And why should we believe that this is true? Why should we believe, just because they say they're going to close the propaganda office, that they actually are going to close the propaganda office?  "We have decided not to lie.  Honest."  It's like an Escher engraving—the hand drawing itself.  The act of drawing, and its result, are both part of the two dimensional image produced by an unseen artist. 

I'd like to think that I can see everything there is regarding the intrigues and deceits of government, and on a warm summer night near the shore under stars I can believe anything anyone tells me.  But in the harsh light of a cold dawn, my overlooked suspicions have often been confirmed. 

We are not a noble nation.  We are not a righteous people.  Least of all are we fearless.  We tolerate pronouncements of assassinations and kidnappings for the sake of, what, peace?  safety?  in the name of 'truth' and the American way?  After they float those balloons successfully, we have the gall to squirm with discomfort when they tell us they are going to lie.  (!)  What is it exactly that bothers us about this Office of Strategic Influence?  That it promulgates and disseminates lies?  Hardly.  We take those easily, with tea and lemon. 

Institutionalizing the culture of deception which exists in government lays bare something raw and sore—our collective conscience.  That's the only problem we have with the OSI.  Just give them an out of the way office, bury their budget within another, and for crying out loud, do not outright tell us about it! 

Myth precedes reality.  Joseph Campbell taught us this.  The myth of a New World preceded its discovery.  On an uncharacteristically optimistic note, I'd like to suggest that the myth of America will one day become a reality, too.  It will be a nation of free people gathered under principles which affirm the significance of the individual, and promote the inclusion of all.  There will be diversity imbued with equality.  America then will hold as its only might the truth, and will have learned how to rehabilitate sophisticated thugs and power-mongers like our present day politicians, enabling them to participate productively in the collective soul of America.  We will then stand as proof of these wild imaginings, rather than stand as we do now, as proof that such things are nothing but wild imaginings. 

Coffee, dust, and me.  What the hell am I doing here? 

"This'll do," has become my motto, even my personal vision statement.  It has applied to boyfriends—that's whoever is currently sleeping in my bed.  There have not been many.  It applies to whatever the waiter actually brings, as opposed to what it was you ordered, because you never decided what you really wanted anyway.  It applies to bad jobs, to stagnant lives, and to any event that you don't want to be bothered changing.  "This'll do" is a universally useful utility for settling and stilling, which is the opposite of stirring and agitating.  Neither extreme is better than the other, they both have their advantages.  Only, I never choose the latter. 

Lately, I have been getting an eerie sense of things.  Once or twice, when talking idly about unimportant things—office chatter—and reference was made to specific geographic locations, I got the distinct feeling that I won't be going to them.  Not with any particular forboding, just a sense that the limits are closing in and the possibilities diminishing, as they do in everyone's life eventually. 

Some things are relatively certain without the aid of clairvoyance.  NASA is not likely to enter me in its astronaut training program, for example.  I'm never going to enter the military (not that I ever wanted to, except for the men), so I'm never going to fly an F16 or drive a sub.  I don't seem to be in proximity to any opportunities that would take me to other continents; a stint as foreign correspondent seems unlikely now (not that it ever was likely).  There are not even any stints as a foreign tourist on my horizons.  A career as a celebrated chef is less than likely.  Same with surgeon.  And airline pilot.  An acting career is a little different; I've survived my whole life by acting, and it just wouldn't seem right to make it a career.  No such possibility is imminent, anyway.  A future as an olympic athlete is out, too—except maybe for curling.  The sweepers and the throwers in that sport seem to be in awfully good shape, though I can't see why they need to be. 

Careers aside, many untried pastimes (and even former ones) seem unlikely now to start (or resume).  Skiing was my absolute favorite thing to do, up until high school when my mother stopped me.  She thought it was dangerous.  And when I resumed it in my mid-twenties I was sure my legs wouldn't take it and I'd fall, make a fool of myself, and have to repeat my fourth grade ski school as a remedial.  After so much time away from it, my first run was absolutely fucking fantastic, and I didn't have any time to worry about falling.  Riding a bike. 

Speaking of riding a bike, sex—which is often compared to that activity—seems to have been over for a while.  It is problematic for me, anyway.  Intimacy is just too much work, and sex with strangers, while it has not lost its appeal, is simply not allowed anymore.  Sigh.  There is fantasy (or memory) and, of course, latex.  I'm refering to latex in its solid, cylindrical form, not the thin, sheath-like form which is slightly more acceptable to talk about.  Despite its comendable silence after the act, the solid form leaves a lot to be desired.  Now that I think of it, both forms—the dildo and the rubber—leave out an awful lot.  Or maybe I'm just wanting something from sex that I shouldn't want.  Sigh, again. 

Today, I'll go to work.  Supper will be a pizza or a sub, and more coffee.  Tonight, I'll come home and reread this, and like parts of it, and wish I spent more time rewriting other parts.  But I won't rewrite anything.  Then I'll visit some favorite sites, maybe tweak Greymatter some more, listen to the BBC, have a snack, brush my teeth and go to bed.  I might clean my apartment someday before I die. 

I might not.