Nothing to say.  Or maybe everything to say and just not enough time, or not enough agility to keep up.  It used to be that there were not enough days for all I had to say.  And now even that is a reason not to try.  Why write?  If the question even needs to be asked, then the choice has already been made. 

Again, it's like a train.  I'm sitting on the platform as the umpteen-millionth opportunity arrives, bekons, gives up, and starts to leave.  Again.  It has just started moving away, and I could still jump on; it is not one of those transit authority 'automatic' trains that provide no open doors or accomodation for jumping onto them once they start moving.  I could still leap, and reach.  And go.  All the dowdy, slow passengers, the ones with massive bodies and with even more massive burdens, they already shuffled quietly onto the train when it was stopped.  They stare out at me with wide glazed eyes.  Maybe they ask, "Why is he staying behind?"  Maybe they wonder, "Is he going to jump?  Will he yet make it?"  Or maybe they are staring at their own reflections in the window. 

I've tried before—to run and jump.  But every time my effort fails.  It is as if all the obstacles to my endeavor, which lay flat as two-dimensional facts in my awareness, they rise up in stark relief and present themselves as obstructions to my progress the moment I make my decision to move.  The train is moving faster now than a brisk walk, now a light jog, and accellerating.  I would have to run along side and grab that handrail, that one there, and jump up onto the step.  But if I tried and slipped, I'd fall through the space between the train and the platform, and the wheels would cut me in half.  Or worse, they'd cut off just a leg or just an arm, and the squeezing and mashing of the limb between the wheel and the rail would seal-off the stump so I wouldn't even bleed to death—probably wouldn't even lose consciousness.  Lying there, under the train, beside those giant threatening wheels, with the ground shaking, and the screaming and groaning of the heavy train above me, passing by... 

Now it is moving even faster still, fast as a sprinting boy, and the last car will pass away shortly.  But with a run, a leap and a grab, I'd be on my way... 

Relax.  Another will come.  It always does. 

The death of Dr. David Kelly seems coldly reminiscent of another 'suicide' from a decade ago.

I hate political babbling like the last entry; let's have no more of that. 

The day was dark when I woke.  We were in the heavy black shadow of a massive towering storm cloud.  I opened all the window blinds to watch the storm.  Intermittently, grape-sized drops of water splatted here and there making big dark splash marks on the pale dry sidewalk cement.  We were held in a gray and shadowless light, streetlights flicked on, the air did not move.  Distant thunder rumbled.  The rain started, then the air began to shift and move.  The light returned with a vigorous wind that turned leaves wrong-side up, made trees bend and sway, and lifted sheets of rain, like the light had turned the air itself white and was blowing it around. 

After our sheltering darkness, the brightening sky seemed annoying, almost too bright.  I narrowed the venetian blinds again.  The sky became a featureless white matte of cloud without billow or fold, and the rain stopped.  Eventually even the sun came back out, and all seemed right with the world.  I hate that. 

Personally, I think it is too late.

Oh, sure, there's opposition; the ACLU, Sierra Club, Citizens for Legitimate Government, among other organizations, along with saintly souls who value integrity and humanity above political expediency like US Representative Dennis Kucinich, Governer Howard Dean, Senator Robert Byrd, and the late Senator Paul Wellstone.  But I believe in the triumph of evil in human affairs.  Unfortunately.  National politics and policy in this country over the last two decades has provided very little of substance with which I might resist this cloying cynicism.  If I weren't so depressed about this—and many other things that are completely unrelated to the real world—I would give this country only one more chance, and that only after I moved to Vermont, in preparation for the potential of casting myself upon the mercy of Canada as an ideological refugee.  As it is, I'll probably just stay where I am and die. 

Those of us of unmoderated sensitivity, untrained in the ways of managing our emotional responses to things (or perhaps just unwilling to do so) have some difficulty with acts and strageties political.  It is, I know, all about compromise; the forfeiture of some goals in order to accomplish others.  But there is nothing legitimate about the Bush administration, so recommending that the president ask for vice president Cheney's resignation for promoting a false need for war, seems at once ludicrous, and essential.  Ludicrous because the president whom we are asking to take this Constitution-defending action is treasonable himself!  And essential because Cheney is criminal and smart, unlike Bush who is merely criminal and stupid.  Even though I have never believed the head of this particular serpent was George W. Bush—he's merely the head of the costume—still, keeping him in office without loud protestation presents the image, to the world and all posterity, of my nation wearing a badge of acquiescence to the greed and inhumanity of the American corporate elite. 

And anyway, I think it is too late. 

We let it all go when we allowed them to steal the election.  I don't care what was wrong with Gore, how wooden or uncharismatic his personality, nor do I care about the flaws in his platform, neither am I in the least bit concerned about his being the consummate political animal with an addiction to compromise and mealy-mouthed platitudes.  I don't care because I believe Gore was legally elected president of the United States.  December 12, 2000 is a day that will live in infamy as the day the Supreme Court of the United States was made to bend over and take it up the ass, thanks to Rehnquist, Scalia, O'Conner, Kennedy, and their rubber-stamp man, Thomas.  It astounds me that I, along with most everybody in this country, have continued life as usual now going on three years since that epic display of criminal behavior and utter illogic at law. 

Actually, I stand in amazement at their accomplishment, much like the horrified awe with which I behold the execution of the September 11 attacks.  There were, of course, some prerequisites necessary before the present administration was able to steal a national presidential election.  It had to be close, and even though Gore was way ahead in popular votes, it was close based on the Electoral votes which are the ones that count.  They had to own the state which would decide the election, which they did, as evidenced by the blatant bias of the Florida state election officials.  And finally, they had to own the Supreme Court.  'Nuff said. 

We have relinquished our power—as an electorate, as a nation, as a people, and as free individuals—to the pure capitalists, who don't even care about owning the media anymore—even though they do—because now they own the FCC, the Supreme Court, the Justice Department, the FBI, and the entire Executive branch.  Not to mention that they own a majority in Congress. 

I will be among the needy despised by my country's government.  I am now, but I continue to work despite my illness and the abuse of my employer because I believe I would fare worse on SSDI.  Or maybe I just do not want to deal with reality, a reality which includes Patriot Acts I and II (Patriot axe), an Office of Homeland Security, an FBI that has been transformed into a private secret police for the Bush Administration, and a hopelessness borne of a substantiated cynicism.  They'll let us get rid of Bush, probably, unless we divide ourselves hopelessly on the plethora of excellent liberal candidates lately coming to the fore.  But the die is cast; government of the people, by the people and for the people has become a function of money, power, and secret influence.  This is not the way the story is supposed to go, at least not the way I learned it in civics class.  I doubt that we will ever regain the freedoms we have lost and continue to lose. 

There is hope, for government has lost custody of the Great American Experiment.  There are none who can sustain it, save you and I.  Not the politicians, not the judges, not the police, not the military.  We have only ourselves to rely upon, and everything to fear.  But I believe this is the way in which this Experiment was intended to unfold, as set forth in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.  We are precisely where we are supposed to be, and this crisis of personal freedom was always the test to which the Great Experiment would inevitably lead. 

I pray we test well.  It is our only hope. 

I finally got off my 'roids and uploaded all the pics I have been taking.  Today they are mostly dead petals, but that is why I photograph them.  They are not dead at images.burgwinkel.com.  They will never be. 

Now if I could just learn to integrate other human beings into my life, I might get some pics of people too. 

This is the middle of my night.  Can't sleep.  So, I write.

This could be a good thing, I have not been in the best of moods and the words, I have allowed them to congeal and solidify like hard dry snots in my nostrils—a constipation of words.  This has led to a general sickness of mind.  Not that I have anything against sickness; I have been pursuing it for years.  Sometimes I think that as long as I feel well enough to complain, I'm doing fine.  It's when the whining ends, that's when the real trouble begins. 

The way writing works in my brain is like a lens.  'Focus' is too complimentary a word for the process that occurs when I write.  Exclusion is more like it.  When I am writing about a particular thing, I wonder about all the other things that pass by like scenery as my brain chugs steadily toward a single point.  I wonder, for example, about comments.  Should I make some reply whenever one is posted here?  Would I appear too solicitous, like a comment monger?  Do I appear cold and unappreciative when I savor them in private?  And I do savor them.  Should I just avoid the whole issue and not even allow comments? 

I wonder about the unexplored emotion that comes in fetid spurts, like globs of lava forcibly expelled into mid-air by volcanic burps and coughs from somewhere deep and unexplored.  Should I worry about the rumbles down below?  Will I have to confront it sooner or later, or can I avoid it forever?  Is it inevitable that I be cast like a virgin into that pit of fire and rage? 

And about sickness; how do I want to talk about that?  Or would I rather allow that particular scene to whiz past without notation?  These moments of approach in preparation for final landing will be especially precious one day—if indeed any moments at all are precious in this grand flight of decades-length.  Maybe, now that I am not traveling so high and fast as in my prime, I have time to contemplate the ground, the lay of the land, the detailed features of life on this earth. 

The scenery is so much nicer from the train.  All the little moments of life; the back yards, the wooded lots, the young men idling on loading docks at the backs of factories and warehouses, where the train tracks meet daily life.  Seeing the country road with a car in transit, viewed from the vantage point of a train gives a sense of supernatural perspective.  And all of these scenes are stopped and captured in the shutter-like passage of the train window, creating frozen images which are irresistably fascinating to one who is overwhelmed by the normal flow of moments. 

So I am aware of many other things while I write, and I discard them all.  Whether I do so from a perversity of pleasure, or simply out of necessity I do not know.  For me writing consists in the exclusion of virtually everything.  And that's the joy. 

If I got out of the train, if I made it stop and investigated every one of those vignettes that pass by, they would lose their magic.  I remember one magic scene.  He was mid-twenties, light brown hair, baseball cap, tall and trim but muscled and solid—a real stud.  I was passing a parking lot in a real train as he walked from his car, coffee in hand, still in that cuddly, subdued state of having just awakened.  It was early morning.  I would have been too afraid to publicly acknowledge my attraction to one so interesting as he, so a passing glimpse was perfect.  Besides, if I had stopped the train for him I would have pissed-off all the other passengers who were trying to get somewhere on time, and I probably would have discovered that he is happily married to some petite gymnast who has already borne him two babies.  Climbing down from the groaning train, I would discover that he did not possess the same paralyzing interest in me that I had for him.  He would not be stricken in awe at my approach.  He would not lose his grip on his coffee cup, dropping it on the ground without even noticing.  He would not feel the angst, as I walked toward him, of the urgent need to put his lips on mine.  No. 

He would think, "Why is the train stopping?  And who's that guy coming over here?  What's he looking at me for?"  And I would be embarrassed and disappointed.  No.  Keep the magic; stay on the train.  The joy of writing—for me—is the joy of all the things excluded, all the passing moments unexplored, and all the visions unconstrained by tedious reality.  That goes for planes as well as trains, and even busses.  There's so much magic passing by, I can scarcely take it all in.