To rare to kill

...to strange to die.

Once a long time ago Joanna Newsome asked me a question that I suddenly took very seriously. What is your inflamitory writ. I thought about it, then I came up with something, wrote it, and had it devoured by myspace. Thanks!. Recently Sasha, took the issue and pretty much smacked me upside the head with it. Where the hell is my inflamitory writ.

I have to say that I do try to get to know people. Not being very good at it hampers things but at the end of the day I try to learn something from everyone. Most times it is something they never intended on teaching us but I think that is part of the beauty of observation. You may end up speaking a different language but I find beauty in the strange. So when I look at the world, head cocked to the left, I'll miss out on some things but its worth it because there is so much people miss every day.

Little things. One of the most important things I've learned is that actions should speak louder than words. However, they often don't. Words are cheap and people won't normally listen to you unless you are yelling at them, hands on shoulders, face red. One time I actually did have a tape recorder. The way it went was I would ask them to stop doing something, they wouldn't, I'd yell, they would say I didn't have to be a dick about it, and then I would play the tape. Lession learned. People don't like having their own words thrown directly back into their faces. Important safety tip.

If actions were enough then this world would be a diffrent place. We'd laugh more because we would care more about enjoying ourselves and less about appearences or surroundings. The idea that someone would dare attepmt to stifle laughture is something that doesn't make sense to me what so ever. Maybe it is some sort of bizzare jellouse that comes from not being able to join in when they clearly can.

One person does it and they are considered mad, three people do it and they become normal. The more people that do it the stronger its hold gets. So know this, everything you think is right and proper started with madness. But instead of a maddness where we howl at the moon, run rampant, laughing, singing, and throwing caution to the wind, it is the slow cold madness that crushes you from the inside. It is the sort of madness where you need to destroy the beautiful things around, not because you can't posess them, but because no one else should. Because sometimes the stars remind us of the earth beneith our feet, and that those feet hurt, along with bills needing to be paid, and something else that doesn't matter.

So the night sky is filled with as many lights as possible. So we forget the stars, and maybe our feet.

It doesn't work like that though.

I take a diffrent rout than most people like me. I do not mind wiping the ass of this world, for I know that there is beauty underneath. All the discomfort I feel, the soreness, that aweful taste in my mouth when I wake up after eating milk and cookies the night before, is worth it because I ate milk and cookies just before bed future taste be damned.

So yeah instead of my head in the clouds I am off playing in the mud. The important point though is this.

I AM PLAYING.

You make the world around you for what it is. Every boring moment you spend wishing for something to do is complicity. I could be watching Northern Exposure right now, and I really love that show, but I wanted to do something more active with my hour before bed and here I am.

It isn't much of a manifesto. I don't recomend you come with on the path I am on. It isn't easy nor is it pretty. I look at life and I still laugh. Somtimes I am afaid that I will stop. To shocked to go on. Its why I keep my friends handy. To dig me out should I ever get to deep.

One of the most beautiful things I saw last week was a porno. It involved three girls, all wearing hoods and gas masks. One was in a bathtub full of styrofoam peanuts. Now all lesbian pornography is dominated by two images, eating out of teh vagina, and the infamouse lesbian kiss. However, the gas masks made all thouse things impossible. Hell you know what I am not even sure if one of them was a woman or not. They could only sort of rub each other awkwardly. I liked the restraint. The whole thing could of been so much easyer if they just took off the hood, or removed the mask, but no one did. I didn't even seem like they wanted to. There is a sort of pure simple beauty there that I can't really put into words, but for whatever reason it made my heart ache. All pretenses of eroticism vanished under latex and masks leaving behind just people who were connecting as people.

Flawed. Awkwardly. But still trying despite all obsticals in their way.

Connection. It is one of the most important things in the world, alienation being one of the most terrible.

I live in a constant paradox. Through the whorls of everylasting confusion I do see beauty in the bitterness.

That's fine with me.

This essay has the benifit of clarity! Just like Walter Benjamine.

Again it isn't much of a manifesto, but I can only connect in one way. And that is as hard as I can.

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