Aged past

Oh for goodness sakes, this website is such a relic.
It's like fooking back in time at some vague me that used to be.
I wonder why we all think our self is so eternal, it sure seems to change pretty often to me.
Or maybe there is always only one me that is the same and governs everything I do, but the details of how and in what way change every second.
Like culture for a country.
Or our very body itself.
Or the fabric of everything, constantly falling apart as fast as it's remade: everything consistantly changing.

Forgive and Forget

Hey Secret, I have a secret for you. There has not been 50 years of strong women. There has been 50 years of subdued women; of enslaved women; of women as a commodity.
And yet everybody seems to dissagree and play along with this see-through image of happiness and freedom for all that America continues to spout from it's shit-encircled mouth.
We're the ones eating it.
Everything is great, everything continues forward. Progress keeps climbing up it's mountain until we get so high up that all love and emotion freezes and we die cold and weary.
There is nothing really bad. If there is any conflict we can solve it right now.
There's nothing that resulted from anything in the past that has built upon centuries of hatred or discrimination with a hide so thick it would be nearly impossible to break through.
History has never meant anything.
The future isn't real.

Invasion, what?

Seeing as the boy never updates, I have made the executive decision to take over for a brief stint of time, informing all interested and perplexed parties of vital information about the the boy's life.

Ok, so not really. But at least we will be able to look at something new instead of the post that the boy randomly decided to actully tap out about three years ago.

Here goes nothing. And ps: ignore any German you may find; it's only a bad habit.

The excursion begins in a week. Packing, obviously, ought to begin today. Es ist mir egal. Instead, we will probably go out of town and goof around. Eventually, however, seriousness will indeed have to set in. There is a room to pack and a small-ish car to try and fit it all in. And, there is a party to be on time for and a country to traverse.

Then rooms to fill and boxes to pack and things to try and organize and coordinate and jobs to try and locate. That, I fear, will probably be the hardest part. But fear not, all will be well (and warm) in sunny so cal... especially with no a/c.

The first on the hunting list is probably coffee or music. Both are equally loveable; both are equally daunting. Life, it seems at times, can be daunting. But this isn't the place for great philosophical discussions on the state of humanity or the resiliance of certain individuals or the collaborative strength in groups. Actually, this isn't even the place for ... well, much of anything in my case (as I'm not actually the author).

So, this should probably come to a close, as I have little else to say and want to resist turning this into some rant of something that will merely work to confuse my (or rather his) audience. Also, as he will wake up sooner or later and it wouldn't be proper form to be caught red-handed, as the saying goes.

Therefore Adieu,
(The Illustrious) RaliKat

Lapse in thought

So my days of waking up and thinking, "How can I fill this empty day ahead of me?" are over. So my days of equating bright sunshine and warmth as a walking-day are done.
I go downtown to be around people. To be there. Does that make sense?
I go to just be there because it's somewhere.
I wake up to wake up and be alive and when it's a nice day I go and enjoy it and I smell it and I breathe it. And when I'm walking somewhere I feel alive. But not to nowhere, I walk somewhere and I make it there and I've done something today. I went somewhere and I was there and it was a nice place and then I went somwhere else. I tasted this and smelled this and read this and listened to this and saw this. I live sensually: taking advantage of what we can sense and so going out and sensing it.
Ah, but that is momentarily over. I am working. I am getting up at a time that I've been told to get up at and going somwhere to do things that I am told to do.
And it's ok. But eventually I am going to go back to waking up when I feel it and doing what I feel and listening to the world speak in it's various ways.
And I will sow seeds.
And I will tend my garden in peace and watch my seeds grow into beautiful plants.
And be happy.

Ah, the unconventional life.

"But Widge! You are destined for greatness! It should be so easy for you to succeed! You are so brilliant!"
But, no.
Instead, I will fail by most people's eyes,
I will take the job that doesn't show success,
I will live without the level of routine that a successful man lives,
I will waste away my time with art and creation,

and be so much happier than you.

A sadly dying vehicle

I think nature has started to pick up on my habits for I was greeted by a warm Japanese chord as I stepped to the porch (The Mad Grabber will know what I mean if he ever reads this).

Today life just makes sense and I seriously think it has to do with my few hours of sleep. It's happened before.

Today I had to take a certain new car back to a certain rather expensive dealership to have it messed with by cerain rather expensive tools (but cheap labor I'm sure). It's a nice color, I'll give it that. Also, the speedometer goes to 160 (using the American scale, I might add) so I can expect that it has a rather nice amount of power, so I'll give it that too.
It was a little awkward going to the front desk of a room filled with desks all facing out in a big corridor of desks so that you walk behind everyone's back as they sit (at their desks) with their headsets talking to hopefully prospective customers but throwing glances at you as you walk because, with a headset, you are not as tied down and, I find, tend to look about the room or at other things. I wish I could have thrown "desk" in that sentence a couple more times. Anyway, it was a little awkward going to the front desk of said room and asking for who turned out to be the manager and walking past all the little desky people straight to the back to the "man in charge" but that was my biding. More awkward was my choice of aged clothing. Revolver t-shirt and written-on pants? Silly me. You don't go to a Bent- whoops I mean, a certain rather expensive dealership in those kind of clothes. Everyone else wears suits and ties and holds a cell phone to their face between chatting to the salesmen/women.
And then I was taken to the "lounge" with orange modern leather chairs but with a certain neo-classical feel what with the persian influenced rug (although it may have been Victorian influenced, my art history knowledge is rather vague) and definately European carved coffee bar. Yes, complimentary coffee, as most dealerships are apt to offer. But not "pour it yourself!" pots of regular and decaf. And not even exiting flavored coffee.
Espresso.
Served by attractive and young European women, no doubt hired for mostly just those descriptors.
I think to myself, "What the hell am I doing in a place like this?" and this thought is only compounded when I have this urge to get up and tap the vacuuming girl on the shoulder, pass off the cafe latte, relieve her of her vacuum, and continue the job myself.
When finally the keys to my long forgotten "little, red shit-box" (a phrase which, ironically, contains more reminiscence of the Little, Red Schoolhouse Nature Preserve than something negative) arrived, I was pointed in the direction of the porsche lot. "Right there between the porsches. See it?"
"Yeah, it's the only crappy one, got it."
And yet upon reaching the car, unlocking the door, plopping my stuff on the seats, and turning it on: oh heavenly joy! I found myself delighted once again with its handling, its responsiveness, its sounds, its smell.
Taking it to an old favorite diner was bliss. The drive was unlike any drive I have driven in what seems like many driving years, although it probably is only less than one year because I was only just recently having to drive it all over the place. How is it that I could have forgotten what joy the "little, red shit-box" gave me? Could it be that the loud-stereo, power locks, power windows, eight cylinder carrying beast that is my hypocritical bane had lured me into complacency? Ah but, the ease of travel, the comfort within, the amenities!
And yet, after many months of driving it, a few hours of driving an old, beat-up, amenity-less car proved so much more satisfactory.
Like making my own meal versus going out and buying one (yeah, you like how I tied in the last post? Booya.)
But my satisfaction will be shot down unless I have the faith of the widow of Zarephath (maybe some of you will know what I mean).
If I don't, the I lament the loss.
Both in possesion and in character.

Foolish me

Why do I go out to eat when I can make such pleasant dishes at home for cheaper?

Start with spinach fettucini. Add some garlic-roasted alfredo sauce and some stir-fried red, yellow, and orange peppers and mix it all up. Garnish it with some dried romano, parmesean, whatever-suits-your-fancy cheese and a couple of peices of whole wheat bread (Hot chocolate powder, tomatoe, or lime not used).
Seriously, readers, make sure to poke and prod me about doing this more often for I would be a fool not to.