 

Infrasounds can also be high-pitched, repetitive and so on.  They have been none to induce sleep, deprive one of sleep and even cause sickness.  Experiments have shown that certain frequencies cause the eyeballs to vibrate, which in turn causes a distortion of sight that induces "hallucinations."

It's no surprise that the military and police are developing weapons (crowd control, if you will) that utilize infrasound.  (I had read one study on the possible uses of infrasound where it was speculated that the sounds could be used to vibrate the molecules of the body enough to effectively "microwave" the subject's blood.  Brilliant.)

Sound as weapon is not a new concept.  It's been used in various forms for centuries.  War cries, as a way to instill panic, is a lesser form of a sound weapon.  Infrasound is end product -- the destruction of an opponent without ever firing a bullet or destroying buildings in a bomb blast.  It is a "clean" weapon.  It even can be targeted by age.  How perfect is that?

Sound to induce emotions has been effectively used in movies for decades.  The Exorcist was one of the first (at least that I know of) that really went out of its way to use sound (and subliminal images) to induce terror.  Irreversible is another that uses sound (pay careful attention to the scene in the gay night club) to induce nausea.

The capacity to use sound as a weapon, as an aid for artistic endeavors, and for uses yet unheard of is fascinating to the core.  It is part of the future of warfare and of domestic control.  Remember this: If it can be used against you by a force, it can also be used against them.  Keep that in mind the next time you find your home surrounded by police. 

A Passion for Destruction

Friday.  The day before a three day, much needed weekend.  New Orleans, due the destruction courtesy of Katrina five years ago, is all over the news. 

A murder happened in Kneeland.  This is where my latest manuscript is set.  The footage on the news is exactly how I imagined my setting to be.  I've been to Kneeland all of once.  I have no desire to return.

There is the promise of rain this weekend.  It's a promise I hope is kept.  I want it to wash away some things.

I had two wonderful conversations last night.  A dinner with a friend, whose cable I fixed (very manly of me).  A night-time phone call with a friend I miss having around.    She and I talked of books, the dark nature of humans and art versus the artist.  If all my conversations could be as good as the two I had tonight (and I am lucky whenever they occur), I would be a far happier person. 

The end of the day can't come soon enough.

Close Enough to Death to Smell It

From my window, it looks like a full moon.  It gives off enough light to be a full moon.  I had my blinds open, the sliding glass doors letting in the lunar medusa's cold, white light.  That, the light from this laptop and the display screen of the Bose were the only light I had as I wrote my manuscript.  My stomach, for whatever reason (not stress) was not agreeing with me.  Now, as I write this, the moon is still out there, hanging with a glib ease for the delight for anyone who is awake to see.

My stomach is even worse, and I woke up at four to vomit.  That's one thing I really hate.  Vomiting.  It's such a violent act.  I don't do it often.  I don't do it well.  I'm still debating whether or not I'll make it into work today, and for those who know me, that means something.

Perhaps it's this heat Eureka has been experiencing.  74 degrees.  That, my friends, is uncivilized. 

My friend, who shall remain nameless for now, was teasing me a bit about the heat last night.  She was telling me that the temperature where she was happened to be an ungodly number.  I was complaining about our heat wave, and she basically told me there was no real comparison.  Granted, based on pure numbers she is correct, but once you become acclimated to something it's hard to step outside that comfort zone.  Her 300 degrees was having the same affect as my 74.  (No, it wasn't really 300 degrees, but it felt like it I'm sure.)

She is a dear friend, a gem amongst mouth-breathing space wasters, but her love of 85 degree weather makes me question her mental stability.

A recent study found that Hitler may have Jewish and black roots.  People seem stunned that he may be "related" to people he "despised."  Don't a lot of people hate their family?  What is this supposed to accomplish anyway?  Show he was a hypocrite?  Most people are.  Make us think he was self-loathing?  Again -- not unusual.  People are always trying to destroy the "myth" of Hitler, but the sad truth is was that he was an average guy who was a good speaker and who held people up to standards he could not meet.  That's the scary part.  He wasn't a monster.  He was just like you and me, and the more people consider him this kind of super beast the less likely they are to see it when it comes around again.  I suppose knowing Hitler's DNA roots (which I didn't think were a mystery, as I have heard the Jewish angle before) interests people in some strange way, but acting surprised about it speaks volumes to just how little we have learned from the conditions that led to the Nazis and the people who supported them. 

This information was reported as news.  I'm not sure what makes it entirely newsworthy.  I'm not sure what kind of new information can be brought to light to help people understand any of that any better because it's not a problem of understanding Hitler.  It's a problem of understanding us.  We are bad at seeing the threats around us.  We are easily led.  We don't speak out against evil for fear of going against the group.  When those are the conditions, Hitler-like episodes and leaders are concomitant.

The moon is gone.  My stomach is killing me.  People remain as dim as bulbs about to blow.  And based upon the sun that is coming from between the blinds, it looks like the heat will return.

I remain ... driven.

Monday's Children

Been listening to Boyd Rice's "People," and while I don't agree with all of it, I do understand the sentiment.  In the jungle, a lot of this shit would be taken care of.  We are "civilized," however, whatever that may mean.

Texts, instant messages, Facebook posts and e-mails.  Inherently cold methods of communication.  Because of this, tone is often lost.  I have never understood why people fly off the handle over these things because I thought that was well known.  When you tell a friend, via text, that you think a television show is not worth your time, and they take it as a personal attack -- there is something wrong with that.  This is not an isolated incident, either.  Makes me wonder the true value of such things.  The "where r u?" bullshit is just that.  Expressing anything beyond that, however, leads to people thinking you are questioning their intelligence because you said The Event looked like a waste of your time.  What is the use?  Answer: There is none.  (I was tempted to save the texts to reprint here, but I did not like the idea of them clogging up space on my phone and possibly breeding more nonsense.)

People.

Woke up with more back pain, which has been going on Friday.  Most likely going to doctor next Monday and seeing what, if anything else, needs to be done.  Can't imagine what he'll say, but I'm willing to listen.

Saw a Boyd Rice video this weekend.  His hands wouldn't stop shaking.  Makes me wonder.

People.

The controversy of the mosque and the "holy site" of Ground Zero seems ridiculous.  Isn't there a strip club close by?  How does that honor the memories of those killed in 9/11?  I'm not into religion, but I have no problem with people putting up churches, mosques, Satanic ritual sites ... no problem with any of it.  I can see the other side of this, too.  Just seems to me that they are being kind of hypocritical.

People.  Yes, Mr. Rice, I sometimes agree with you.

Harnessing Dark Matter Through the Black Sun

I watched a special on time travel last night.  There was talk of harnessing dark matter that seems to be throughout the universe.  There was no consensus on whether or not it was possible or even worth it, as much of our understanding of the stuff if based only on theory.

Is it a natural property of space, or it is a form of energy spread so thinly throughout space that to harness it in any usable form would be about impossible?  Could it even aid in time travel?  (My theory is that it is probably far easier to engage in time travel through gravity manipulation -- putting an incredibly dense object between the two points of travel to draw them together.)  Of course, what wasn't discussed is that it could be something all together different.  I have read theories that link dark matter with the Black Sun, some have even posited that dark matter comes from the Black Sun, and then there are those that think dark matter is the Black Sun.  I'm not sure either of those are right, but I do find it interesting.

If dark matter is the stuff between spaces then I would agree that utilizing it for energy purposes probably shouldn't even be pursued.  If, however, it is a property of space, then we should spend some time looking into ways to utilize this and find its source.  Dark matter apparently makes up 80% of what's in the universe, and accounts for 23% of the mass-energy density of the observable universe.  Still, little is understood about it.

The Black Sun, a source of power and knowledge by symbolically and physically in many different belief systems (occult and with many National Socialist groups) remains only a theory.  If pressed, I'd say it exists as a god for the godless.  People tend to need a symbol (be it an old white man in robes or a black sun) to focus their energy on.  It's way the Nazis utilized it as a symbol in its quest for world domination, examinations of forbidden technologies and its spiritual beliefs.  Symbols are, of course, important, and they have power.  The many symbols of the Black Sun suggest something unknown, forbidden and very powerful.  Theories have been put forth, but nothing has been proven.

Comparing dark matter with the Black Sun is akin to using math to prove the existence of God.  The dark matter being the equations.  The Black Sun being the answer.

The world's largest machine, which also happens to be the world's highest energy particle accelerator is the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) located near Geneva, Switzerland.  The LHC is 17 miles in circumference and lies 574 feet under the earth.  This machine, which, again, puts out more energy than anything else man-made on this planet, shoots particles at one another in order to address and answer many different physics and universe questions.  One of those things it is trying to reproduce and answer questions about is dark matter.

 A large, circular machine hidden beneath the earth puts forth tremendous amounts of energy in order to replicate the beginnings of the universe and answer questions about dark matter.  A large, circular machine hidden beneath the earth ...

The Black Sun.

Symbolically, at least.

(If you are a person who likes to play with numbers, the LHC is actually 27 kilometers in circumference.  The most widely recognized symbol for the Black Sun, which was used by the Nazis, is taken from a mosaic in the floor of room at the castle of Wewelsburg.  The Nazis made this the ideological center of the SS.  Who made the symbol, it should be noted, is not known.  It may have been there before the Nazis, or the Nazis may have made it.  Either way, the mosaic is in a tower in castle that was to be the center of the planned estate.  This planned estate was to be 1.27 kilometers in diameter.)

I find the idea of the Black Sun, dark matter and time travel to be fascinating.  The Black Sun itself was in play long before the Nazis started monkeying with it, and it exists today in many different popular works of science fiction.  It is used by political and occult groups, both of which have been attached to the scientific community chiefly through Operation Paperclip. 

It is highly interesting stuff, and while it may ultimately mean nothing scientifically, it has come to represent a quest for truth, power and knowledge.  In the end, that may be the Black Sun's greatest accomplishment ... and power.

A New Way to Die

Not much fog this morning.  I was up early.  Sat up, turned up the volume on Social Distortion until it was at a painful level.  (Sorry, resident animals.) Shaved and showered.  A cup of great coffee.  A scan of e-mails.  The news playing in the background.  The usual about stabbings, arson, a state economy that resembles Cambodia's of old.  Commercial breaks telling me why I should vote for that ghoul Meg Whitman. 

I sip my beverage, waiting for the caffeine to start its magic.  I seriously contemplate joining that indoor soccer league.  Great exercise.  Gives me something to do, though time is not something I have in abundance right now.  Think about the fact that I got to make salsa tonight, which means my hands will tingle for a few days as the habanero oils seep into my skin. 

Had two great discussions with two very great and different females yesterday.  They both stated they feared they would be alone forever.  I couldn't see that happening, as they both have great things to offer a companion, but I could sense their dread.  Alone is a tomb that gets smaller every year.  That is a terrifying thought.  I also think it is unfounded in their case, and I let them know that.


My second cup of coffee is almost drained now.  I have this overwhelming urge to stay home and watch Haute Tension.  I just want to revel in some nihilism for a while.  Something about those screams ...

I won't do that, though.  Not today.  Have a meeting.  Would only miss it if I were sick.  My stomach doesn't feel great, but it rarely does.

Fact on the news: Ryan Seacrest has three million followers on Twitter.  What that vapid fuck has to say that is worth three million people paying attention to is beyond me, but you can't argue the numbers.  I did see a picture of him in a Bumpy Pitch t-shirt, so he can't be all that bad, but I highly doubt he and I share much in common.  I wouldn't mind meeting him, though.  Inviting him over for a meal.  Maybe I would've won some contest.  Here's how I picture it going.

"Ryan, if I may call you that, this is pretty cool."

"I always enjoy meeting my fans."

I place our plates at the table.  "Fan.  That is such a strong word.  I'm not so much a fan as I am curious."

He examines the pasta, wondering if he should eat it and risk poison, or not eat it and risk insult.  He goes with poison.

"It's good," he says around a mouthful.

"You got a little sauce on your lip.  Let me get that."  I reach over with a napkin and dab it away.  He appears nervous.  Bet he wishes his bodyguards were inside the house instead of outside the door texting teenage Idol losers.

"Um," he stammers, "I really have a lot to do today ... the show ... stuff."

"The night is young," I tell him. 

"Yeah, I've been up for a while."

"Me, too.  May I ask you something?"

"Sure.  I'll tell you, though, I don't know Mel Gibson."  He laughs.  This is funny to him.

"I don't care about him.  Do you ever get the feeling you walked into something you can't really get out of?  Where all your instincts are screaming for you to run, but you don't do it because you think you can't possibly be in that situation?"

He has stopped eating.  "Yeah.  Maybe."

I laugh.  "I'm fucking with you man.  Enjoy the pasta and then get the fuck out of here.  You're busy, and I got some films to review."  And then I leave him to his food.

Pretty sure he'd never forget that one.

And it looks like I have to work on the manuscript tonight.

American Dreams

As I watch the news this morning, a smiling KTVU reporter is live on the scene in San Francisco.  It's not due to some crime or an out of control fire.  No, this "news worthy" scene is a line for American Idol hopefuls.  These people want their chance at stardom.  The next chance to be an overdosing, under achieving "idol."  I suppose this is supposed to make people feel good as they start their mornings.  All these smiling faces just waiting in line for 3.5 seconds to show what they got.

And we are surprised that most people can't find Iraq on a map.

The talking heads on the news are seriously discussing the process involved in trying out for this show.  They are debating who the judges will be.  Claudine Wong, the reporter live on the scene, should be very proud of herself.  Hell, she could have been stuck covering California's perpetually stalled budget.

As the segment winds down, I can't help but crack a smile.  There, among all those smiling faces, is a female who wears a shit-eating grin like she wears a Hollister shirt.  I can only imagine what she is thinking.  "Here I am.  I'm going to get my bracelet and go in their and wow the judges.  I'll show them that I am the next Idol.  I'll bring tears to their faces with my Tori Amos selection.  They will say, 'You're going to Hollywood.'  I will smile, burst into tears and go hug my mother.  In a few months, Matt Lauer will be asking me what it feels like to be the next American Idol.  I'll tell him it hasn't really sunk in yet, though I've been waiting for this moment since I discovered my mom's old Madonna CDs.  I'll tell him I've not had any sleep, and that I can't wait to cut my album.  I will be living my dream."

I want the camera to be there to focus on that face when reality sets in.  Not that I want someone to see someone disappointed.  I see that every day.  I just want the news to cover reality for once.  That's the reaction I want to see.  I want to hear what she has to say then.  "Oh well.  I tried.  Back to Taco Time.  At least my shift manager's cute."

That's what I want to see.  People's gut reactions to the cold, hard reality.  Not the smiles of a promised tomorrow that will never come through, but the today that never ends.  Only then will the dream really mean anything when it becomes the reality.

Anything else is playing the lottery.

Fatal Kiss

A decent amount of sleep was gained last night.  Not the best kind of sleep, but sleep nonetheless.  Hey, it was over six hours worth.  That's a good thing, and inevitable considering the lack of sleep the night before.

I wrote a bit.  Worked on the manuscript that is doing me more harm than good.  My mind was a bit thrown off by a conversation from earlier in the afternoon, and missing a conversation I usually have at night.  Nothing I couldn't deal with, though.  A little Social Distortion often puts things into perspective.

I imagine this week will be much like other weeks.  Maybe better.  Maybe worse.  I'm trying not to care that much, and that seems to be working out okay.  Time will tell, however. 

Did a bit of cleaning yesterday.  Threw a lot of stuff out.  Felt very good.  Going to do more this week.  Reduce the clutter.  I'm shredding notes from a previous life.  Back from when I felt more human.

My daughter is a great barometer of people.  She knows the good ones.  She said something to me on Saturday that kind of hit home pretty good.  Observant words.  Heartfelt words.  Words that made me smile.

If I remember those words, this week will be great.

If not ... well, I'm no stranger to lost sleep and stress induced pain. 

The world awaits ...

Drinking Black Coffee

A nearly daily ritual.  Two cups of the organic Muddy Waters Crossroads coffee.  I drink it black (like my soul).  No milk.  No cream.  No sugar.  Black.

Rituals are, for the most part, comforts.  They center you to your particular brand of universe.  Things like ritual slayings serve dual purposes: they reinforce the slayers' belief system; they terrorize the public.  Rituals such as going out and singing Christmas carols summon forth a season a memories.  And some rituals, like the morning drinking of coffee, usher in a day.

Last night, after multiple conversations with multiple people (and I thoroughly apologize to the one I told the horrible condom story to), I was left in good spirits but with my thoughts spinning.  My head was throbbing (not in a good way), as it has been for days.  I decided to check my e-mail earlier in the evening and found a Facebook message from someone I never thought I'd hear from again.  It kind of threw me for a loop.  Brought forth a lot of bad dreams.  Kept me awake, reading Conan the Usurper until I could no longer close my eyes.  When sleep came, it was under constant attack by dreams that seemed almost fever-induced.

I'm not a person who puts much stock in things like tradition, though I have a few with my daughter.  Tradition is sometimes traditionally bad.  Ritual, however, is more nebulous.  It can be good or evil.  Ritual is the intellect while tradition is the ego. 

When I woke up for the third time, I went into ritual mode.  Lay stark still.  Eyes focused one place in the dark.  Regulate the breathing.  Open all the senses.  Take in every noise, every scent, feel ever vibration.  Become completely aware by becoming the darkness that surrounds me.  It is a form of meditation, and it is a ritual I rarely use because it can work opposite of its intended purpose.  Here I wanted to drift to sleep.  Sometimes there is so much stimuli that sleep just isn't possible.

To turn off my mind takes careful, formulated steps.  When I wake up, my mind is going at a thousand miles an hour.  All sorts of thoughts invade.  To start the ritual of shutting down I must lay flat, arms at my side or crossed over my chest.  I cannot cough or sneeze.  I must control my breathing.  I must stop any thoughts that creep in.  Eventually this ritual transforms an alert mind into a state that is hard to describe.  That space in the dark that I focus on is not longer there.  I cannot tell if I am awake or asleep.  The level of darkness that surrounds me is level.  Eventually I drift off but am still hyper aware.

I first did this in my teen years.  It's how I learned to wake myself without the aid of an alarm clock.  (I can actually wake myself up on a predetermined minute.)  Normally when I sleep I am in a state where the slightest out of place sound, scent or vibration instantly awakens me.  I can tell what is going on around me.  With this ritual I sometimes partake in (I do it rarely as to not abuse it), I not only become aware of what is going on around me, I take it in and become part of it.  If you had to visualize it, it would look like a slow melt that eventually becomes part of the darkness.

When taking part of this ritual, the after effects can be disarming.  When you eventually come back to "normal" (whatever that may be), you have weird clarity issues.  Everything around you is pronounced.  Colors are more vibrant (even for me with my color blindness).  Every noise louder.  Every thought more vivid.  And that's where my morning began.

A cup of coffee.  Editing an interview with filmmaker M.A. Littler.  My mind clicking off thing after another.  A ritual that brought enlightenment and a bit of rage.  A ritual meant to help me sleep, now keeping me awake.

Some are good.  Some are evil.  All are meant to create stability in one instance while often causing the opposite effect in some other area at the same time.  The ritualized slaying.  The sleep ritual.  The external versus the internal.  As usual, the internal is the hardest with which to deal. 

But the ideas it brings are well worth pursuing ... until the next ritual.

Blank Eyes

I stare into those eyes looking for some sort of sign of life.  Some sort of intelligence.  Some spark that lets me know the lights are on and someone is home.  Anything that tells me I'm not better off just staying behind closed doors and talking to the walls.

All too often I end up disappointed and feeling like an outsider of my own design simply because I don't "let go and let God."

I used to spend a lot of time actively hating my enemies.  Now I'm more content to ignore them, knowing that given enough time they will find ways to do themselves in.  For the rest of the world, I tried to find a connection and ended up realizing is that I don't want to connect with the vast majority of people who have never even looked into that internal mirror.

I am happy with a very close circle of friends, the kinds of people I can discuss anything with and get a lively debate from.  The kinds of people who don't possess the blank eyes and crooked grins of someone who has been spiritually lobotomized by over stimulation and a gluttonous diet of prefabricated nonsense delivered via IV.  I am happy to look into their eyes and see that spark.  And even at their worst, their darkest moments, those times where self-doubt becomes self-hate and fear starts winning the fight -- I am happy because they are alive.

And so many others are the walking dead. 

Thank you, fine folks.  Let the morning break ...

Voices in the Night

I do enjoy the conversations.  The give and take.  The theories put forth.  The ideas presented.  Conversation is a lost art, and it is something few people seem able to engage in on any kind of meaningful level.  It impresses me to no end when someone can articulate what they feel and how they view things.  I don't need to agree.  I don't need to feel comfortable.  All I need to do is listen and be thankful that for some the ability to converse is not even close to being dead.

My words have offended people.  (Let's not even get into the writing.)  It is the risk you take when you hold an honest conversation.  Some people get that.  Some people don't.  I tend to think that the more intelligent a person is the less likely they will be offended.  What is more worrisome than offenses, however, is that fewer and fewer people seem able to articulate their feelings and views.  Instead, they describe them in the most basic terms, repeating what they have heard on television.  Proving they have given little thought to the things that drive them on a daily basis.

Finding people who have engaged in extensive, honest introspection is akin to finding the Lost Ark.  They are few and far between. That moment where you realize you are conversing with someone on a level few people ever get to see (and if they did they wouldn't understand it or even realize it) -- that is magic.

If you don't buy that, try it.  Find someone you can hold a real conversation with and then find someone who can't describe even their most basic feelings and desires.  If you don't see the difference you are obviously deluding yourself.

It is rare.  It is magic.  It should be cherished.  To handle it any other way is to squander it.  Conversation is one of those things that make us human, and from what I've seen, there aren't many of us left.

Suckle

An Arkansas woman was kicked out of a courtroom recently for breastfeeding her baby.  I've been through Arkansas.  Trust me when I say this makes total sense.

If you are an Arkansas resident, the public display of breastfeeding is nothing but offense, right up there with having sex in public, or (God forbid) menstruating.  When the court's officer asked her to leave, he was doing his job and enforcing the decency standards that Arkansas residents depend upon to keep them safe from things like nipples and The Simpsons.

Arkansas, being a hotbed of progressive thinking, also bars atheists from holding any offices in its civil departments or being a witness in court.  (One can imagine it wasn't an atheist who complained since, by law, they really had no business being in the courtroom.)

So here's to the state of Arkansas!  Thanks for keeping your courtrooms safe from things like suckling children and atheists testifying in court.  If you let these into your hallowed halls the next thing you know you'll have to allow college graduates and "colored folk" in.  Next thing you know you'll look like California!  (Granted, in 2008 California's Gross Domestic Product numbers ranked it number one and Arkansas was a respectable 34 [that's out of 50 states in case you wonderful Arkansas judges were still relying on colonial maps].)  That shouldn't worry you fine people, though.  You just continue protecting your citizens the best way you see fit.  It seems to be working well so far.

Holding Steady in a Firestorm

A chunk of ice four times the size of Manhattan broke off of Greenland today.  Obviously, this has nothing to do with temperatures rising and everything to do with gay marriage being fine and dandy in California.  Obviously.

Ignorance of all sorts from all sorts is something that should be looked as an enemy.  I don't buy into all the global warning claims just as I don't buy into claims of faith or conspiracy.  A chunk of ice breaking off Greenland can be looked at as merely a chunk of ice breaking off Greenland (with expected and unexpected repercussions), or it can be looked at as a warning (and either ignored or examined).

I believe in better safe than sorry.

I think it is ludicrous to think that the pollutants we put into the air, water and earth will have no effect on life.  These effects may not be known instantly, and they may not be readily apparent, but I find it naive to believe that Earth acts as one big filter for all the shit we spew into it.  Ecology dictates that actions have reactions.  Sometimes the effects are positive.  Sometimes less so.  Just because you don't experience them firsthand, doesn't mean they don't occur or won't occur down the line.

I'm far from an environmentalist.  As I've stated before, I'm more of an ecologist.  I try my best to understand the balances and look at the long-term pictures.  I think for many people the idea of environmental catastrophe scares them into submission.  They feel their lifestyles would have to change so much that they would no longer enjoy the comforts they presently enjoy, and they shut down.  The put on the blinders and stick their fingers in their ears, happy to only hear their song and no other.  It is comforting to say, "You have no proof!  It's just a cycle!  It's all a conspiracy!"  It may be comforting, but it also gives an illusion of safety where there should be none.

I can't determine whether or not a chunk of ice breaking away from Greenland is the direct result of global warming.  It doesn't really matter, though.  There are always other implications.  (And let's keep in mind that there are studies saying the first six months of 2010 are the hottest ever recorded.)  Implications that have yet to be fully understood.  (Though I bet importers and exporters are already plotting out new shipping lanes, which will inevitably drive up the price of goods, as this ice is heading straight into those lanes, and will actually disrupt them within two years.  Take that, consumerism.)

Like the lump in one's breast, these signs should be ignored at your own risk.  The lump can be malignant or benign, but it needs to be checked out.  Same thing goes with the environment (which may actually be linked to that mysterious lump I keep referring to).  To ignore it is to court disaster.  To fear it is to do the same. 

But then again, I'm sure this is all the fault of uppity homosexuals. 

Homosexuals Have Stolen Everything From Us -- An Angry Straight Male's Response

A "Straight" Male and his Dealer

The news out of California, my home state, is terrifying.  Worse, perhaps, than 9/11 or the end of Lost.  Gay men and lesbians can now marry.  I know.  Stifle your gasps.

Women marrying other women is okay.  Lesbianism has always been cool and always will be cool ... as long as it's what the Religious Right calls "lipstick lesbians."  Those are the hot ones.  The other lesbians, commonly referred to as "butch" are kind of scary and should be working on oil rigs ... alone.

Men marrying other men, however, just ain't right. 

Homosexual men have stolen so much from straight men that this is the last straw.  They have taken all the good interior decorator jobs, really messed up the mustache, and have hijacked the name "Bruce."  Not only that, once the homosexuals got a hold of the Village People we ended up losing songs we could sing and dance to at parties.  It's enough to make a straight man want to divorce.

Gay Men Have Ruined Facial Hair

Maybe I would like to remarry some day (I'm divorced, which in no way ruins the institution of marriage), but now I feel like my marriage would be cheapened because men like Arnold Schwarzenegger could marry a man like Glen Beck.  How can any straight guy compete with that?  The answer is: He can't, and you can only blame homosexuals getting all uppity about their "rights."

I had to work hard for the right to marry a woman.  An entire book had to be written to make this okay.  And then, for those who were foolish enough not to take the book at its word, laws had to be made that let people like ship captains, court officials and Internet preachers marry men and women.  Nowhere in this mix was it ever thought that two men would marry.  Nowhere.  I mean, what next?  A black man and white woman?  Someone from Ireland marrying a female from Delaware.  Where does the insanity end?

I haven't read the entire ruling on gay marriage.  I don't need to in order to know it is wrong.  How can I prove it is wrong without even reading how the judge came to this decision?  Easy.  The genitals don't fit together.

His Genitalia Won't Fit in Me

The genitalia of a man and a woman are made, by God, to fit together like Legos or the more modern invention of Velcro.  When these two parts are brought together, babies come out.  Duh.  That's not religion.  That's fact!

I'm no scientist or doctor.  I'm just a guy with a web connection, but I totally get biology.  If genitals didn't fit together, we wouldn't have animals being born!  Everything, including humans, would be extinct!  That is why homosexuals shouldn't marry. 

I have no problem with men carrying out sexual activity with other men in things like airport restrooms and dimly lit parking lots, or even on church field trips.  But to mandate, through law, that it is okay for these men to do these things legally in their bedroom or, God forbid, their kitchen, that is just wrong and makes me, as a staunchly heterosexual male with a long history of being really into vaginas, angry.

How can a judge do this us?  Up until a few days ago I felt safe and secure in my heterosexuality.  Now?  Now I don't know what's going on.  How do I know if the men I'm talking to aren't having thoughts of marrying me and making me dress like a woman while they have their way with me, calling me names like "pig" or "slut"?  I can't tell!  What if they want to marry me and make me move to Connecticut of all places?  How am I supposed to be able to stop that?  I can't, because a judge, in a ruling I never read, said it's "okay."

I beg of you, Mr. Judge, change your mind.  Don't base your ruling on the Bible.  I know that won't fly.  You may as well base it on Stephen King's Christine.  Judge it on biology.  I could show you how the genitals don't fit (except in the case of foreskin docking, but that doesn't make babies).  I'd be happy to demonstrate even.  Please reconsider this.  If you don't change your mind, men throughout California are going to be marrying other men, and then what will happen?  I can't see the future, and I'm no Chicken Little, but I'm pretty sure we will all die.

Last I checked, dead is pretty final (at least until you get into Heaven).  Don't kill us, judge.  Please.

Watch Us Fall

In a perfect world I'd be a bestselling author making a living by my writing.  This is not a perfect world, however, but it doesn't stop me from trying.  In fact, the place I'm in pushes me toward that goal.

It is far from easy, though.

The current manuscript I'm working on is leaving me emotionally drained in a way no other manuscript has done (and hopefully no other one will ever do).  This one isn't like the cannibal manuscript, which I had fun writing.  This one isn't fun.  It's torture. 

But I have to write it.

Writing for me isn't a choice.  It's something I need to do, like breathing, eating or spying on young lovers in their cars.  If I don't write for an extended period of time, or only write nonfiction, I get weird.  Well, weirder.  I get weirder.  I know someday it will pay off.  I've already accomplished a lot.  My work has appeared in books, magazines, web sites on DVDs and in bands' promotional materials.  I'm published in many different places and in many different countries.  If I stop to think about it, it's actually kind of cool.

I've been lucky enough to meet some great people through my writing, too.  But every once in a while I wonder if it is worth it.  I'm up at five most mornings, early enough to get writing done before work.  Sometimes I'm up until two in the morning doing it, too.  It drains me and consumes me.  It is a blessing and a curse.

And I'm not sure I'd have it any other way.

Someday ...

On a Bed of Nails ...

I've always been a realist with how I handle things ... or as much of a realist as anyone can be.  We are human, after all, and humans are prone to flights of fancy of how things should be and how they can be, and rarely do those notions bear any kind of resemblance to reality.

I am not above that, but I do try to, as the kids say, keep things real.  Sometimes I fail miserably.  There are rare moments, however, where I succeed far better than I thought I would.  Far better than I could hope to actually. 

I used to dread the future.  I would fear what cruel tortures it had in store for me.  Not so much these days.  I have this weird feeling that things are working out just fine.  I don't have the few things I really want, and I don't see me obtaining them anytime soon, but I now have this gnawing little feeling at the back of my brain.  It nibbles.  It bites.  It whispers things.  Tells me to not blurt out some of the things I want to say.  It tells me to hold on, to see if my ideas are going to mesh with reality.  It tells me to have patience.

I have named this beast.  I have given this vexing little parasite an actual name to go with its prodding nature.  I have taken the unknowable and unthinkable and have given it personality.

I call it Hope, and it is foreign to me.

I used to force it to be quiet.  If you let Hope speak, you would be wildly disappointed.  You would fall over the words that were spoken from your mouth.  You'd get that rush that comes with happiness, but it would be fleeting at best, and disastrous at worst.  So I silenced it. 

These days I'm letting it speak more.  I'm giving it some power over me.  I just wish I would have had the courage to let it speak a few hours ago.  But one thing I learned about letting Hope speak in the past is that in some sense it has made me a coward.  I don't like that feeling, but I respect it.

Maybe someday I'll let Hope be my spokesperson, but for now all I'm going to do is listen and nod my head a little.  I'll acknowledge his presence, but little more.  For I do, he may bite again and dash all those dreams against the rocks like an unanchored ship in a storm.

I have no desire to sink anymore.  I've done that far too often in the past, and I like the view from here better.

Keep whispering, Hope.  I hear you.  I just don't know if I'm buying what you're selling just yet.

A World Without Honor

I don't remember going to bed last night.  I don't remember what I was doing before going to sleep.  Typically reading or watching television.  I don't remember closing a book or turning off the TV.  I woke up and did not feel well-rested.  My stomach, which has been brutalizing me since Saturday night, was hurting.  I don't like waking up like this.  I don't like not remembering going to bed.

I brewed some Muddy Waters Crossroads coffee this morning.  Never had it before, but it is good.  Strong.  Not helping my stomach, though.  There is always the old standby of whether or not it is an ulcer.  Regardless, I must press on.

Tonight will be good.  Tomorrow will be far better.  But what will the rest of the week bring?