Saturday, September 29, 2007

That's Right, I Dance...I Pour It On HOT!

I can't say that I'm proud of this video, but it just happened. I wasn't drunk, or threatened, just compelled. You might say that the Muse inspired me to dance for all you bastards. So dance I did. And I broke the top right off da muffin.

Red Sox Win The Pennant!

I'm a Red Sox fan, and was happy to see them clinch the pennant last night. The Yankees never had the lead in the AL East, and that's all right by me. I liked this picture the best. People watched the Yankees' game on the big screen at Fenway, and a few thousand waited to see who would win, despite the Yankees having a lead up until the ninth inning. They were rewarded with a champagne bath from the players. Very cool.

That's about all the sports you're ever going to see on here. I like the picture on the bottom, as well.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Fond of the Bond

Before I get to subject of my little opus today, I just want to share this picture of J. Quinn Brisben and I, from 1992, when he was staying at my flat during the Boston leg of his presidential campaign. He's of ill health these days, and I hope he feels better quickly. Trust me when I say this; the world needs people like Quinn. My letter to him went out today, and I wish I could visit him in Chicago, but I cannot. Get better, comrade.

Money and love. Love and money. I am barely getting by financially. I'm fine with having only the necessities; a flat, food for me and my cats, lights, that sort of thing. But I'm also in a relationship, have been for almost a year now, and I'm always penniless the second half of every single month. I'm fortunate that she says she loves me despite my pathetic poverty, and I do greatly appreciate what I have, but at times I feel it would be better if I lived like a monk. No relationship, no intimacy...just a carefully calculated existence where I can hide out and get by. I sincerely feel such sadness for anyone with the poor judgment or bad luck to fall in love with me. At the same time, I'm quite fond of the bond I share with my beloved. I'm good at being in love. I'm passionate, but my natural inclinations make it hard for me to connect with people. But one single person, in all of his or her complexity and aspects, can look into my eyes and make a profound connection. If I'm part of the human race, even the world itself and everything in it, it's only through the gate of my lover. I've been pretty lucky in love, and that's probably why. Connecting with a woman isn't just something I feel compelled to do because it's what a man (particularly a relatively young gentleman) is supposed to do. Every love affair, one night stand or relationship represents a desire to fulfill the same need. But the greatest among them is falling in love. It makes you nuts, never leaves you alone and makes you feel a bit more alive. Hell, it almost killed me. That story is in the blog archives somewhere.

One can be an romantic and be alone. Shit, look how many artists pull it off. The Russian author Dostoevsky writes about such a person in his short story, "White Nights." A loner who rents a squalid little room in St. Petersburg. He knows the city very well, but rarely talks to anyone. He knows the buildings, parks and people (from a distance). One day, the protagonist finally develops something of a friendship with an old pensioner who sits in the park, passing the time. After months of walking past him he gets the nerve to tip his hat. After that, he waves. This goes on for awhile, then the man disappears and the protagonist is genuinely saddened. When he sees him again, they are both relieved. But they never say a word to each other, at least how I remember it. Sort of like my relationship with Boston, and the world. I have a lot of affection for my fellow man, although I'm pretty sure that that is not a fashionable attitude these days. But a nod or wave is enough, except with the poor girl who finds herself my lover. Into her I pour all my regrets, happiness, fears, self-loathing, passion, opinions and love. The human race gets a tip of my proverbial hat, but my lover gets me entire. That makes me attractive to intellectual, thoughtful and equally passionate women, thus my success at having had so many wonderful women in my life over the years. But like a mantra in my head, I hear over and over again, "You need to be better if you're going to be with another." A modicum of financial security isn't an unreasonable expectation for a woman to have of her 35 year old lover, even if he is bat-shit.

So there are endless apologies, and genuine regret and a sense of loss at what a waste of life I am. A taste, just give me a taste of life and passion and love, but that's not how it works. One is either in or out. Open to receive the love of another or not. And I can't shut down my need to be loved by a woman, a specific woman who works for a local newspaper, and my need to pour my affection into her. So I have to live with the guilt of loving poorly. Or being a poor lover, one who cannot provide anything beyond the flesh; laughter, sex, comradeship, affection, intimacy. A fellow traveler as it were.

I'm talking about falling in love with a failure. For some of us, this world, the only world, will never be right. And I would drink hot blood and tear into and destroy goodness just to make myself a better partner for my lover's love. But I can't. This is the way the clock is wound. I've been with many women, but they always find a reason to leave me, and rightly so for the reasons I've outlined. So there is fear, of losing the one I love. Combined, ever so gently, with a dark hope that she will find someone better, a partner in this life who can treat her as she deserves to be treated. To take the burden of living off a bit by having some material things. I think, unfortunately, that love is not all you need. You need a little green in the bank, too. Some people know this hard truth at birth, some learn it, and some never accept it. It seems crude and crass and cruel in the face of whatever love is. But like the stench of rotting meat or the pain and hopelessness of a terminal illness, sometimes what is ugly is also true.

In between relationships over the years, I've known loneliness like everyone else. It's not unbearable, but it does wither one down, day by day. You can no longer express yourself in the heart and mind of another. So you turn inward and become smaller. This happens in loveless marriages, too, perhaps in an even uglier fashion. When I went on disability I thought I'd have to live like a monk. I don't. But the fashion in which I do live seems adequate for one, but not enough for two. I'm hoping that what seems true isn't. And for an atheist, that's an awful lot of faith to have in an intangible hope. Love. What is it, am I good enough for it, and can I afford it?

Thursday, September 27, 2007

I'll Have A Bottle Of Your Finest Penot

The new picture of the witch on the bottom right is called, Depart pour le Sabbat' and was painted by French artist Albert-Joseph Penot. Apparently, he was popular in French salons at the turn of the last century. I find it mesmerizing, and I'm looking at some of his other works; he was very prolific. It reminds me of Goya's work, with the sharp light/dark contrast (I'm thinking "5th of May" and "Saturn Devouring His Children"), particularly the etchings, of course. The way light almost comes from the subject, like chiarascuro, but the actual source of light is what is being painted.

Keep in mind as you read this that I'm probably an over-educated boob, so I may be inclined to make references to things that I poorly understand. Because of being a boob. That's me...a boob.

A commercial just came on television for a product (a "smooshed" dried fruit, like a roll-up, methinks) called FruitaBu. It really freaked me out. Wow. I'd love to provide the link for it right now, on YouTube or something, but I'm missing My Name is Earl as it is...got to go.

Saffron Revolution

The "Saffron Revolt" in Myanmar has met with the inevitable hail of gunfire. There has been a military junta in control of that country since the early 1960's (some call them "socialist," which they are NOT). The current head pickle is Senior General Than Shwe. After a sharp increase in fuel prices in late August, Buddhist monks took up the cause for the poor and began protests. Small at first, they are now huge, peaceful marches of 100,000 people, almost daily. They call it the "Saffron Protest" because of the color of the monks' robes.

Naturally, the junta became fearful and a few hours ago security forces began shooting into crowds of peaceful protesters. The last I heard is that 10 were killed, I don't know how many casualties in total. Very sad. One protester held a sign that read, "We are all connected in existence" and then something about love and compassion.

Of all the nerve.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm an expert on Myanmar politics. I know enough of the broad strokes to follow the events in a rough fashion. It's not cynical to think that those with the money and guns almost always win, that's the reality. Change will come to Myanmar, of that I'm sure, but not until many are killed and injured. So many are led to the exit early and pushed out. I know not their names, what made them laugh, why they chose to become monks, their thoughts on god, nature and the universe, or anything about any of the people killed every day by other people...for this reason or that.

Incredibly, China contacted Myanmar and asked that they show "restraint" in dealing with the protests. That's called chutzpah.

More later, I have to go paint a flat!

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Of An Empty Not Shattered

A great deal was on my mind today, and I had a lot of ideas for the blog, but I just took six milligrams of lorazepam and it's probably a good idea that I wait until tomorrow before writing too much, given that I'll probably be flat on my back pretty soon. Especially considering that I also took some lithium, as well. Into the arms of Morpheus.

A need and an inclination towards self-isolation, and what that means for the people whom I love...I could write about that. Certainly has been on my mind. My fractured memory is also causing me grief, as I forget birthdays and time I spent with friends who have moved on. I'm fond of my memories, and when I chose electro-convulsive therapy I knew that I would have to lose some of my remembered past in order to help move into the future. ECT caused immediate amnesia about my life at the moment, but it also randomly causes deep memories, there for years, to whither and sometimes just disappear. Sometimes I hear stories of something that happened years ago that I no longer remember, like it was another person. It could be an old girlfriend, or a treasured conversation with a professor, comrade, friend, whomever. My entire friendship with an African-American Harvard student named Eve Mbugua (I at least remember her name) is pretty much lost. Some parts of our time together are still there, fondly remembered from back when I had tricked myself into believing that I was going to get a graduate degree in evolutionary biology and amount to something. I remember that she was a beautiful, small girl with an incredible mind. She would be that anyway, without me remembering.

I didn't know I was going to lose that. I didn't want to lose that. I have a small circle of friends, and I need them all. I have Melanie, Linda, Fiona, Clare, Adam, Mikhail, Donna, Jen and, of course, my girlfriend Linda. I need them. I need them now and I need my precious memories of them. I didn't always hate myself, and wasn't always so limited by illness, and the memories of those times are precious to me. Like gold in my hand. But a lot of it is gone forever. A little taste of the void before actual death.

But it was necessary because I had tried every fucking pill and I was still profoundly suicidal and suffering badly. I stank, cut myself, poured muriatic acid on an open wound, which gave me a scar I still have. I drank, drugged, or just curled up in my closet and slept. Sometimes I would go out late at night and lie in the street near my flat, hoping a car would smash me. Once I did that on the Green line tracks at the Copley Station. The train that would have ended all my problems never came. The list of wild-eyed, self-destructive behavior is a long one. A great deal kept from loved ones. So I needed to do something drastic. Am I better now? I do think it worked, otherwise how can I explain my current habit of walking and talking. But what a price to pay.

It's late, and I'm going to go to bed now. If I'm lucky there will be no dreams. I don't want any more. I want the peace of an empty, not shattered, mind.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Well, I Have Been To Chinatown

I'm sitting in my girlfriend's living room, cat and dog sitting whilst she is at work. It's 4:23 in the afternoon, and I just sat down after putting some dishes into the dishwasher. The Three Stooges is on television, and it never ceases to disturb me a bit at how funny that show can sometimes be. I'm not proud of finding the stooges funny, but I do and there's not a thing I can do about it; I'm an idiot.

Earlier this week I had two two temporary crowns put on my front, right, top incisor and canine teeth. They feel fine but apparently look ridiculously mismatched, literally like a couple of Chiclets were crammed over two teeth. When Linda saw me for the first time post-dental visit, she looked a little horrified. Later she revealed that she didn't know how to delicately ask about my Chiclet teeth. Completely understandable. Had they been the finished product and not just temporaries, methinks that there is a good chance that I'd be sans girlfriend right now. They really do look pretty bad, and I feel compelled to wear a button or T-shirt that explains that I have ongoing dental surgery in the works. Then again, why bother...I look like a baboon fucking a football to begin with.

Tonight I'm going to run around Linda's backyard totally nude...this is the country, after all. I can't hang around my yard naked. Trust me, I tried. And who knows what else I'll do, and what will happen. You'll have to keep reading my blog for more exciting adventures of a fat, mentally ill fuck who hasn't a pot to piss in, has never been to China, and who can't dance. Yes, that's right. I'm fully aware of all my shortcomings. But what do you have going on that's so fucking great? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Next time, I will present a video of the kittens that Linda and I've been looking after. Long story, but kittens are painfully cute, and I have three of them until tomorrow. You will not be able to resist the cuteness of the video I shall post. You will be powerless against it.

Also, does anyone out there have a good recipe for a domestic short hair kitten?

Friday, September 21, 2007

War Profits

I just read a press release from a group called, "The Center for Responsive Politics." They conducted a study and found that since the Iraqi war started in 2003, there has been a "dramatic shift" towards service men and women donating money to Democratic candidates instead of Republicans. Donations have gone up from 25% of total donations to over 40%, just between 2003 and today. Barak Obama has received more money than any other presidential candidate, of either party. And his proposal is the most radical. Obama is calling for an immediate troop withdrawal from Iraq.

Military people and their families have represented the hard core of Bush supporters. It's naturally hard to accept that a loved one is fighting, killing and will potentially die in an unjust war. It's a hard, cold thing for anyone to accept. But this core of support for the administration is eroding away. Americans gave Bushie the benefit of the doubt and let him lead the way. The overwhelming majority of Americans now at least disagree with the entire premise of the Iraq war. You may have noticed that people are angry and resentful that they let a mediocre frat-boy college student manipulate them; an obnoxious son of a bitch who was born rich and has no scruples.

Is there anything lower than a war profiteer? And who has profited more from this war than Bush, Cheney and company? It's quite a la mode to criticize and attack our president. I don't know what people ever saw in him. I hang with a crowd (I'm so hip) that never liked the prick. His press conference yesterday was a feast for the senses. Maybe I'll write about it later, but I doubt it. I felt a duty to watch it, even though it was like sticking my cock in the toaster, or perhaps my tongue in a light socket. The point I'm making here is that listening to this president is like sticking something somethere where it painfully should not be. The Red Sox slide is a mild, almost quaint, concern compared to the fear and dread I feel when Bush starts talking about how we need the free market in health care. Or even better, that we need to balance the budget by cutting "entitlement" programs. But the war must continue fully-funded, while we all give up on the dream of safe bridges and roads, social welfare programs, equitable taxation, good public schools...you name it. Look at the breakdown of the cost here.

January 20, 2009.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

A Road Diverged

Mental illness requires making a choice, with fundamentally only two options, like meeting a fork in the road. One can choose to stop living by literally ceasing to live via sailing out an open window, sucking on the 3rd rail, eating a bottle of pills, or what have you. A lot of ways to do it. Also, one can figuratively stop living through isolation and avoiding treatment. Either way, it's the same choice, which is to not fight back and seek a bit of happiness. Contrary to the mythology, it's not by definition the "easy" choice. It can be brutally hard coming to the conclusion that you're not worth the paper you're printed on, and to do the world a favor by jumping off the train a little early. But that's the first option, Option "A" as it were; literal or figurative death.

The second option is, naturally, to get some help, take pills and go to therapy and pursue a "normal" life. Feel free to call that Option "B." I remember when I first heard that phrase, "pursue a normal life." Referred to as if it were the ultimate goal, pure good, the shining path through the Promised Land. It was spoken to me this way by an intake nurse late one night at The Arbour, a nut-house in Jamaica Plain, Boston. She said, "With the right medication and therapy the hope is that you will be able to return to a normal life." A total mind fuck, when you think about it. Up until that day, I wasn't aware that the best I could hope for was normalcy. And clearly I wasn't "returning" to normalcy, given how fucked up I was and am. And even if I were normal, it wasn't something I was very fond of given how I got to The Arbour in the first place. I had just arrived from the hospital.

But I understand what this kind and very tired nurse was saying. We were hoping for a return to normal function, even if I had never functioned normally. I always knew that my noggin wasn't screwed on quite right, and a parade of frank and honest friends over the years confirmed that fact. Whatever the problem, it was (and is) preventing me from functioning at school and work as I once had.

After my second suicide attempt I decided to focus on the second option. I took up the practice of seeking professional help, and the necessary habit of taking pills and tablets. And also comfortably labeling myself as "crazy" or "mentally ill" or "bipolar." Whatever I had (and have) to do to find a hiding place from the guilt, the deep, merciless knowledge that I am a marginal human being who isn't to be taken very seriously; a man of no consequence, as I'm fond of saying. It takes a long time to at least develop a modicum of comfort in the face of that unflattering outlook and defeated, pathetic disposition. I haven't found much comfort in the purgatory of mediocrity, but I'm hoping that just by living I'm somehow winning. I know that's a lie, though, a pleasant fiction. The truth is one must do more than just live, one must thrive. Otherwise, people resent you a bit. They talk about you behind your back and mock you and your failures. You come to represent something not only different, but lesser and sad. I sink, I fall, and I wither but I'm not wearing the wooden coat. It has been hammered into my head that that is supposed to be a victory in itself. It's dangerous for me to scrutinize the wisdom of that approach. There's only those two options, after all.

Medication provides certain molecules, massed in pill form, that I need to survive. Not unlike a fucking astronaught or deep sea diver who needs oxygen, also a molecule. Like being on life support. It's a better deal than most, methinks.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Diesel And An Ailing Comrade

It's almost midnight and earlier today I smoked some "Aghani Diesel," which is a "brand" of marijuana that has a pleasant, fresh taste and a good, long high. It's expensive, so I can't get used to it, but it was nice to try something new and refined. I also got a chance to be with my girlfriend in the evening, which was wonderful. Very good kissers, we are.

I got an email tonight from a comrade in New York City, about J. Quinn Brisben being ill with some sort of heart trouble. Quinn lives in Chicago, but most of my contact with the Socialist Party is through David McReynolds, and he let me know. It's impossible to relate how special Quinn and Andrea are to me. And Quinn is my hero, a hard-working activist and insanely eloquent and fascinating human being. He stands for Every Good Thing in the world, and I would love to have him on this Earth for another 20 years or more. So I'm sending healing vibes to the man who once smuggled condoms into the Soviet Union, and has been arrested at countless protests advocating for better services for the mentally and physically disabled. I'll send my little card out in the morning, for what it's worth. I wish I could visit him so bad it aches, but he would understand my not having the money. If I had money I wouldn't be a socialist. Oh, how droll.

Anyway, I love you Quinn and Andrea. Working with you back in 1992 was one of the best experiences of my life.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Empty Window

The small, banal task of taking the air conditioner out of my bedroom window turned into a romantic remembrance, albeit a sentimental one. During the hot summer months my room, and to a lesser degree my entire flat, is sealed tight. The hum of the air conditioner drowns out the sound of the wind in the trees, the rumble of thunder, and the back-stoop conversations of my neighbors. During the summer what I miss the most is the sound of the rain. Such maudlin soft-heartedness! Judge me not too harshly.

Last night I got to listen to the rain while I lay in bed, for the first time in months. The ground is dry and crunchy and rain is so badly needed. You could almost hear the dry earth and yellow grass drinking in the soak. Every so often, the wind would blow some of the wet into my window and onto my naked legs. For reasons that are unclear to me I became very emotional. I thought of how the world has changed since I was a kid, but at the same time it hasn't changed at all. You may have noticed that, as well. The older you get, the more you notice that, despite all the changing technology, the broad strokes (and many of the finer ones) are exactly the same. The best part about technology is not having to mess around with rabbit ears on the television anymore. I sort of miss the rotary phone, though. It made using the phone more of an event. Cell phones. At times I really hate those fucking things.

I was a strange child, no doubt about it. I was the class clown to some of my friends, but I was also very withdrawn. Clearly, humor was used by me to deflect attention. I'll never forget something that happened with my father when I was around age 12. There was a commercial on television about helping the homeless, and when they showed a guy living on the street I said, "That's going to be me when I grow up." My father, of course, told me that that was crazy. He probably thought it a strange things to say, which it is. But even back then I knew that I wasn't made to flourish in this world.

Last night, something made me cry as I listened to the wind and the rain. Sometimes when I'm alone I withdraw and sink deep into myself, and it's like I'm the last person alive. Or the first. When I'm in that mindset, I often find something that moves me deeply. At the age of 35 I can say that I've had a good life, better than I deserve. I still look forward to the end, but something about the end feels like the beginning all over again. I sure hope I'm wrong about that. In the meantime, I'm going to sit and pat "Toulouse" or "Impy" in my lap and listen to whatever comes in that open window. The world goes by and I listen and watch and am happy to stay out of the way. Sometimes I feel strongly compelled to get involved, especially politically and especially when I was younger. Less so now, to be sure. Perhaps the day will come when I can contribute something real and good to the passing world. Right now, however, I guess I'm fine with being the poor, crazy, bastard who lives on the second floor of a brick building near Boston.

How nice it would be to take my eyes off of my own gravestone, and the stones of those I love, and enjoy, or at least experience totally, the moments that I'm in right now. I think John Lennon once said, "Life is something that happens when you're making other plans." But when one is as focused on existence itself as I am, you don't really make other plans. Life passes you by nonetheless.

When I was a young lad I thought about the bad things in life so much, I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Every awful murder and atrocity I read or heard about stayed with me. I was fixated on the worst of what we could do. At times, it made me physically ill. I remember pounding my head on the wall and saying, "Get out of my head!" The thoughts were so awful. The question I couldn't get away from was, "How am I any different than X." The "X" of course represents the person behind whatever savage abomination was on my mind at the time. The universe doesn't care if I'm kind and compassionate and aspire towards reason or if I'm a psychopath hacking up children in my mother's basement. Because I didn't have god as a kid (atheist at 9) I had to make my own peace with how cruel and nasty the world can be. Particularly the people in it. I think part of the reason that I hate myself so much is because I'm a human being, and I know very well what human beings can do.

I despise capitalism, too, but can understand its elegant appeal. The helotry and despondency, not to mention environmental devestation, caused by poorly regulated capitalism is easy to overlook in our global economy. The people suffering are way over there. In the meantime, I can get cheap tube socks and lead-encrusted toys on sale! Capitalism sickens me, but the people who make up the capitalist economy aren't bad people, they are just part of a bad institution.

I'm timid, methinks, mostly because I don't like what I see in the world. And what I do like I can get from my girlfriend, friends, brother, father, and the rest of my family. The few I talk to, anyway. And that open window, with the sounds and smells and wind and rain...my back row seat to the world passing by. What a spectacle. Hopefully, before I croak or fling myself out an open window, I'll do something good for someone or something. Not that anyone is watching.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Explanations And The New Deal

What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, comrades and fellow travelers, is my 300th post on Zeitgeist Expatriate. Methinks it a good time to finally explain what "zeitgeist expatriate" actually means; I get that question often. The term "zeitgeist" comes from the German language, it's a noun and it means, "The spirit of the time; general trend of thought or feeling characteristic of a particular period in time." Paranoia about terrorism is part of the zeitgeist right now, obviously as a result of the terrorist attacks that happened six years ago today. Uncertainty about the future, because of the economy, elections, and (of course) the war is part of it, as well. But it's so much more than that. It's a great word, which is why I used it. Second only to schadenfreude, another German word that means, "To take pleasure in the misfortune of others."

Expatriate basically means to leave your native country and take up residence in another country. So all Zeitgeist Expatriate means is that I see myself far removed from the collective consciousness of my fellow human animals. My mind, for good or bad (mostly bad) does not paddle down the same stream as my neighbors. Hell, I don't even have a cell phone. Politically, my outlook is quite outdated. I should have been around in the 1930's. A 35 year old New Deal Democrat/Democratic Socialist is quaint these days. Perhaps, as bridges keep collapsing around us and our infrastructure crumbles, people will paen for the days of the CCC and WPA. But I digress.

It was sure nice to see Clare again. She looked healthy and happy, which is something I wish for all my peeps. Linda and I went to a Red Sox game last night and it was just outstanding. Yawkey Way, the smell of the over-priced greasy food, the perfectly manicured field, and Linda cuddled up by my side...a perfect night. I'm in my element in the city, riding the "T" and negotiating the bums. She does virtually all of the driving, which makes me feel a bit useless, so it was a nice change that I got to guide my sweetheart around this time.

I haven't written much about the General Petraeus spectacle in Washington. Our continued presence in Iraq is pre-ordained, and for a very long time to come. I'm in a sort of political coma until the next president. Political activism is about a LOT more than who is president, but this administration (with a few allies in Congress) has frozen us in place in Iraq. I'm at least thankful that Bush and his minions are too busy to do any more damage to the health care, the environment, education, you name it. Lame Duck City. So much damage is already done, though. If you have any doubts about how despicable this administration is, just go back and read the Bankruptcy Bill passed a couple of years ago. Methinks it represents perfectly everything that is wrong with these people.

Here is a press release for the Freedom Rally on Boston Common. It's one of the largest marijuana legalization protests in the country, second only to Seattle.


For immediate release
For more information contact:
Attorney Steven Epstein 978-352-3300

Captain Parker's "Stand your ground" is the theme for this year's Freedom Rally

Saturday, September 15, the Massachusetts Cannabis Reform Coalition/ NORML will host its 18th Annual Freedom Rally at the Parkman Bandstand on Boston Common beginning at noon. Click here for a list of featured entertainment and speakers.

"After almost two decades the third Saturday in September is known throughout New England as the day for the Freedom Rally," said Steve Epstein, an attorney, who has been involved in organizing the event since its inception. "This year we return to the Parkman Bandstand while the parade ground is being restored."

Tens of thousands of people will peacefully assemble on the Common to protest marijuana prohibition. Some may choose civil disobedience by smoking marijuana, or they may just want to get high, but prohibition makes all marijuana use political. The Boston Police Department will send scores of uniformed officers who will mill about enjoying the day, while plainclothes officers will troll the crowd capturing teens and fresh faced undergrads.

Sociologist and Mass Cann President, Doctor Keith Saunders describes it as "a war on marijuana users performance art spectacle."

Members of the media are welcome to come back stage for interviews with Attorney Epstein, Dr. Saunders and other speakers and organizers.

This year Mass Cann begins a new tradition with its first, Freedom Rally Weekend Awards Show on Friday, September 14 at the Bullfinch Yacht Club, (Next to North Station) Boston, MA, 21+

Friday, September 07, 2007

Alpaca In My Pants

The conversation posted in the comments section by A. Cow is quite good, and captures the absurdity that many of us Lefties have to face; splits, caucuses, tendencies. The only difference between the SPUSA and the SP of America is that Eric Chester, an unholy pain in the ass, isn't in the latter one. I'm backing away, as are a couple of my comrades. I'm a radical socialist without a home at this point, and I'll have to try to find one in the Democratic Party. Good luck.

Yesterday I had an appointment with my psychiatrist, and it went unusually well. He's cute with his matching tie and socks. My therapist wasn't there, so I was more inclined to open up and speak frankly. When we got to talking about my diagnosis I learned a few very interesting things. Interesting to me, anyway. He said that I have a, "highly unusual and complex psychiatric profile." Ok, I can live with that, I guess. He went on to say that I move between borderline paranoid schizophrenia, clinical depression, and severe anxiety and social phobia. This, he says, leaves me with, "raw nerves." He also said something about how I have some of the worst social anxiety of anyone he knows. That wouldn't be bad if he worked at a Popeye's Chicken, but he's the Chief Psychiatrist of the center to which I go. I didn't take it as a compliment, but I suppose that anything worth doing is worth doing well. I'm doing crazy well, apparently.

Tomorrow Clare will be pulling into town sometime in the afternoon. We're going to do lunch, I'm not sure where yet. It will be good to see her, as it's been awhile since we had a chance to talk. I'm going to try like hell to convince her that I'm doing well. Sort of gloss over the job thing and the crazy thing. But she knows me well and has seen all of my insanity. I'm looking forward to telling her about the nudist colony, something she wouldn't do if her very life were dependent upon it.

Sentimentality is in my nature, and it's likely that I'll cry when she leaves, but it won't be because I miss her, although I do, of course. It's more about the way life just moves along...I go one way, other people go their way. And none of it is what I thought it would be. Clare has been in my life for eight years, so I'm certain that an romantic and somewhat maudlin reflection on the past will take place.

The Dow Jones Industrial Average fell 249.97 points today, so that makes me happy. I despise corporate capitalism on every level. It would be nice if Bush and Cheney both had a heart attack and died within seconds of each other...that would please me, as well. I don't want them to suffer, though. Well, maybe a little bit. I mentioned that wish somewhere online last night and a Bushie threatened me. "It's illegal to threaten the president! I'm calling the FBI" is what this thing told me. But I'm not threatening anyone, I'm just wishing for his death. I'm not about to hurt anyone...I don't even like smushing spiders. Even the ones that are just asking for it.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Aperture

You'll have to forgive me for the last post, but I keep looking for new and unsettling ways that I can rank on myself. Talking about myself in the third person is generally annoying, and it may be here, too, but I thought I'd try it on. These hateful little diatribes are apparently just part of who I am. At this point, I've accepted that I don't have the intellectual fortitude and desire for good living that is needed if I'm ever going to abandon my self-loathing and increased inclination towards isolation. I'm so uncomfortable around people, moreso than I have ever been before. But on to something else.

The Socialist Party, which I've considered re-joining, seems to be moving towards a split, which is both understandable and ridiculous. It's a long story, but people have very different ideas about the future of the party. The newly-formed Socialist Party of America has emerged, and it's only a matter of time before a handful of comrades float over to that new entity. Then there will be the Socialist Party USA and the Socialist Party of America. How lovely. The tendency within the party that led to the split, more or less, called the Fist and Rose (the manifesto of which I signed) will do the leaving. But I'm not going to the SPA, or even staying with the SPUSA. A radical lefty like me will just have to stay with the Democratic Party, and hope that some good far left candidates emerge. I like Kucinich on paper, but mercy how he comes across as a loon in the debates.

Right now I have a more pressing concern; whether or not to get a haircut. Linda likes my hair long, complete with a beard. I'm not a fan of the beard, but I'm sort of indifferent about the hair on my noggin. Perhaps a trim.

I've been talking to photographers in a couple of Yahoo! groups and am interested in doing that again. I like my little 35mm camera, but there's nothing particularly complicated about setting up so all the pictures are about the subject matter I choose. That's good for now. Eventually, however, I'd like to steal a camera used by bona fide photographers and learn more about the technical aspects. As soon as I have some pictures to share, I'll share them.

For Linda, may I never know a world without you...

The Idea of You

Before the flooded bog
on a chill autumn morn
revealed blood-red berries
beneath a broad azure sky

or...

A lush, misty fen
jewel in an Emerald Necklace
drew my eyes from the Boston skyline
and posed endless riddles

or...

A spring Nor'easter
tore away April buds
and thundered like a summer storm
mocking us with flakes instead

or...

Black, hollow jealousy
manifested within and blinded me
made me deaf and hardened my heart
Robbing me of a companion and a friend

Before I experienced any of those, or a million other common spectacles and everyday tragedies

Preceding every blessed milestone; first word, first step, first birthday, first day of school

When there was no me to take you in; no mind to consider our first, lingering gaze in the dark

There was the idea of you

And it was shared by everyone who ever dreamed of getting lost in something uncommon

And now that you are gone, so too is my innocent faith in a promise I thought I heard, but was never made

Now I know that there was a world before you, and a world with you, and despite every weary effort, a world after you.

And a return to the magnificent and common and lonely place where I began, with a hard lesson taught; Nothing lasts forever, and there are no promises.

A Real Observation

Darren has been writing this stupid blog for a year or two now, and you may have noticed a few things about him that aren't particularly flattering, or even interesting, unless you are equally inclined to whine and bore everyone in your life. This idiotic drug addict, a drain on society, actually manages to every so often trick himself into believing that he is NOT a lying, disgusting, pathetic sycophant. On those occassions when he thinks he is amusing, perhaps even compelling, he sits his fat ass down, puts up his stubby little legs, and stabs out boring "observations" that he thinks represent some kind of meaningful insight. They don't. He answers questions nobody even asked of him. Nobody gives a shit.

I think we would all agree that the best thing for everyone would be a late term abortion; 35 years too late. Had his mother aborted him when she had the chance many lives would be different and better. His poor father wouldn't have to live with him and be embarrassed at his constant failure. His most recent was just a few weeks ago when he tried to return to work as a freelance writer. But that's just one of many, seemingly countless, fuckups in his life. From work to school to relationships this piece of shit simply can't function properly. His brother, too, has to put up with his nonsense. As does his girlfriend, Linda, and his friends. The only reason he gets any attention from anyone is pity. Pity.

Do yourself a favor and give him a wide berth when you see him. Walk around, and don't talk to him. He probably doesn't want you to, anyway.