Monday, after work, I wiped out my computer. I had grown annoyed beyond comfort by all the little hesitations the machine had picked up in it's many years of tireless service. The worst of all these being upwards of a five second delay when opening certain folders containing certain files, whose associated icons, presumably, the OS took its time digging up.
And becoming bored with my present iconoclasm, I resolved to engage some fresh experiment with this hard drive's renewal. I would have three partitions. The first would be reserved for the operating system, and nothing else. The second would be a page-file area. I've kept a small 2Gb page file partition for several generations now, and I can only laud the practice, as it is the best thing for minimizing file fragmentation and preventing file corruption. The third and final partition, of course, would house the programs and data.
Not too brave, nor far flung a venture, this. Until, perhaps, I add this stipulation: The operating system I would resign to no more than 4Gb's space! Oh yes, now we're flying by the seat of our coattails, grandmama!
I have no idea if I'll be able to sustain my OS in just this tiny space. As of now I have removed the Program Files and Temp directories to the data partition via the registry. I have augmented Firefox to house it's cache there as well. I've deleted all the windows update uninstall directories. And these tasks completed, of my 4Gb's remains a scant 1.38 in which for XP Pro to breathe. Even as I type this I find myself looking over the registry to see what more of my "Shell Folders" might be hastened off the System drive to make room for those other slowly growing files that surely bid to burst the seems of this eensy cordon, some few months travel further down the garden path.
And what do I gain, you ask, by my mad venture; what have I earned for the added labors? Ha! Fools! You know nothing of my power. By which I mean to say that I don't get squat.
Sure, there's someone out there to argue the needfulness and benefit of a thusly isolated OS, but don't forget: Dr. Phil is prime time TV. By which I mean to say that there's at least one whack job to trumpet everything. Honestly, I can't say as there is a meaningful point to this particular of my chosen configuration except that it make me brain go shiny joy-fun time. I just like the idea of it, and so it is; so it has become at the irresistible force of my will's demand. So all shall soon become before the might of my awesome, all-enveloping singular consciousness.
...Puny humans.
Memorial Day?
It's sad to say that fallen soldiers are to Memorial Day as the resurrection of Christ is to Easter. The two just don't synch up anymore.
Societally, Memorial Day is about camping and cookouts. It doesn't really have anything to do with military service or fallen troops. Of course it does to those directly impacted by those things -- just as surely some modest handful of Christians out there still refuse to white wash Christmas with the image of a jolly, gift-giving, fat man. But, demographically speaking, veterans and their survivors can't rival the volume of those of us untouched who 'honor their memory' by getting half-naked, building a bonfire, and tapping a keg.
And who's to blame this generation - my generation - for our lack of reverence? The last noble war was fought long before we graced the glimmer of our parent's eyes. Every 'conflict' since has been an exercise in Rich White Colonials v. Poor People Defending their Homes. At least in Vietnam we could honor the men who had no choice; who were drafted and forced into service. We could at least imagine that these young boys didn't really want to go to the other side of the planet and needlessly kill people on Uncle Sam's dime.
But in this post-Vietnam, draft-less era we find it hard to see any reason to hand military servicemen any special honors. "They put their lives on the line..." sure, but for what?
We're all big boys here. We know that the greatest lot of our troops wouldn't have signed up if their Uncle Sam wasn't handing out scholarships like sucking candy. Uncle Sam sure knows it! Otherwise he wouldn't focus his recruiting efforts so heavily in the projects and the ghettos. He'd be sending his recruiters door to door in gated suburban communities, instead of trailer to trailer in mobile home parks. So let's not pretend that the modern American soldier is a noble-hearted patriot, selflessly protecting the nation they hold so dear. Most joined up as way out of the poverty stricken lives their nation placed them into, and most had their fingers crossed that they'd never need to defend anything in actual combat.
But I have some sympathy for - perhaps I can even respect - the man who knowingly sells himself at auction to escape the cycle of debt, poverty, and slavery holding him in a generational vice. Still, I wouldn't give him a day to celebrate it. I wouldn't fain his to be an act of virtuous nobility. I wouldn't want to confuse him; nor let him forget at any time that his service was meant as a means to an end; That becoming a murderer for hire - even out of necessity - is something to be looked back upon with regret, not championed, nor made into a career.
After all, that's what this generation's military is: an army of mercenaries. They don't prevent genocides or overthrow oppressive regimes anymore. They aren't safe-guarding American soil or protecting any uniquely American 'way of life.' It's about the resources. It's about the oil. It's about the money. That's where and why they kill. So we can't really count them as American soldiers. They're NASDAQ soldiers. And that makes them mercenaries.
You can understand, having watched the passed three decades of this American military's operations why my generation might say, "Memorial Day? Crack me open a brew and bring out the Johnsonville Brats!" We just can't find it in ourselves to truly honor this Army; this Goliath we've so often seen wiping the blood of another hundred thousand humble, little Davids, who simply tried - though all too fruitlessly - to protect and preserve their own ways of life, from his giant red-stained hands and forearms.
This modern army comes to the field of battle with laser guided, bunker busting, nuclear armaments; They come with satellite imaged, unmanned aerial reconnaissance; they come in F-16's, Apache Helicopters, and Abrams tanks; with four-thousand round per minute miniguns, M-16s, P-92s, depleted-uranium rounds, and bullet proof body armor. With these things they come to make war upon whom? but the most meager forces; Foes armed with thirty year old weapons and improvised explosives - made from gasoline and cleaning products.
And then they belittle their enemy and dismiss him. They say he is not a soldier because he does not wear a uniform, when surely any uniformed combatant would be killed of the most incredulous means available. He would be simply blown up using missiles or bombs, and by men stationed miles away in air-conditioned RV's, guiding these weapons to their target using XBOX controllers. Or, if forced to meet face to face, perhaps an American would fire 40mm rounds from a turret atop a Hummer, while his enemy fled, only able to return handgun fire before his limbs and body were separated in a bloody cloud of sinew by the disgustingly dishonorable use of such overwhelming force.
Yet all the while the Pentagon's propagandists continue to wage media campaigns that speak to us of honor, discipline, service, and duty. Perhaps it is the blatant contradiction - this unrepentant lie - that has brought my generation to such disregard of Memorial Day and all it's celebratory cousins.
The man who commits a horror, but for what he thinks a good cause, can sometimes be respected still -- that is unless he tries to sell his sins as deeds of heroism. He who will not bear his shame leaves all around him to brunt the weight. And so, perhaps, we cannot lift him up in celebration of the ill-got gains, while still his shameful doings rest upon us.
I can't say as I've ever, in all my life, seen the military do anything to protect or benefit the people of this nation. I'm aware that previous militaries have done so, but I've never seen it with my own eyes. So I'm not saying that we shouldn't honor the sacrifices historically rendered to preserve us, I'm just telling you why we don't anymore. To me; to my age; the military is merely a tool of powerful men to gain and maintain their power. That's all we've ever known it as. And we can little be expected to separate and distinguish the soldiers from the military they comprise.
Patriotism, nobility, honor... We've mostly never seen these either - not in real life anyway - so you'll excuse us as we stack the logs for tonight's bonfire. But I don't believe this military has ever shown my generation anything worth honoring, has it?
Societally, Memorial Day is about camping and cookouts. It doesn't really have anything to do with military service or fallen troops. Of course it does to those directly impacted by those things -- just as surely some modest handful of Christians out there still refuse to white wash Christmas with the image of a jolly, gift-giving, fat man. But, demographically speaking, veterans and their survivors can't rival the volume of those of us untouched who 'honor their memory' by getting half-naked, building a bonfire, and tapping a keg.
And who's to blame this generation - my generation - for our lack of reverence? The last noble war was fought long before we graced the glimmer of our parent's eyes. Every 'conflict' since has been an exercise in Rich White Colonials v. Poor People Defending their Homes. At least in Vietnam we could honor the men who had no choice; who were drafted and forced into service. We could at least imagine that these young boys didn't really want to go to the other side of the planet and needlessly kill people on Uncle Sam's dime.
But in this post-Vietnam, draft-less era we find it hard to see any reason to hand military servicemen any special honors. "They put their lives on the line..." sure, but for what?
We're all big boys here. We know that the greatest lot of our troops wouldn't have signed up if their Uncle Sam wasn't handing out scholarships like sucking candy. Uncle Sam sure knows it! Otherwise he wouldn't focus his recruiting efforts so heavily in the projects and the ghettos. He'd be sending his recruiters door to door in gated suburban communities, instead of trailer to trailer in mobile home parks. So let's not pretend that the modern American soldier is a noble-hearted patriot, selflessly protecting the nation they hold so dear. Most joined up as way out of the poverty stricken lives their nation placed them into, and most had their fingers crossed that they'd never need to defend anything in actual combat.
But I have some sympathy for - perhaps I can even respect - the man who knowingly sells himself at auction to escape the cycle of debt, poverty, and slavery holding him in a generational vice. Still, I wouldn't give him a day to celebrate it. I wouldn't fain his to be an act of virtuous nobility. I wouldn't want to confuse him; nor let him forget at any time that his service was meant as a means to an end; That becoming a murderer for hire - even out of necessity - is something to be looked back upon with regret, not championed, nor made into a career.
After all, that's what this generation's military is: an army of mercenaries. They don't prevent genocides or overthrow oppressive regimes anymore. They aren't safe-guarding American soil or protecting any uniquely American 'way of life.' It's about the resources. It's about the oil. It's about the money. That's where and why they kill. So we can't really count them as American soldiers. They're NASDAQ soldiers. And that makes them mercenaries.
You can understand, having watched the passed three decades of this American military's operations why my generation might say, "Memorial Day? Crack me open a brew and bring out the Johnsonville Brats!" We just can't find it in ourselves to truly honor this Army; this Goliath we've so often seen wiping the blood of another hundred thousand humble, little Davids, who simply tried - though all too fruitlessly - to protect and preserve their own ways of life, from his giant red-stained hands and forearms.
This modern army comes to the field of battle with laser guided, bunker busting, nuclear armaments; They come with satellite imaged, unmanned aerial reconnaissance; they come in F-16's, Apache Helicopters, and Abrams tanks; with four-thousand round per minute miniguns, M-16s, P-92s, depleted-uranium rounds, and bullet proof body armor. With these things they come to make war upon whom? but the most meager forces; Foes armed with thirty year old weapons and improvised explosives - made from gasoline and cleaning products.
And then they belittle their enemy and dismiss him. They say he is not a soldier because he does not wear a uniform, when surely any uniformed combatant would be killed of the most incredulous means available. He would be simply blown up using missiles or bombs, and by men stationed miles away in air-conditioned RV's, guiding these weapons to their target using XBOX controllers. Or, if forced to meet face to face, perhaps an American would fire 40mm rounds from a turret atop a Hummer, while his enemy fled, only able to return handgun fire before his limbs and body were separated in a bloody cloud of sinew by the disgustingly dishonorable use of such overwhelming force.
Yet all the while the Pentagon's propagandists continue to wage media campaigns that speak to us of honor, discipline, service, and duty. Perhaps it is the blatant contradiction - this unrepentant lie - that has brought my generation to such disregard of Memorial Day and all it's celebratory cousins.
The man who commits a horror, but for what he thinks a good cause, can sometimes be respected still -- that is unless he tries to sell his sins as deeds of heroism. He who will not bear his shame leaves all around him to brunt the weight. And so, perhaps, we cannot lift him up in celebration of the ill-got gains, while still his shameful doings rest upon us.
I can't say as I've ever, in all my life, seen the military do anything to protect or benefit the people of this nation. I'm aware that previous militaries have done so, but I've never seen it with my own eyes. So I'm not saying that we shouldn't honor the sacrifices historically rendered to preserve us, I'm just telling you why we don't anymore. To me; to my age; the military is merely a tool of powerful men to gain and maintain their power. That's all we've ever known it as. And we can little be expected to separate and distinguish the soldiers from the military they comprise.
Patriotism, nobility, honor... We've mostly never seen these either - not in real life anyway - so you'll excuse us as we stack the logs for tonight's bonfire. But I don't believe this military has ever shown my generation anything worth honoring, has it?
The Day the Whole World went Away
Brandon, Greg, and I reunited, musically speaking, last Thursday. We managed to throw a mic in the middle of the room and caught - among other things - this NiN cover on tape. (We also caught a feral cat, a rogue skunk, and several STDs. We released the STDs into the wild.)
I don't actually know the song. Greg just started playing it and within a single rep Brandon was strumming along, bobbing his head and mouthing the lyrics as Greg sang them. I improvised a drum line. I love how it came out, though I'm told it's nothing like the original.
One mic, mono recording; compressed to hell, EQ'd, delayed, reverbed, re-EQ'd, and sent to press. Yeehaw.
I don't actually know the song. Greg just started playing it and within a single rep Brandon was strumming along, bobbing his head and mouthing the lyrics as Greg sang them. I improvised a drum line. I love how it came out, though I'm told it's nothing like the original.
One mic, mono recording; compressed to hell, EQ'd, delayed, reverbed, re-EQ'd, and sent to press. Yeehaw.
Dear Roy, It's Me, God.
There's a man inside my head. I'm sure he's only me; Though I've never seen him clearly nor heard his voice but as from the farthest reaches of some deep chamber. Still I know, at least, he's in there - tucked within some distant cave. I know this because he's driving me quite mad.
I'll sit at work when no one's around and nothing's to do; my mind wastefully spinning its gears, slowly burning off the oil in the pan, considering some fleetingly irrelevant topic. Or sometimes I'll be busy at the thankless labors of torturing myself, the way we're all so often called to do, with thoughts and memories that drive me into fits of shame or rage or hatred. There I'll be quietly, privately digging open old wounds; chewing into the tender flesh of my psyche -- not bothering anyone. When all of a sudden this fellow in my head will bellow out a din of inseparably overlapping echoes from the back and bottom of that far-off parking garage of his, leaving my head swimming in the reverberations.
What he's saying I can only ever guess at by those few chance syllables that somehow manage to pierce the thicket of low-frequency noise that accompanies all his chatter; which shutters the chambers of my mind like an elevated train rattling the walls of low-rent housing. I sometimes lose my balance for a moment in the unexpected cacophony of his words. And it feels like I'm losing my grip.
He's an aggravation to me, really. He upsets me. Over the years I've gathered enough from his disjointed words to see what he's after; to understand what he's on about, more or less. And I say, he's nothing but a bother.
I've grown accustom to all the other things in my head. The ficus in the corner, the oak desk that smells faintly of wood oil, the giant, winding water slide that puts out into the pool of warm, unbuttered ramen noodles... Absurd, uncouth, extravagant; at least the other items, places, and people tucked into my skull are tame enough to hold their peace until called; To take a numbered ticket and mill about benignly until their order's up.
But this fellow in the darkness - in the depth - he's no respect for democracy! He thinks his interests overshadow the others; that his demands are more pressing than those of the rage-a-holic trucker who accosted me at roadside last year. Even these most vicious memories know to hold their tongue until the right hour, but that's too good for the booming voice. He thinks himself the only I should entertain - having nothing of the others.
Yes, I know what that one's after. And he won't get it! You hear me? I can assure you, you'll not have it your way. I'll stand against you till the final hour! So won't you just give it up already and leave me to my folly? Won't you stop assaulting me with that insipid internal clarity of yours? I've heard you - heard your story out in full - and I reject you! So stop making me feel like I'm insane! Stop driving me crazy!!!
If you'd only leave me then I wouldn't feel ill as I do myself these harms. I could continue lifting trifles up for life and death; I could rest every thought and word that's ever hurt me in my bosom, vengefully and eternally; I could go right on giving years, decades, perhaps even a century of this existence to all that bears no consequence whatsoever. And I'd do it all happily, mindlessly, madly!
Why, without you I wouldn't even know my own madness and insomuch I'd be thought quite sane. Especially among these people! To them my insanities are considered wise and noble virtues. To them my sociopathy is canonical law. Surely, with but a bit of effort I could be king of the crazies if you'd only let me go.
Thou accursed sanity! This inner voice torments me with the lure of his righteousness; his calm serenity. He beckons me to join him in his cave, or rather to release him from it, while all I'd like to do is wile away my days working, eating, and vacuuming the rugs. Why must he reflect this potential state of being. Why must he reach into the fiction of my life and show me things real. Do you know the trouble you've caused me, sir?
Every time he speaks, the inside of my teeth start to itch, and each halve of my brain takes up a knife to stab its neighbor in the eye. And I feel I've suddenly lost my mind. But I've learned this from the voice, at least: I'm not going mad, but merely recognizing my own persistent state of madness.
I'm crazy, he says, so are you. But it's the noticing that hurts. It makes the world start to spin and there's no mystery why. The world was always spinning, but crazy people don't make record of such things. Only sane men wobble with the Earth. Only sane men realize they're upon it.
But I don't want this sanity he offers. Anyway, it's oh so difficult to achieve. How resolute you must be to persist at sanity while walking in the midst of psychotics. And how easy it is to lose all the gains you've made in but one relapsing act of lunacy. Just a moment's derision can send you flailing back to incomprehensibility in a wink!
So leave me, you! I don't want the Earth beneath my feet. I much prefer it wafting over head. And I don't mind living and dying in madness, so long as it means I'll get to slave away my youth to empty, heartless labors; burning all the while with hatred for the million men I lie awake at night writhing in contempt of; mending what I mean to break; cleaning what I mean to soil; and piling every rotten thing atop the last until I cannot see nor smell beyond the wretch and rank of every evil I've acquired.
Wait, that sounded crazy... Oh, won't you get out of my head!
I'll sit at work when no one's around and nothing's to do; my mind wastefully spinning its gears, slowly burning off the oil in the pan, considering some fleetingly irrelevant topic. Or sometimes I'll be busy at the thankless labors of torturing myself, the way we're all so often called to do, with thoughts and memories that drive me into fits of shame or rage or hatred. There I'll be quietly, privately digging open old wounds; chewing into the tender flesh of my psyche -- not bothering anyone. When all of a sudden this fellow in my head will bellow out a din of inseparably overlapping echoes from the back and bottom of that far-off parking garage of his, leaving my head swimming in the reverberations.
What he's saying I can only ever guess at by those few chance syllables that somehow manage to pierce the thicket of low-frequency noise that accompanies all his chatter; which shutters the chambers of my mind like an elevated train rattling the walls of low-rent housing. I sometimes lose my balance for a moment in the unexpected cacophony of his words. And it feels like I'm losing my grip.
He's an aggravation to me, really. He upsets me. Over the years I've gathered enough from his disjointed words to see what he's after; to understand what he's on about, more or less. And I say, he's nothing but a bother.
I've grown accustom to all the other things in my head. The ficus in the corner, the oak desk that smells faintly of wood oil, the giant, winding water slide that puts out into the pool of warm, unbuttered ramen noodles... Absurd, uncouth, extravagant; at least the other items, places, and people tucked into my skull are tame enough to hold their peace until called; To take a numbered ticket and mill about benignly until their order's up.
But this fellow in the darkness - in the depth - he's no respect for democracy! He thinks his interests overshadow the others; that his demands are more pressing than those of the rage-a-holic trucker who accosted me at roadside last year. Even these most vicious memories know to hold their tongue until the right hour, but that's too good for the booming voice. He thinks himself the only I should entertain - having nothing of the others.
Yes, I know what that one's after. And he won't get it! You hear me? I can assure you, you'll not have it your way. I'll stand against you till the final hour! So won't you just give it up already and leave me to my folly? Won't you stop assaulting me with that insipid internal clarity of yours? I've heard you - heard your story out in full - and I reject you! So stop making me feel like I'm insane! Stop driving me crazy!!!
If you'd only leave me then I wouldn't feel ill as I do myself these harms. I could continue lifting trifles up for life and death; I could rest every thought and word that's ever hurt me in my bosom, vengefully and eternally; I could go right on giving years, decades, perhaps even a century of this existence to all that bears no consequence whatsoever. And I'd do it all happily, mindlessly, madly!
Why, without you I wouldn't even know my own madness and insomuch I'd be thought quite sane. Especially among these people! To them my insanities are considered wise and noble virtues. To them my sociopathy is canonical law. Surely, with but a bit of effort I could be king of the crazies if you'd only let me go.
Thou accursed sanity! This inner voice torments me with the lure of his righteousness; his calm serenity. He beckons me to join him in his cave, or rather to release him from it, while all I'd like to do is wile away my days working, eating, and vacuuming the rugs. Why must he reflect this potential state of being. Why must he reach into the fiction of my life and show me things real. Do you know the trouble you've caused me, sir?
Every time he speaks, the inside of my teeth start to itch, and each halve of my brain takes up a knife to stab its neighbor in the eye. And I feel I've suddenly lost my mind. But I've learned this from the voice, at least: I'm not going mad, but merely recognizing my own persistent state of madness.
I'm crazy, he says, so are you. But it's the noticing that hurts. It makes the world start to spin and there's no mystery why. The world was always spinning, but crazy people don't make record of such things. Only sane men wobble with the Earth. Only sane men realize they're upon it.
But I don't want this sanity he offers. Anyway, it's oh so difficult to achieve. How resolute you must be to persist at sanity while walking in the midst of psychotics. And how easy it is to lose all the gains you've made in but one relapsing act of lunacy. Just a moment's derision can send you flailing back to incomprehensibility in a wink!
So leave me, you! I don't want the Earth beneath my feet. I much prefer it wafting over head. And I don't mind living and dying in madness, so long as it means I'll get to slave away my youth to empty, heartless labors; burning all the while with hatred for the million men I lie awake at night writhing in contempt of; mending what I mean to break; cleaning what I mean to soil; and piling every rotten thing atop the last until I cannot see nor smell beyond the wretch and rank of every evil I've acquired.
Wait, that sounded crazy... Oh, won't you get out of my head!
Average
I feel I'm drawn to mediocrity lately, as it concerns this project of mine: this blog. It's perhaps an unreasonable statement. Even I recognize the more obvious virtues of my latest efforts. ...Documenting bugs that Blogger chooses to ignore; Sharing inventions of code I'd never before had a forum in which to publish; And in the transfer of at least one old article (a recent favorite of mine) I sat down and added meaningfully to the content.
Still, I had envisioned this site a forum for my art -- finally a place in which to distill and concentrate the most perfect of my artistic labors; from music to movies to text. And yes, my snippets of code were to have a place here as well. But with the ever expanding Blog Archive for this first month, and the umpteen articles regarding tips and bugs and source code, I feel I've come to earn too much, too quickly in the way of averageness.
And even though I continue to shun the commercial lure of 'Monetizing' this blog by snapping in a few Google Adsense bars in the margins, the posts themselves seem to have taken on the all too familiar din of website commercialism.
I find myself making links to the other sites I mention - and do not misunderstand, this effort is made out of respect for the labors of my peers, a general thoroughness of the record, and to the convenience of the reader. Motives aside, the links I make look just as they do on any other blog. They still resemble the embodiment of greed I find throughout this internet. Each feels like a tiny landmine, lain beneath the sod of text by some viciously capitalistic author, in hopes the unsuspecting will step on one and be blown up - flung away to some other site - whereby he shall earn one twentieth of one precious cent for the click-through.
And I suddenly dislike the name of this blog. I don't so much mind it in the domain, but "...you fucking people." staring at me from the top left of every page seems not only to indulge, but to encourage, even provoke, the indignations within me. And despite all my vitriol, in my best moments I don't really want to be this way.
My talent for entertainingly bemoaning the ills of society; for haranguing the ignorant, deceitful, and unjust is only, after all, a talent. A man can have a talent for making war; for killing other men; for lying; for stealing; for cheating; for any number of horrible, evil, sinful things, but talent alone does not justify him in the doing of them. While I have yet to find the sense of self and inner peace that might imbue me with the strength required to restrain the lustful passions of my woeful talent, I can at least envision the day whereupon I shall. That day arrives no sooner for these spiteful words I've lingered overhead, ever enticing me to some new fit of unrest. Yes, they'll have to go.
I feel better about it now. That last paragraph is so beautiful; so unusually sane! Knowing that in a moment these words will perch, as if my own flock of songbirds, atop this oh-so-average endeavor has washed away the memory of her averageness. We have reproven. We are baptized; clean again. We have direction.
I can go on.
Still, I had envisioned this site a forum for my art -- finally a place in which to distill and concentrate the most perfect of my artistic labors; from music to movies to text. And yes, my snippets of code were to have a place here as well. But with the ever expanding Blog Archive for this first month, and the umpteen articles regarding tips and bugs and source code, I feel I've come to earn too much, too quickly in the way of averageness.
And even though I continue to shun the commercial lure of 'Monetizing' this blog by snapping in a few Google Adsense bars in the margins, the posts themselves seem to have taken on the all too familiar din of website commercialism.
I find myself making links to the other sites I mention - and do not misunderstand, this effort is made out of respect for the labors of my peers, a general thoroughness of the record, and to the convenience of the reader. Motives aside, the links I make look just as they do on any other blog. They still resemble the embodiment of greed I find throughout this internet. Each feels like a tiny landmine, lain beneath the sod of text by some viciously capitalistic author, in hopes the unsuspecting will step on one and be blown up - flung away to some other site - whereby he shall earn one twentieth of one precious cent for the click-through.
And I suddenly dislike the name of this blog. I don't so much mind it in the domain, but "...you fucking people." staring at me from the top left of every page seems not only to indulge, but to encourage, even provoke, the indignations within me. And despite all my vitriol, in my best moments I don't really want to be this way.
My talent for entertainingly bemoaning the ills of society; for haranguing the ignorant, deceitful, and unjust is only, after all, a talent. A man can have a talent for making war; for killing other men; for lying; for stealing; for cheating; for any number of horrible, evil, sinful things, but talent alone does not justify him in the doing of them. While I have yet to find the sense of self and inner peace that might imbue me with the strength required to restrain the lustful passions of my woeful talent, I can at least envision the day whereupon I shall. That day arrives no sooner for these spiteful words I've lingered overhead, ever enticing me to some new fit of unrest. Yes, they'll have to go.
I feel better about it now. That last paragraph is so beautiful; so unusually sane! Knowing that in a moment these words will perch, as if my own flock of songbirds, atop this oh-so-average endeavor has washed away the memory of her averageness. We have reproven. We are baptized; clean again. We have direction.
I can go on.
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