Change

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better. . .
I do believe I've been changed for the better. . .
and because I knew you. . .
I have been changed for good."
-Wicked
For those of you who don't know about this fabulous musical. Wicked is based on the novel (of the same title) by Gregory Maguire. The book was written by Winnie Holzman and the music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz. The story is essentially a revisionist history telling of The Wizard of Oz. In this version Dorothy is simply an irritating device, the true story is about the Wicked Witch Elphaba, and her relationship with Galinda. "The 'Ga' is silent." With a cast including Joel Grey, Carole Shelley, Idina Manzel, and Kristin Chenoweth this is a great production. The song quoted above is a final duet between Elphaba and Galinda.

So here I am, my second time seeing this fabulous musical, and this particular song is making me weep like a ninny. Thank goodness my father was crying too or my masculinity would have been seriously insulted. I was so genuinely touched by the relationship that these two women have, that it struck a chord with every good relationship in my life. It is a remarkable idea to think about how we change on another.

In my life I have been fortunate to have a string of wonderful people pass through. I think perhaps the mark of a great friend is that they have truly changed you. The people that I hold closest are the ones that I can't imagine who I would be if they hadn't been there. Sometimes friends come in surprising packages. To all of the people who have changed my life, I am sending you this quote. I think you'll know who you are. You have all touched me and I have grown.

Sleepy and Full

I hope this post finds my readers with full bellies and warm hearts. Our Thanksgiving was great. The roomate got home from a grueling day of serving coffee to frantic Macy's parade atendees. He brought his best friend with him. My good friend Nic arrived quickly on their heels. The second bird came out perfect, and the spread was absolutely wonderful. This week has been absolutely torturous for my spoiled little dogs. So much kitchen activity that they're beside themselves with where and who to beg. I think that Puck will sleep the tryptophan sleep all week. A good day was had by all.

I am thankful to have such a wonderful family be they by blood or by love.

Turkey and Plants

Tattoos went well. I will post a picture soon. It was great to see Maryanne. She is creating genius to apply to the Creative Writing Program at Brown. I love knowing so many smart artists. Now I'm in full Thanksgiving mode.

I started shopping today. Some baking has begun. Today I made Cranberry Orange nut bread with almonds and walnuts. I may have to bake more before Thanksgiving. It's just too good to stop eating. I think the menu is as follows:

2 x 23 lbs. Turkeys
Cornbread-Garlic stuffing (in bird and out)
Yellow Squash w/ White Cheese Sauce and Almonds
Tangerine Glazed Green Beans and Almonds
Sweet Potato French Fries
Mixed Potato Roaster (poss. w/ celery root)
Ambrosia
Cranberry Nut Bread
Buttermilk Pie a la mode
maybe a Cranberry Chutney (or plain old canned cranberry sauce)

My parents got into town today. It makes me feel like I'm six years old. I get so excited for their arrival. I had to declare two of my plants goners today after months of trying to nurse them to health. I went to the nursery to find replacement plants. I came home with four. I did not do my usual pre-shopping research today, so these will be a rushed learning experience.

One of the plants already threw me a curve ball. It's called a prayer plant. It has the most beautiful variagated leaves with a red vein. The leaves are round and fan out from a central point. After dinner I went in to light my tea lights and all of the leaves had folded into the center. At first I thought something was wrong, then I realized that must be why they call it a prayer plant. A little research proved me correct. The prayer plant folds its hands each evening in prayer. Again 10 points and a gold star for god.

I was romanced today by a pitcher plant. Does anyone have any idea how hard they are to keep alive?

I'll write something more interesting tomorrow.

Jessica Marie Kupczak

Tattoo

And so it begins. . .

A weekend of catharcis. Today would have been the day that Little Jess's body began to give up. I recieved a call that I should come in tomorrow and tell her goodbye. I didn't want to go. Something in my heart kept saying "She's not in there." We gathered in Mary and Marrianne's home that night to cry. I had been watching The Shipping News when Jess's dad called. Two years ago I was in the hospital and had told Jess I wanted to see it. I waited for the DVD. I still haven't watched the end.

My parents drove me over to Mary and Marriane's. They didn't feel right coming in so they drove around Astoria and got Dunkin' Donuts coffee. We were in for a long week. I watched my friends arrive and collapse into eachother. Tears and Wailing hardly seemed enough. Nobody else had been invited to the hospital the next day. I think they were lucky. We all held hands and wept in spurts. I cried all the way home. "Can I do anything?" My mother had asked. "We got you a coffee." "I don't think I can stand feeling any more awake."

A hot cup of coffee can sometimes stop an asthma attack. Ed didn't stop to make coffee. The ambulance had not had a percolator.

The next morning I would wander down the long hall of Mt. Sinai. The family had begun to pack up their belongings. The waiting room was no longer ours. The wait was over. A new family was already taking over. I gave them my bag of quarters for parking and phone calls. I felt rediculous talking to Jess. Why wouldn't she just sit up and answer. "It's time!" We all collapsed in tears. Jess went away. Her heart still lives in a 50 year old man. Funny, a piece of ours had shrivelled and died. She was keeping her eyes. I wished I could see them sparkle.

Tomorrow a small group of us are getting tattoos as a memorial. Not everyones cup of tea, but it makes sense to us. Somehow, carving this loss into our flesh is just a physical manifestation of what has happened to us for a year now. Bring the pain into the physical world. Make our scars visible. I will wear mine with pride. At least I know when the tattoo will heal.

My Kitchen Window

Who needs to leave home when you get blessed with a view like this.

That Demon Alcohol

OK. I believe that secrets, and things left inside gain power, so I'm gonna put this out there. If I say it out loud I won't have to act on it.

I want to get drunk. I want to get numb. I want to be, throw away the cap, turn the bottle over my face, can't see, can't walk, can't remember, lose myself in the madness drunk. I want to drink away every painful and overwhelming well spring that bubbles up inside me, and just flood them over with alcohol. I want to get so drunk that even the whiskey feels embarrased.

I want to hoot and hollar, and yell about nothing. I want raging parties, a raging blood-stream, and endless release. I want to kiss someone I'd never kiss sober. I want to fall down and hug that toilet and yell into it as though it were screaming back. I want to sound a drunken yawp which carries every bit of emotion out of my body. Then I want to start again. I want to drink until I feel that click.

I want bed-spins and blackouts. I want to pass out on some couch thankful it's not a dumpster, or pass out in some dumpster thinking it is a couch. I want to act like it's spring break in Mazetlan. I want to be cut off by the bartender so I can start at another bar. I want to exhaust that one so I can drink a twelve pack at home. I want to stand in front of a toilet for five minutes deciding whether to puke or piss. I want to lose track of all time and space, and spend even one night away from the truth. I want to wake up still drunk and wonder what happened after nine 'o' clock. I want whole sections of my life to be washed away into a drunken haze.

I want bloody beers for breakfast, and champagne and orange juice with brunch. I want beer and football by two, and pre-dinner martinis as an apertif. I want a bottle of wine with dinner, a glass of port between courses, and chilled Grand Marniere with desert. I want to retire to the lounge for Bourbon and cigars, and have endless circular conversations with my drunken fellows. I want an entire schedule comprised of stuff that doesn't matter, filled with opulence and excess. I want to embrace my American sense of 'more!', and create a status quo of numbness. I want to consume! I want to choke out the stuff that makes me feel, and fill myself back up with food and beverage.

I want to be challenged to a drinking competition by midnight, and choke down twenty shots just to exert, my strength and virility. I want a thick glaze to form over my eyes, and alcohol to stream from my pores when I exercise. I want bar tabs on my credit card that I don't remember signing for. I want car-bombs, and Boiler Makers, frosty steins and martini shakers. I want to face the two headed dragon of liquor and slay him with my thirsty tongue. I want to dance atop the beer kegs, and table tops. I want to fall off of the same bar stool 17 times and get back on that horse. I want to feel stronger than I've ever felt, unbeatable and unstoppable. I want to slake my thirst for comfort and rise as a stone cold army of one.

I want a glass of beer to ask me if it's a good idea to drink anymore, and I want to say YES. I want to skirt authority and reason. I want to get drunk. I want to get out of my head. I want to get piss-drunk, waisted, hammered, oblitherated, shnockered, fucked-up, twisted, sideways, fubar, retarded, intoxicated. I want to get numb, silly, stupid, dangerous, and crazy. I want to stand at the edge of each metaphorical cliff and have no fear.

I want to drink you under the table, and I could. . . If I drank.

I have been sober for 1 year, 8 months, and 17 days.

Sobriety is probably the best thing I have ever done for myself, but sometimes I wish I could go back. Not really, it's just something I think about. The problem is once I start that's what I do.

1/2 Cup of Sleep

Daylight savings time is over and the desire to hybernate is setting in. I wake to the sound of Chris asking me if the power has gone off. The clock is blinking. Yes, the power has most certainly gone off. It's 5:49am. It's dark outside. The wind whips around whistling through the ever more naked trees, and everything sparkles with beads of moisture. I assume it rained last night. The dogs only make it halfway around the block before a chill wind tickles their bellies and they want to go back home. It's still dark. The neighbors lights are slowly blinking on, as morning disturbs slumber from house to house I wonder if their fighting hybernation instincts too. It's cold! This morning is the first time I really feel it hit my bones. The dogs waddle up the stairs dragging their leashes behind them. Breakfast and treats for everyone. Chris is on his train, on his way to the flower market, and I am listening to the gentle rumblings of the tea kettle, waiting to hear that distant whistle. The train sounds first, crossing the bridge. Then, as if in jealousy my kettle hums a third above. Coffee for me, steam for the orchids. My phaleaenopsis has opened another glorious bloom for me. A spot of spring in my window sill. How strange! The plant is even shooting up a second spike to fill with blooms. If I play my cards right I will have flowers until Christmas. The gang will gather this weekend to honor Li'l Jess. I can't believe we've been without her for a year. It's no wonder the sun was out so little this year. "Funny" Ed had said "Time flies when you don't want it to, and then stops dead." The snow enshrouded us, the day she was buried. I wonder if it will snow again this year. Gotta bundle up. It's time to catch my train. Even my cup of coffee is sleepy.

Giving Birth

I feel like I have given birth. Oh my goodness was it a long labor. I have been working on a poem for a little over two months, that I finally finished tonight. It is essentially a response piece to a work by James Merrill. James Merrill wrote a book called The Changing Light at Sandover which included a poem called The Book of Ephraim. The poem details sessions he and his lover (David Jackson) had with a Ouija Board. During these sessions they communed with a spirit named Ephraim. The poem truly affected me, and it has taken me a long time to finish responding. Finally tonight it was done. If you want to read the poem that I wrote check out the 'Read my Poetry' link to the right.

I taste like Peanut Butter. I am one of the most blendable flavours; I go with sweet, I go with sour, I go with bland, I go with anything. I am practical and good company, but have something of a tendency to hang around when I'm not wanted, unaware that my presence is not welcome. What Flavour Are You?

A Look Back

Here are three of the original Happy Book pages. Enjoy!
Happy1 Happy2 Happy3

The Happy Book

Sometime's I think that there are pools of wisdom within the human soul that actually degrade as we get older. The simplicity and directness with which most children aproach their lives seems wiser than the way of many adults. And there are certainly bits of wisdom that I had a much stronger connection with in days of yore than I do now. Fortunately, I have wonderful people that have made the journey with me, who the universe thrusts forward when i get all turned around, to remind me of important things I've forgotten. My good friend Leah turns out to be a fellow blogger. This week she published a post about The Happy Book. In the midst of a pretty funky depression I realized that the universe was handing me the key to relief in the form of a little synchronicity.

Let me explain. The Happy Book started as a blank book and some teenage wisdom. I came to believe that as long as you looked for the trying, depressing, difficult things in your life that you would find them, and that they would only serve to make you unhappy; therefore, I felt as if it was important to keep some sort of record of the things that made me happy. That way, whenever I felt down I could turn to this record for help. In a little black journal I began to draw, write, and doodle a functional list of things that made me happy. It was fun! As I filled more and more pages of the book, it began to be a favorite read for my friends. Soon they began to fill pages of their own happy thoughts inside my book. The book went everywhere I did. I traveled for many years with an array of Crayola Markers (one of the things that made me happy.) At any moment my friends and I could be found observing or recording the things that made us all happy. It may seem like a trite gesture to some, but it truly helped me through some difficult times.

I hadn't even thought about The Happy Book in a long time until just the other day. I was driving to work and thought that I should try and remember all the things that make me happy. I wondered if I even knew where The Happy Book was. Then when I got home I read Leah's post declaring that she was starting her own Happy Book this Friday, I realized that it was time to turn back to the pages of this tattered, torn book of joy. I sat down tonight and wandered through it page by page. Every page is filled with places, people, moments, and memories that made me smile. I'm not sure when I quit keeping up with the book, or when I lost sight of the importance of recording my joy. Thank heavens, that Leah was able to remind me. This week I will make time to begin The Happy Book II- Return To Happiness.

Tonight, I'm typing a few entries to get me started:
The sound of a crowd of children being entertained.
Decoding a really good section of a James Merril poem.
The way Jazmine (my dog) hugs my neck and presses her neck to my lips for kisses.
The way Puck (my other dog) whines to express almost every emotion. He's such a weenie!
My plants.
My orchid in bloom.
Random voicemails that contain the most beautiful poetry ever written, and knowing my friends wrote it.
The exchange of knowledge between a teacher and a student.
The thought of L'il Jess's smile and the big impression she made on my life.
A clean kitchen.
A mountain sky with more stars than you can even imagine.
The Happy Book.

Thank you Leah for reminding me!

Revolutions and The Trend of Anti-Trend

I found a great article on The Matrix: Revolutions called: In Defense of The Matrix. It's written by Tom Hoban and Matt Dorfman. I think it's worth reading if you've seen the movie.

In the meantime, there was a paragraph that stuck with me because it puts brilliant words to an idea I've been thinking about for a long time. The passage says:

"As for the Matrix, we were sold on it so long ago that we're better served by enjoying it for what it is.
It's surprising that so many people seem to have missed this notion entirely. The suffocating layers of irony that totally engulfed hip, urban, intellectualism have made it near impossible for people to get excited about anything anymore, least of all something so universally popular. We've created a culture of hating stuff, where it's not just easier, but safer, to be disappointed then to go out on a limb and say, 'you know what, I really enjoyed that.' Unless it's so esoteric and ambiguous that no one can reasonably make sense of it, it can't be cool."

I don't point to this quote because I see any problem with actually disliking or feeling indifferent towards the third installment of The Matrix; I point to this quote because it makes an interesting point. Somewhere around my seventh grade year I started to notice a trend around me that I called "The Trend of Anti-Trend." There seemed to be a growing sense that anything which attained any status or merit within mainstream culture must be hated at all costs. It seemed that the only way to establish yourself as a unique individual was to make sure that you weren't caught appreciating anything that "everyone liked." The slippery slope of it all (which seemed apparent to me even then) was that this phenomenon was born as a trend: and so, everything that was chosen to replace the likes of the masses represented the choices of a different mass. Thus was born a movement of pseudo-intellectual superiority that continues ad nauseam.

Now that I live in New York I see a much broader scope of this phenomenon. I see armies of "individual" scenesters who scoff at anything outside of their own circles. Each subset with it's own uniform and exclusive frames of reference. Frowned upon is the cross-scene floater, as is anything that does not fit in this particular box. I have more conversations with people on a daily basis about art that sucks than I do about something that is really great. I read newspaper and magazine columns that stream insults at the art they write about. Nothing is ever good enough, unless it is an obscure piece of art on limited distribution. It is much better to be hip enough and smart enough to advocate art that is avant-garde and difficult to view. This makes you infinitely more evolved as a New Yorker, and as an American.

I too, see a culture that is built on hating things. I even find myself wrapped up in it sometimes, but there must be some value in wanting to be entertained. There must be some virtue in going into an experience hoping to get something good out of it. Is it so bad to have common interests, with people very different from you, in things that speak to you? Does the art that we appreciate say so much about us that we are afraid to let people in? Does this mean that construction workers in the Bronx will be hiding under the covers watching 'It's a Wonderful Life" on a portable TV at Christmas time, for fear that someone will see a vulnerability? Is the world so big and terrifying for many of us that we feel we have to claim a piece of intellectual territory, and hold on to it like we're making a stand at our own personal Alamo? Or is the fear that if you like something accessible, that you may find the differences between you and part of your tribe, and be lost in the cultural void?

I say open the dialogue with art. Look at what it touches in you. Find the universalities inside it. Be willing to be entertained. Then choose!

You know there's a reason they call it Entertainment.

My First Bloom

The first bloom opened on my orchid this morning. What a blessing to wake and find it unfurled in a state of glory. I was instantly taken aback by the sheer beauty of a plant. Gold star to the creator for designing such a magnificent living thing! I think orchids could be a new addiction. This is what it looks like.

The Ubiquitous Miss

She's everywhere. No matter where I turn I think I see her, but of course she's not there. I catch a glimpse of her on a crowded street, and then she disappears into the crowd. I wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling that she's standing at my front door, maybe my dogs are even barking, but when I throw open my inner door and look down, nobody is standing at the foot of the stairs. I pick up the phone to call her (almost every day still) as if we just haven't been keeping up, and I could call and exchange the scoop on our lives. I miss Jessica!

My eyes still well with tears from the very act of typing those words, and that makes me feel sort of silly. Lately I've been thinking about the verbs of it all.:

To Remember- To excavate a certain depth or sector of the miracle that is one's mind and discover something that was left there. Sometimes the very act of remembering comes as a burden, but so much of what we remember has been buried up there to bring us joy. Memories are an opportunity to do it over again and again. The beauty of memories, is that they will be washed over with the waters of time until every roughness, and jagged edge are gone; until each time we take them out to hold them they fit polished and solid in the palms of our hands, like a worry stone of the soul. It's good to remember.

I remember the last time I saw Jessica. She had been in the area and suggested that she pick me up and drive me to work so that we could talk and catch up. She ran into all sorts of traffic, and the whole thing resulted in me being very late and very uptight. We bounced around in her Jeep, laughing and talking as she maneuvered maniacally through the imposing traffic. Most of my energy was focused on panicking about my tardiness. I wish I could remember every word we shared, but I don't, because I didn't know they were the last.

I remember getting her a night tending bar at a local gay club. A friend had called me and asked if I knew anyone good. Of course I said she would be perfect. I agreed to go out that night and hang out while she worked, we sat and talked in between her customers, and had a rouccous time. I remember watching her slide around a milk crate all night because she was too short to reach the liquor shelf. I remember the glitter around her eyes that night. I remember feeling good to have her nearby.

To Miss- To miss is to run your hands around the surface of your heart and discover an empty place, where something used to be. Sometimes the void is shaped like a place or time that once meant something to you, but most often they take the shape of people. Missing is pulling your heart out and observing the empty spaces, it starts with one specific thing or person, then it grows. To miss is to be bombarded with every single thing that has ever been lost. Once you begin to name the void, you discover that it is an ever changing, eternally healing wound left by that which. . . left.

I feel as though the miss becomes omnipresent. It's not simply that I miss Jessica, but I miss every tendril of time, and each loving soul that has passed. I ache with this. . .ubiquitous miss.

More Useless Information

This article seems like an interesting follow up to my previous article. An elephant never forgets! You have to admire this kind of tenacity, regardless of species. Although perhaps there's something to be said for flexibility.

A Responsible Bit of Info

I found the truth about the bumblebee, but prefer to believe in the fable I intimated earlier.PhysicsWeb - Lasers illuminate the flight of the bumblebee

Morpheus


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla

Limiting Voices

An Elephant Never Forgets!

Somewhere in my travels I heard this story. I took it for the source of this famous expression, but having done no research as to the source or validity, I make no attempt to authenticate this information.

From the very beginning of their lives, baby elephants in the circus would be staked in using a long stake and a sturdy chain that was completely immovable to them. The system by which they were held captive was such that it seemed quite extreme in comparison to the girth and strength of such a young elephant. As they grew and struggled through the phases of development they learned that no struggle, no mighty yank, would possibly yield freedom. Once they reached a certain age they began to stop struggling. As adults these same elephants were kept with such meegar systems as twine or thin rope. As long as something was wrapped around the foot where elaborate shackles and chains had once been, the elephants would maintain the learned distance from the stake. Obviously an elephant has the strength to break most standard ropes, and probably some small chains; Ah, but the elephants had learned their limitations, and "an elephant never forgets!"

Lately I have run into the twine around my ankle in several areas of my life. It usually comes as limiting voices from my past. They come from so many sources, and (as I had good mentors, teachers and heroes in my life) I imagine none of the people who created them intended to do so. Regardless of the intentions behind them, there is a tape which plays for almost any endeavor I take on. There is a sound loop of "You'll Never's" and "You Can't's" which seems to get louder the more I stretch myself and try to succeed. Some of these limiting voices are even my own, sailing forward through cerebral highways and byways, from moments in which I had much less faith in my self.

I know that I am worthy of success. I know that I have a wealth of things to offer this world. But somehow, every time I step into a high pressure situation. . ."YOOOOOOUU SUUUUUCK!". . . "GIIIIVE UUUUP BEEEFOOORE IT'S TOOOOO LAATE!" There they are again.

My solution is to try to find as many encouraging voices in my life as I possibly can. I try to seek guidance from people who want me to succeed, and to avoid any sort of mentor or teacher who deals in cant's, wont's, and never's. This part is fairly easy. The harder part is trying to cleanse my own criticisms of the same kind of language. Growth is such an irritating process!

What I wonder, is why do these voices play so loud? How often do we create them in the lives of people we love? And, how many children are we staking to the ground with the things we say?

What if everyone made an effort every day, to give someone near them wings? Say YES to someone close to you. Because they will never forget it.

Another sourceless anecdote:

The mass of a bumblebee's body exceeds the lift which can be created by their wing surface. There is no explanation for the physics of how they fly. The bumblebee flies anyway. Perhaps the bumblebee has no language for the word "NO"

Teaching Opportunity

I had a job interview today with The Bronx Arts Ensemble. The position is an opportunity to teach movement to elementary school children. I feel very excited about this opportunity. I feel like there are many signs in my life pointing me towards teaching. On one hand I feel so blessed to have a recognized gift for teaching. What better way to leave my mark on the world than to invest in the growth of a handful of young people? On the other hand I worry that teaching as a path is a distraction from the other goals in my life. I feel like a "good" teacher has his or her own ego completely worked out before they reach out to students. I would love to pass on the gifts that my teachers have given me, but I'm just not sure if I'm ready. I suppose there's only one way to find out. [WT takes a leap of faith.]

Heaven Is In The Memory

A good friend told me recently that if heaven exists, it is surely in the memory of the living. As November is settling in this year and the air is getting colder, I am fighting an awful depression. My good friend Jessica Marie Kupczak died last November 23rd. I miss her so much, that sometimes it feels as though I might faint. I tried to take great comfort in the idea that she would live eternally in the memories of those who loved her, but when I close my eyes and reach for her I find her evasive at best. The things I remember about her come to me in fragmented snippets. It's like trying to watch a flock of geese fly through the spaces of a grove of trees on a foggy November day. The details are moving too quickly and are too far away.
What I am left with:
Her infectious laugh
The glimmer in her eyes
The way she made me forget my cares as long as she was near me
The purest truest heart I've ever encountered
and Unbelievably striking beauty

I don't remember endless anecdotal stories about times we shared. I just remember her essence, and the love that I had for her. I hope that is enough.

Where Do I Go?

"You know. . . ART is why I get up in the morning,
but my definition ends there. It doesn't seem fair,
That I'm living for something I can't even define. . ."
-Ani DiFranco

I spent the evening talking with my good friend Anna. Anna is someone I studied acting with at Adelphi University. She was expressing to me an almost paralyzing sense of: "What do I do NOW?" Because my circle of friends is comprised almost entirely of actors and artists, I find that this is something I hear expressed almost too often. I personally go through it every day. I look around at all of the possibilities, then I look ahead at the staggering challenges that lie before me, and I want to bury my head in the sand and have a REALLY good cry. I think "Maybe I'll sell everything and run off to Tibet, or go back to school and become a heart surgeon, or enlist in the army." The last thought usually stops this silliness, but often not the paralysis. What scares me even more, is that I was speaking the other night with an actor, in his forties, who told me he's still not sure what to do with his life. I imagine that this sort of fear and doubt extends outside of the artistic community. I suppose that these feelings are part of the drawbacks that come with choice and freedom.

Anna pointed out that the entire human system is based on creation. Everything from our mythologies to our lifestyles are founded on the principals of creation. Beyond the arts, industry is entirely based on creating and distributing something (ie. Widgets.) . . . Even the domestic arts are driven towards creating a "home" and a family. It's as though we woke up in the primordial soup somewhere and said: "Uh-oh, we're developing opposable thumbs boys and girls. We'd better do something GREAT with these." I think that the need to create is a sort of extension of the quest for the holy grail. We all want to live forever. If you can create something that lasts, if you can really have your voice heard, then you can outlive your body; but, if you don't achieve something lasting, you have to face your own extinction. In this respect, the entire quest becomes about the products that you will have finished when your number comes up.

What if the quest itself were enough? What if you believed that you were doing something great, simply by waking up each morning? What if every choice you were faced with carried a disclaimer that said "There's no wrong answer!" There's a real poetry to the way people strive to make the correct choice, to do the right thing, to put something GrEaT into the universe. I say- Fuck it up! Make some mistakes! Make something mediochre! Don't worry about where it will take you, because your probably already headed there anyway. The only way to really see the outcomes and the drawbacks of our choices is to look back on the ones we've made. I say- make a choice. If it doesn't take you where you'd like to be, make another. Just make sure, you notice the journey.

I Love To Know What You're Thinking!

I think as of this post, I will have the comments links repaired in such a way that each posting will have a place for comments. This will remain seperate from the comments link below the title where you can comment on the entire page. We'll see if this works.