Some Random Musings

Just like any other kid, my parents would send me off to camp once or twice a year to set my imagination loose on the great outdoors. This is where I fell in love with fire. It all started very casually, with me being assigned to hunt for firewood but it wasn't enough. Feeding the campfire became my 'burning ambition' and I gave myself over completely. First of all, I loved the smell of burning wood. I would stare in wonder at the flames doing their reckless little dances. I truly felt like I was accomplishing something. Of course, at camp their were many other activities to keep young minds entertained but it all seemed quite useless. The fire needed me. Nobody else cared as much as I did and that was fine. So I made the fire mine. Nobody else dared cross that line. They saw the fire reflecting madly in my calm, focused eyes and they knew damn well who was in charge. The sparks showered the night sky like tiny, possessed meteors of momentary perfection. To this day there is nothing I like more than getting together with friends out in the woods by a campfire, drinking beer and having a few laughs. The fire brings us together. The communal act of gathering wood and feeding the flames is something we all enjoy. And no, I never graduated to burning down warehouses.

I'm standing at the pharmacy waiting for my pills. An old lady with her flat, square ass and curly white hair navigates the aisle with her empty cart. After a few dry runs she looks at me with an expression of thundering dullness and says "It was right in front of my eyes." She berates her own stupidity out loud and puts her diarrhea medication in her cart. Somewhere deep inside, a part of me dies.

People who are deeply caring and sensitive are often forced into apathy because they can't even handle their GOOD characteristics.

January 19, 1998 an old diary entry...

I see a friend from the spoken word scene on the street. It is obvious that he is in the midst of a dangerous psychotic episode, rambling on about spiritual masters and controlled frequencies. He's preaching his psychotic prophecies to anyone who is scared enough to stop and listen. There's nothing I can do to help him. We go for a walk. He tells me he's being followed by homosexual limousines and illuminazis. He wouldn't look at a magazine of my writing because he didn't like the typeface. He says I'm using a homosexual font. I tell him fonts don't have sexual preferences. He says he can read between the lines. I surrender to the confusion of the moment.