Archive for January, 2006

photopress

Wednesday, January 18th, 2006

[photopress:dsc05917a.jpg,thumb,alignleft]
This is just a test of photopress.

Orange flower on a misty day.

Lucky

Tuesday, January 17th, 2006

Be comforted.  There can be no 6:66, neither AM or PM.  No 7:77 either, although it will be 13:13 once everyday.  The space shuttles Challenger and Columbia are both gone, so we don’t have to worry ever again about a catastrophe involving either one of them, thank God.  Martin Luther King Jr. is dead, and so are RFK and JFK, so we don’t have to worry in the future about losing a leader we love at the height of their success.  Of course there is George W. Bush, but I don’t know anybody who loves him.  Besides, the degree of his success, either now or at any other time, is eminently debatable.

Friday the thirteenth got me thinking about all this and it has only taken me 4 days to write it down.  Back in 1970, Apollo 13 got me thinking about it too, but that would mean that it took 35 and ten-twelveths years to write it down, and nothing has taken me that long to do, except maybe dying.  And I still haven’t done that.  Yet. 

I could be tied to a bed with a respirator tube anchored down my throat, firing its load of air into me, and pulling it back out again, once every five seconds.  I could be among the ‘disappeared’ in a torture camp in Europe or Asia, or Cuba.  I could have been crushed by the stampede at the Hajj.  Or worse yet, I could have survived it. 

Or more proximate to my actual reality, I could be suffering from one or more opportunistic infections, with my body hovering semi-viably between having a barely functioning immune system, and being a defenseless medium for the growth of exotic infectious diseases, like a petri dish.  Or I could suffer a bike accident, like when a lumbering giant–a massive snow plow or dump truck–backs into a snow bank where I was daintily squeezing past on my bicycle, leaving me compressed in a snow-pile, my limbs broken and tangled in a mass of bent frame pieces and red snow. 

But there is a joy in the experience, whatever it may be, whether an experience of suffering or an experience of death, no less than the joy in an experience of ecstasy.  No matter what we know, nor how absolutely we invest ourselves in what we prefer over that which we dislike, it is the capacity to know any of it at all which is, in the final analysis, the most precious, and the only gift. 

dead letter

Monday, January 16th, 2006

Unaddressed rage. Like anthrax–U.S. Military grade anthrax–in an envelope not addressed to a Senator, or to anyone else. Concentrated lethality with nowhere to go. So it just sits inside.

Most people suck. They smile at you, maybe they even like you. They are easy and jovial most times–until you piss them off. And pissing people off is inevitable, even pissing-off people who don’t suck. Can’t be avoided.

A few can be trusted. Most can’t. Most people suck. And when you piss them off, they look at you with daggers, they spray you with contempt, and sometimes they get vengeful. And if they have clout, and you don’t, then you get beaten. The few words they might bother thmeselves to dedicate to you will be disparaging words, an expression of distaste, or maybe rather than elevate you to a place in their vocabulary, they will simply dispose of you in a mere gesture of disgust.

Most people suck, and I pissed-off one of those people tonight, at work.

I should be …mmm, I don’t know… kinda happy, I would guess. But I am not. And it wasn’t even out of vengeance that I did it. I pissed her off inadvertantly, really, simply because I was trying to do what was right. And I guess that pisses them off most of all; pissing them off when you’re not even trying to. They hate that.

They tolerate a lot from me, but I tolerate a lot more from them. I should just get a new job, just back up and dump them over the edge of that memory-pile of things I have lost. But it feels like too much effort, and I am just too lazy and depressed. And it all just stays the same if nobody wants to be bothered changing the world. It’s a dead letter.