As i see my’self change, i begin to loose my fear of winking out of existence.

At the end of this life – if I make it to a proper end – i will be tired and ready to stop moving.

i hope i will exit with a feeling of accomplishment.  i hope i will exit having been loved for trying – no matter how many times i failed.

After a wink, an eye opens… unless it doesn’t.  At the end, it won’t matter which.  i will have come full circle.

What if, instead of being in many places at once, the unpredictability of it’s location was due to being alive?  What if it orbits its atom, the way my dog orbits me?

It is the life spark.  Why shouldn’t it be alive – and therefore impossible to predict?

The best bit about being a gentleman, is that it requires one to be a gentle man.

Mindfulness was once a requisite for survival.  Now it’s a multi-billion dollar industry.

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The difficulty in writing, for me, is that I feel I can always spot adequate work, but I often have difficulty distinguishing between the very good and the very bad.

I think it’s because good and bad writing have so much in  common.  Both deviate from accepted norms.  Both adopt non-standard formats and approaches.

Sometimes I think the difference is intentionality.  But I’ve constructed many brilliant plans only to see them fall apart in the face of a lucky chance.

Maybe the only difference is the audience.  Do I write to an audience?  Should I write to an audience?  How much do I trust the reaction of the audience to my work?

Being good does not seem to ensure a positive reaction anymore than being bad assures a negative one.  And again, who’s reaction determines the quality of a thing?

And, while I’m thinking about it, how do we get to decide who will be the arbiters of quality?  Quite frankly, most people don’t seem to know what’s good until someone has told them it’s good.  And what does that say about our society?  Are aesthetic and construction matters of personal choice or social imposition?  Both?

Which is stupid I might ad.  Nobody had to tell you that your mobile was beautiful when you were laying in your crib.  It was new and caught your attention, and that was good.

Is that art?  The combination of novelty and attention grabbing?  No.  No, I’m not ready to accept that proposition.

Is this good or bad?  I guess that depends on who I allow to judge it.

Your assertion that my writing is more an act of bravery, than one of creativity, makes me question myself.

I don’t want to write what everyone else is thinking but too afraid to say.

I know I’m brave.  I’m to scared, of what my dad would think, if I weren’t.

I want to make something original!

Maybe you see bravery, in my writing, that you don’t see in your own pursuits.

That’s ridiculous.  You’re one of the bravest people I know.  You let yourself be open and vulnerable, to others, in so many ways that I admire.  I’ve never known you to put on the armor of cruel words.  I’ve never seen you over-burden yourself with the weight of knee-jerk-mistrust.

I’m brave in the ways I was told to be brave:  Know what you stand for.  Take the principled position.  Don’t back down to anything – save superior reason or force…  Scratch that, definitely don’t back down to superior force.  Actually, turn into superior force.  Kick it in the nuts.  Bite it in the shins.  “Remember, son, it’s like your grandpa said, ‘that other guy may be getting a 10 course meal.  You just make sure you get a sack lunch.'”

You waltz through a world of stones and arrows with a grace I admire and envy.

You show me that there are ways to be brave without ever meeting another person head on.

I own slaves.  Don’t be so quick to judge me.  So do you.

And while we’re at it, fuck your sanctimonious veganism*.  I don’t care how many fucking dolphins you’re saving by being too good for tuna.  Some dude named Pedro sold his back to pick your heirloom tomatoes.

Fuck your prius, and your bike.  Symbols of your ecological piety.  They have unburdened our greed of the guilt which might otherwise temper our baser instincts – to take at the expense of others.

We have exported our slavery so far away – both geographically and by the number of brokers between us and them – that they become mere images of humans to us.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin was no more a critique of the South than it was a shaming of the North – for its own hypocrisy.

What would I give up to elevate my poorer brothers and sisters?  What would I give up to free them from wage slavery?

Am I enslaved any less by this system?  Working day after day to earn money to buy things that can tickle my fancy but never increase my sense of well-being.  Working day after day to chase that which once attained is never sufficient?

Certainly my slavery is a more pleasant one though.

Hot water.  Hot, clean, running, steaming, shower taking water.  Oh, the luxury.

We don’t like to talk about money because it forces us to examine inequity, and inequity chafes the human spirit.

*I am in no way discounting the potential health benefits of adopting a largely plant based diet.  Just don’t tell me it’s for the poor fucking moo cows.