This Ship Has Sailed

In another life, a half-century ago, I was at the end of my teenage years when I met a small group of unconventional women who impaled me with endless confusion, contradiction, denial, confined independence, co-dependence, restrained nonconformity, realism, hurt, passion, shame, guilt, danger, anxiety, validation, thrill, and unfettered, raw experience. I was their willing apprentice for only a couple of years. Then I moved to another state and pretty much lost contact with them and their daily lives, adventures, and misadventures.

As is often seen in dysfunctional group dynamics, the leader of this closely knit cadre was an alcoholic: Cubby. Charismatic as hell. Strong. Independent. Chivalrous. Outspoken. Powerful. Wealthy. Influential. Intelligent. Daring. Well known, yet intensely private. She had much to hide and hide from. Her impression on me lasted well beyond her physical presence on this planet. She died just short of her 69th birthday in 1994. No one notified me. No one felt there was a reason to. I hadn't kept in touch with any of them for many years, and yet they were as big a part of me as though I lived next door. Youth is an impressionable time, and certain things become indelible and permanent.

Her significant other preceded her in death by many years. It was a tragic illness and an untimely end, the result of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. I watched from afar, disabled by my own sense of inadequacy to re-introduce myself into this tight circle of grieving friends. Her "best bud" Florine, at another, more professional and yet kindred, level of intimacy, died in 2002, having to endure life without Cubby for another 8 years before she succumbed. I know it was hard to live without Cubby. I only "knew" Cubby for a couple of years. Florine knew and worked with her for a lifetime.

Two other members of this tribe are unaccounted for by my reckoning. They might be dead or alive. I don't know, and there is no way for me to find out. I suspect at least one of them is gone---Doris, a massively obese, highly intelligent, extremely well read, wounded woman who I imagine could not have survived the biologic imperative of her corpulence.

The last renegade, Sis, passed over the golden bridge just last month on Hallowe'en, All Hallow's Eve. I prefer to think of this timing as some kind of practical joke perpetrated by Sis. She was nothing if not ironic.

Hallowe'en, a pagan tradition, was the biggest and most significant holiday of the Celtic year. The Celts believed that at the time of Samhain (Hallowe'en), more so than any other time of the year, the ghosts of the dead were able to mingle with the living because at Samhain the souls of those who had died during the year traveled into the otherworld. In some alternate universe that we can only guess at, there may have been many attempts by Cubby and Florine to induce Sis to come on over during the past decade or so, but Sis held out until All Hallow's Eve of 2009. She was stubborn that way and always had an outspoken mind of her own. In the earlier days, to which I was an actual witness, when the others of the cabal did not want to join Sis in something she had planned, she would say, "OK, then, I'll just get new friends." And she did. She was not going to be stifled in her social activities by these recalcitrant couch potatoes who preferred to sit around talking for hours in Cubby's living room, where all important things came to fruition and were made real. Sis always came back, however, despite disgustingly stomping out of the sanctum sanctorum on various occasions.

Sis is, as far as I can determine, the last to cross over from among the inner circle of this notorious group of unusual women. She left me with a couple of pithy shibboleths that were burned into my consciousness at age 19 and are to this day frequently repeated: "Anticipation is greater than realization" and "You can tell everything you need to know about a person by taking a trip with them." Even though I didn't heed the first of these mottos as much as I should have, I was always aware of its veracity as I reflected on dismaying circumstances in my life after they had broken my heart. As for the second motto, I have learned that I am able to travel comfortably with very few people. Taking a trip with someone does provide a valuable learning experience, most often a negative one, I've found. On both counts, Sis was right. Another thing she always said was this: "Never leave home without a jacket." This is such practical advice that it amazes me I wouldn't think of it on my own, but I often didn't and lived to regret it. Sis didn't say much, but what she said was believable. I should have listened more carefully. Now she's gone.

I learned of her death quite by accident yesterday. I had written to her every few years since 1964. In the early days of my departure from the Gopher State, I had even come back from the Wolverine State to visit with her, but there was an uneasiness to our visits. She never did quite forgive me for leaving. Despite her inexpression, she really was quite fond of me. In later years, I wrote to her every now and then, and sometimes she would answer and sometimes not. In the past 5 or so years, I began to wonder if she was still alive, so I would "google" her, and it would always come up with her address and phone number, so I tried calling her many times, but there was never an answer or an answering machine. Yesterday, I "googled" her again, just for the hell of it. I got back an obituary from her local newspaper. She had died at the end of last month. It was a shock to me. Now I know it's over. The group is gone. But, trust me, they live on and will do so until I am gone too.

Youth is an impressionable time, and certain things become indelible and permanent. Young love is one of these.

FRICKERS

In the current spirit of calling a spade a spade and putting away "political correctness" (as advocated by Glenn Beck on yesterday's show), I have created a new acronym: FRICKERS. If you are easily offended, you should stop reading right now. This is adult content, so reader caution is advised. FRICKERS stands for Far Right Ignorant Corporatist Kooky Evildoing Racist Sluts. There is no other way to say it. If Glenn Beck can freely express his political incorrectness on national television, then I guess that means I can freely express my political incorrectness on my own private blog (which has an audience of maybe 6). I am touting my "freedom of speech" the same way that Carrie Prejean is currently touting hers (incorrectly) on every national television show she can book. So here we go.

The bodies of the fallen dead and wounded at Fort Hood were not even cold when the FRICKERS began the race to score political points and inject hate speech into the national shock and grieving due to this godforsaken tragedy. The FRICKERS couldn’t call this an act of Islamic jihadist terrorism fast enough. Why? Because they are peeing their pants in the rush to claim that we have now had a terrorist attack on American soil under President Obama’s watch. It is their factless conclusion now that Obama can’t keep us safe, just as Cheney warned. Told you so!

The FRICKERS are highly incensed that Obama (and the White House) refuses to label this criminality as a terrorist act. Since FRICKERS specialize in fomenting IGNORANT RAGE among the ignorant masses for political gain, this worn-out tactic is not a surprise, but it is no less maddening and no less stupid.

There haven’t been enough consistent investigative results, or even time to sort through all the complexities, so that we can reliably conclude the Fort Hood massacre was the act of an Islamic jihadist instead of the act of a mentally ill man (of course, I personally think that anyone who kills another human being (or animal) without a morally good reason is mentally ill). But that doesn’t stop the FRICKERS from pumping up the volume on “terrorism” 24x7 since this incident in Texas. Since they hate Obama and all he stands for so much, any event will do to further their aim to depose him, deride him, disgrace him, and criticize him and the policies of this administration.

Blaming this murderous event on Obama is like blaming Richard Nixon for the Manson murders. He was President at the time, right? Or how about blaming the Lincoln assassination on Abraham Lincoln? After all, he was the President when he was shot to death. Using that logic, I guess we can finally rightly blame 9/11 on George W. Bush since he was President when that true act of terrorism occurred. However, you won’t hear the FRICKERS say anything about Bush in that regard. No, sir. Bush kept us SAFE for 7 years, but Obama has failed, just like Rush Limbaugh, AHIC, has wished and worked so hard for.

In addition, the FRICKERS are not done blaming the US Army for this either---that is, the US Army under Barack Obama. They don’t mention, of course, that the internal military, Homeland Security, and FBI investigations done on Major Hasan were instituted under the George W. Bush regime, and nothing discovered then was apparently considered the potential threat this turned out to be.

The claim is that “political correctness” kept the military (only the military under Obama, that is) from calling “a spade a spade” (another derogatory, racist phrase the FRICKERS are only too happy now to use on cable TV). If only we would, according to Glenn Beck, dispense with all this freakin’ political correctness, this tragedy and so many other adverse incidents could be prevented.

Because of freakin' political correctness, we are reluctant to label Muslims as Islamic terrorists or label anybody as fat-fatties, winos, homeless bums, whores, communists, radicals, Marxists, socialists, and so forth. You pick the hate target, and you get to call a spade a spade because now we are DONE with political correctness. You don’t like a black person, you can go ahead and call him or her the N-word. You don’t like a gay person, you can now call that person a queer or fag. You don’t like a homeless person, you can now call that person a bum, wino, or worthless piece of shit who just doesn’t want to work for a living and wants to live in a Nanny state. You don’t like an overweight person, you can now go ahead and call him or her a fat-fatty. Glenn Beck, the chief overthrower of political correctness and advocate of free speech, and his comrade FRICKERS keep pushing the hate envelope to see how much ignorant rage they can conjure up in this moment of grief, sorrow, and utter dismay.

If you took a survey of all the FRICKERS who appear on national cable “news” channels alone, I’ll bet nearly all of them would claim to be Christian as would all of their blind, dumb, factless, ignorant, hate-filled, racist, sexist followers and admirers.

Here’s another consideration: The Stupak-Pitts amendment to the House bill on healthcare reform (putting all kinds of new restrictions on women’s healthcare coverage for abortion services) is a kind of jihad of its own. Small-government advocates (i.e., far-right conservatives) constantly scream that they do not want the government restricting the rights and freedoms of the individual citizen, especially when it comes to healthcare, guns, and taxes, and that is why they oppose any kind of healthcare reform or gun control. They don’t want the government to come between them and their doctors (or between them and their guns). On the other hand, these FRICKERS don’t mind one bit having their favorite policies and laws restrict the right of a woman to choose her reproductive freedom (which is still legal in this country, according to Roe v. Wade). Is this terrorism or jihad (“holy war”) against women? It sure seems to be.

According to the dictionary, terrorism is "the calculated use of violence (or the threat of violence) against civilians in order to attain goals that are political or religious or ideological in nature; this is done through intimidation or coercion or instilling fear." I guess this makes the FRICKERS terrorists and jihadists, using the “logic” they have applied to the Fort Hood massacre and to the current healthcare reform “debate.”

All this makes about as much sense to me as the pro-lifers who hate abortion but support capital punishment, useless war, and the slaughtering of animals to put on their dinner plates every day. Acts of terror and death everywhere you look. Life is good in this country, ain’t it?

IBG and YBG

At this critical point in my lifetime, I know that I have already lived far longer than I can ever expect to live into the future. Death is inevitable now, and it's a lot closer than I would like it to be. As Woody Allen once observed, and I paraphrase, he understands about his own death and even respects it; he just doesn't want to be there when it happens. That pretty much sums it up for me too.

Many of the things that are going on in this effed-up world right now are not going to come to resolution in my lifetime, nor yours, I suspect, unless you are extremely young. I doubt the very young are reading this blog (it could happen, I suppose, but it's unlikely). Thus, IBG and YBG. I'll be gone and you'll be gone. When we are gone, nothing that is happening or evolving right now, for good or evil, will matter to us.

One of the things not resolved, if even resolvable, is the situation in Afghanistan. Critics of Obama claim he is "dithering" and putting our troops at risk while taking too long to make a decision about whether to send an additional 40,000 (or whatever number) troops to F'd-ghanistan. The hawks, the sleaze-bags that make their obscene fortunes in the military-industrial complex, want to perpetuate this futile war and reap more profit from nation-building or whatever other opportunities arise when military, civilian, and mercenary elements are called upon to occupy a foreign territory. War is good business. The stock market likes war as much as it likes unemployment. Billions of dollars are spent. We don't even have a clue how many trillions of dollars will have been wasted between Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Pakistan. In other times, in other hands, those billions and trillions could have set this country on a path of positivity, social justice, and meaningful, livable employment for all. But no. We have "national security" issues to protect. We have to root out al-Qaeda (if that were even possible). We have to defeat the Taliban (it will never happen).

For the many reasons that the warmongers and hawks wish to perpetuate this so-called war in Afghanistan (and Iraq), we now need to re-institute the draft. Our all-volunteer military has done more than its share. The only way to keep the supply of soldiers and other personnel going throughout what could end up to be another decade in the Middle East is to draft everybody into the military. Young, middle-aged, old...they all need to go there and "serve their country." Men, women, teenagers...they all need to take a turn. Politicians, their sons and daughters, CEOs, bankers, Wall Street financiers, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Senators, Representatives, their children, their wives, their mothers...they all need to be drafted and spend a rotation in Iraq, Afghanistan, and (soon) Pakistan and Iran. Send everybody over there in the next 5-10 years. That includes Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Laura Ingraham, Ann Coulter, and the whole bunch of right-wing batshit-crazy lunatics on FOX. No deferrals, not even for Dick Cheney. Hell, I'll go. I'll go in a wheelchair. If it's so goddamned important that we send another 40,000 soldiers there to die in big numbers, let's all go. Not one death will have been worth it in the end. BRING BACK THE DRAFT SO WE ALL HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO SERVE IRRESPECTIVE OF WEALTH OR AGE OR ABILITY.

Are we so deluded that we think we will ever defeat the Taliban? Or al-Qaeda? And now, what's the difference between them? There used to be a discernible difference between them, but over the past 8 long years we've already been in F'd-ghanistan, the Taliban and al-Qaeda have chained themselves to each other in a death spiral. They are aligned. They don't care who dies. Innocent women and children, civilians, people just trying to live, as hard as that is over there (and increasingly here now)...they don't care. They are an enemy best sealed off and ignored. We can't do that while we are actively engaged in that part of the world unless we simply mathematically outnumber them. If we send the entire population of America to F'd-ghanistan, would it be enough to defeat them? Let's try it. Let's just shut down this country and go there. All of us. Last one out, turn off the lights. No sense having this country all lit up wasting energy while we are all gone.

Who wants to be the next on the plane? I don't see the warmongers in the "media" or elsewhere volunteering for duty. Are we going to turn our backs to the television when Obama sends 40,000 more? Or 20,000 more? Does it matter how many? Many more of these soldiers will be killed. For what? Do we know?

Here's another idea. Instead of the draft, let's just bring everybody home. Now. Let's just friggin' mind our own business for a change. We have plenty of "business" to mind at the moment. I am sick of the death panels in the Middle East and America. Instead of pulling the plug on Gramma, let's send her to Afghanistan where at least her death will have made the cable news.

Impression Management

It amazes me how much time and effort some people spend on impression management, the process through which people try to control or manage the impressions or perceptions that other people form of them. It is both a goal-directed conscious and perhaps an unconscious attempt to influence others, and it usually results in shameless self-aggrandizement or self-promotion, most often at the expense of truth and authenticity. Thus, it is a sad and somewhat pitiable pursuit.

There are those who always appear to be happy, successful, and materially well off, no matter what is actually going on in their lives. They try to display only their good qualities and achievements (and brag about their material possessions, who they know, or where they've been) because they think others will then like them and not see them as inadequate and imperfect human beings.

It doesn't take much analysis to figure out that this constantly displayed image of "happiness" and "success" and "materiality" is not authentic or even remotely true. Rather than risk being seen as ordinary humans with faults, foibles, and unwanted character and personality traits, mythic prevarications seem to be their preferred way to impress others, gain respect (and awe), demand attention, and even instigate jealousy, envy, or resentment. Look at me! I'm SOMEbody! I have things you don't have! I'm all that and a bag of chips! Don't you wish you were more like ME?

It has been said that people talk (or write) for two reasons: To communicate information or to gain sympathy. I think there is a third reason: To impress others.

As Lewis Black has said, "The political parties in this country are a bowl of shit looking in the mirror." The same can be said of impression managers. Anyone who is trying to impress you is already a liar.

Montana Musings - Granddaughter writes again

Dear Family and Friends:

There is swearing in my letter, so Parental Caution is advised.

I would explain what I am striving for, but I have learned that until things are set in stone, so to speak, it's best not to tell people because, for some reason, instead of being only an idea, people morph things into reality before it is. Then they get excited and dejected all at the same time when things start or end. So now to keep things simple, I keep my lips sealed. And no one, sometimes including myself, knows what I'm going to do.

As for the world of Zortman, Montana, let me set the scene. The Little Rockies Fire Station sits on a hill with a view of the mountains to the north and a view of open, endless desolation of prairie fields to the south. The openness of Montana is one reason I love it so much. When you look to the south, your heart expands as much as the land does. It's almost like looking at the ocean. It seems like you can see to the end of the world. Peace. The land is simple and uncomplicated.

As compared to Michigan or California, where claustrophobia and sensory overload occur from all the variety, Montana is quiet. Montana is a bottle of contentment, and I'm drunk.

One day, at the beginning of the season, the guys decided that they were going to shave their heads into all sorts of haphazard hairdos. There were mohawks, of course, and even a few brave souls sported steps. The ultimate, though, through sheer ingenious imagination, was the mulhawk. That is a mullet and a mohawk combined into a marriage of hilarious perfection. I'm not sure my words can do this creation justice, but I shall try.

Taking some quotes from the guys, the part is on top with the mohawk, while the serious business side is on the lower half of the head. Truly, there are no words. They thought they were so cool, and they loved their haircuts. Some form of bad-assism, I'm sure.

Well, then we had a surprise BBQ in Lewistown, our sister branch, where, as the guys say, the "hotties" are. They were beet red with embarrassment because all the hotties wanted to see them with their hats off. They were in sheer torture. It was perfect.

I did not spend the entire summer laughing at them, however. It was more the other way around. My theory about why I got laughed at so frequently is because everything was so new to me. So, of course, anytime I did something, it was like watching a bird fly for the first time. Slow, unsure, timid, awkward, and generally successful. Take, for instance, learning to drive manual. Past all the initial jokes of stalling and what not, learning how to drive manual in Wildland Firefighting vehicles is an adventure in and of itself.

First of all, the engine can only seat three---two comfortably. Since I had the smallest frame and smallest legs, I always sat in the middle. Sitting in between two smelly, sweaty, gassy guys really sucks, especially on a hot day. As a wildland firefighter, you must also always be in pants---our lovely green polyester pants. So not only are you trapped, literally, in a death cab, but the sweat from your ass could fill a bucket. That's when your engine captain stops the vehicle on the backroads, turns to you, and says "Want to drive?" Of course, I say yes. Little do I know how painful this transition will be. I move my body across the seats to the driver seat, but as I put my hand on the seat, all I can feel is saturated and soaked cloth from sweat. My hand glistens as I stare at its bacteria-thriving substrate. There is no time to complain or agonize. I must simply move into the festering cesspool of sweat without showing any signs of agony. It is cold, and my skin crawls.

Ah, but how sweet is revenge! Since my legs are so short, I must move the seat all the way forward. Now, six-foot-tall men must scrunch up into little masses pressed against the vehicle dashboard. Apparently it's painful. I'll just have to take their word for it. Smile.

After a few stalls, I get the gist of what I'm suppose to do. The drive is uneventful. I able to drive all the way to the main road with only a few hiccups. I stop the vehicle to switch drivers, and we all desperately tumble from the vehicle. I feel my pants and cringe at self-saturation and intermingled, shared saturation. The guys moan and complain of the newly acquired aches. We are all happy to be out of the vehicle. The seat is moved all the way back, and the guys are content. As for me, the suffering deepens when I have to sit in a new freshly formed pool of foulness. And the best part is that these pants will not be washed for at least another week.

Learning in this environment cracks me up. Not only do the guys get a good laugh, but sometimes I can't help but chuckle at my rookie-hood. William Blackcrow and I were fortunate enough to be chosen to patrol the Bear Paw Mountains one day. Our engines are literally falling apart. They are vehicles that get used and abused to the highest degree. While out on this drive, after about two hours and luckily in the middle of nowhere, our engine died. Let it be noted this is not new, nor was it a surprise. It's not a matter of if; it's a matter of when. We pop the hood and discover our serpentine belt is in shreds. Ah, easy fix. We have an extra one on hand and two people though I didn't think I would be much help since I had never changed a serpentine belt or even really knew what it was. We managed to get the belt on most of the way, with some struggle here and there, when I looked at the picture on the vehicle and noticed that one of the S-shaped figures around the pulleys was backward. I told Bill (William's other name---one of many) that I had some bad news. So we reconfigured the whole thing, and finally, with gratifying pride, had put the belt on. Bill also noticed that the engine coolant was low and asked me if we had any on the engine. I looked and didn't find any engine coolant. It wasn't past the low mark, so no problems. We decided it would be best to head back to Zortman, We got about 20 minutes away from Z-town before the engine died again. We popped the hood, and, sure enough, if it wasn't that damn serpentine belt in shreds again---with coolant bubbling and splashing all over the engine. We called the station, and they called a tow. While waiting for help to arrive, Bill off-handedly mentioned something about antifreeze. When I looked for coolant, I had noticed there was antifreeze. So I told him that we did have anti-freeze. He just started cracking up. "What's so funny?" I asked. He politely explained that antifreeze and coolant are the same thing. "Oh........oops." So as we stood next to the engine with the hood popped, unfazed and stress-less toward the vehicle troubles we had that day, we laughed wholeheartedly at my new knowledge about coolant and antifreeze.

These aren't even my favorite stories. I guess one just has to start somewhere. If you have the gumption and dare to survive another letter, then there is Drunken Golf Cart Day, Spelunking in the Azure Caves with Idiots, Learning to Drive the John Deere, and My First Experience at the Zortman Bar. My letters have the tendency to become quite lengthy, so only if you dare.

Jesus Christ by Woody Guthrie

Michael Moore’s latest film (Capitalism: A Love Story) features this notable Woody Guthrie song "Jesus Christ.” It is heard in its entirety while the final credits roll. The movie is a resounding condemnation of our economic system---one that values money more than human beings, one that is not one bit "democratic," and one that can be labeled as "legalized greed." Woody Guthrie wrote this song in 1940, so we haven't come very far, have we? Here are the timeless lyrics:

Jesus Christ was a man who traveled through the land
Hard working man and brave
He said to the rich "Give your goods to the poor"
So they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

Jesus was a man, a carpenter by hand
His followers true and brave
One dirty little coward called Judas Iscariot
Has laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

He went to the sick, he went to the poor
And he went to the hungry and the lame
Said that the poor would one day win this world,
So they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

He went to the preacher, he went to the sheriff
Told them all the same;
Sell all of your jewelry and give it to the poor
But they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

When Jesus came to town, the working folks around
Believed what he did say
The bankers and the preachers they nailed him on a cross
And then they laid poor Jesus in his grave.

Poor working people, they followed him around
Sung and shouted gay
Cops and the soldiers, they nailed him in the air
And they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

Well, the people held their breath when they heard about his death
And everybody wondered why
It was the landlord and the soldiers that he hired
That nailed Jesus Christ in the sky.

When the love of the poor shall one day turn to hate
When the patience of the workers gives away
Would be better for you rich if you never had been born
So they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

This song was written in New York City
Of rich men, preachers and slaves
Yes, if Jesus was to preach like he preached in Galillee
They would lay Jesus Christ in his grave.

Amen.

Pessimism is Necessary

This is the autumn of my pessimism. I am grateful to be alive but feel simultaneously brain-dead and heart-wounded. I feel as though I am mentally and spiritually terminal. Politics and betrayal have finally put me on the ledge. I'm ready to jump. For one thing, I've overdosed on watching FOX News. I am compelled to do it because I want to see what the whack-jobs are up to. It's not calm-inducing, and, at my age, I should stay calm most of the time. I need psychotropic medication but can't afford it because of the Republican Drug Plan. We'll never get meaningful health-insurance reform in this country no matter how long we live. The country is run by the inmates, and they are mean and heartless. I am a total pessimist. We are aging by the minute. Where have our lives gone? We are staring at the Grim Reaper now. Tolle says there is only the "Now." The "Now" feels uncomfortable, like a tight girdle. I thought I was done with girdles. But no-o-o-o! Girdles give you gas. Gas is painful.

I am observing that jealousy and envy are stupid and unjustifiable emotions but present nonetheless.

A "friend" just dumped me unceremoniously after a 40-year close friendship because she didn't like my political postings on Facebook.

Nobody is so righteous that they are in a moral position to judge another human being, and yet most of what we do when awake is judge others and judge events.

I feel betrayed by my body and my emotions and by others' thoughtlessness and inconsideration.

In May 2009, my first Social Security check arrived. It was a shining milestone on the long road toward poverty and second-class citizenship. I wonder how old people with less Social Security money than I get can possibly survive. This is no country for old men.

As I write this, it feels like I am talking about some other person, an old person, certainly not me. My 66-year-old body still has a mind that thinks I am 35.

My house is for sale, but it couldn't be a worse housing market.

We are living in the day room of an insane asylum. I am considering buying a handgun because everyone else has one. I thought we were in the "end times" during the Bush regime, but, on reflection, that was a period when the right-wing nutcases were somewhat placated. Now that we have a biracial Marxist Communist Socialist (wish they'd make up their stupid minds) President, the old white boys' club and their gun-toting, Bible-thumping, "Christian" militia are really on a rampage. Canada looks so inviting, if only it weren't so damn cold. I don't know how much longer I can bear living in this uncivilized and ignorant country. We are pitiful as a nation. You have to admit it.

I feel I should go about my life wearing a tin-foil hat with a propeller just to deflect the incoming psycho-rhetoric. Instead, I am on Facebook, polluting the pages with political backlash. It's all just more insanity and distraction. Facebook is great for narcissists who like to broadcast to their friends every time they pick their noses or scratch their butts. Pay attention to ME! I am somebody! I have things that you don't have! That's the major narcissistic function of Facebook.

I like Facebook for the political fights it can instigate, but nobody wants to play with me.

I think I have diabetes now. You can fool Mother Nature for a while, but then it all comes into you like a physiologic tsunami.

Now that I am near the end of this puny existence, I wonder what it was all about and what I learned.

One thing I did learn is that you can truly count on only a very few people in a lifetime. People you thought were friends will drop you like a hot stone or drift away and pretend you never existed and never spent all that time together. They will pretend you were never the other half of being "in love." I am certainly cynical about the human race, a flawed species if ever there was one, but I religiously believe in the power of negativity as much as in the power of positivity. I think both are necessary to see the truth. We are shadow and light. There is no escaping it.

I wonder why I wasted so much of my life on being "in love" with others who only disappointed me in the end. And I wonder how deeply I disappointed them as well.

I console myself with my own attempts to be true to my passions. I never abandoned anybody. I am truly sorry for my sins. I have always maintained that evil is the unwillingness to look at one's own sins.

Forgiveness is a wonderful invention if used correctly, but I also think there are some things that you cannot forgive. Betrayal is one of those unforgiveable things and is very high on my list.

Everybody else seems so much more productive, sane, and happy than I am.

I think I should not expect that happiness or contentment will be a permanent condition. I used to decry that state of affairs, but now I think I am part of a cosmic balancing act. For every skinny person, there ought to be a fat person just as a reminder. For every pollyanna, there ought to be a melancholic as a warning. And so forth. I am fulfilling my destiny even if I don't know what it is.

I am a pessimist but am grateful for the few friends who are unsinkable rafts in this chaotic ocean---solid places on which I can briefly rest my oars. I think about them every day and hope they have moments of sheer sanguinity and blessedness.