Weather

"What is stronger than God
More evil than the devil
The poor have it
The rich don't need it
And you die if you eat it?"

"Duh. Nothing"
"Chelsea!"
"Um, I'm not sure how to take that."
"You die if you eat Chelsea? WTF?"

-MSC chalk board


In other news, Eugene has become incredibly muggy, hot and sunny almost overnight. Three nights ago. Every year when this happens I find myself completely shocked that such things are possible in Oregon. Also unprepared. Once I get retroactively prepared, I think I will be very happy about it. My brain dies in heat and a little cloud of happiness fills the empty space. I vegitate in alternately shady and sunny parts of the heat, and for once am getting enough sleep to remember my dreams. Bad for school work. Good for me. Yay.

A nice evening of genocide.

http://www.gendercide.org/darfur01.htm

Outside my window is passing a slow steady stream of drunk frats.

My despair is so petty. How can the affirmations I make in the face of it possibly be anything more? How can I possibly understand what is good about the world- ignorant as I am of its evil? I feel so incredibly inadequate.

And this even leaves aside the question of actually doing anything...

God.

The face of God

When I was young, they told me that a human couldn't look on the face of God and live. Then and now, I wonder if life is worth having if you don't die from that- from having finally seen God.

(What's the only thing worse than finding a worm in your earth? Finding half a worm in your earth!)

This evening (or, should I say, morning) it's just me, my hard apple cider and the Gorillaz. This question has been bugging me for a while. Why is it that so much art is concerned with the struggle of artists with art? I mean, maybe its mostly writers, but from Harriet the Spy to JtMH to Emily of the New Moon, to Almost Anything Written By Stephen King, the plot revolves around a creative person trying to find some way to express their creativity. Is it simply narcissism- in an time where no one seems to be able to relate to anyone else, are writers left with with only themselves to write about? Or has it always been this way? Or perhaps is it just that, currently, with all other real and basic human activities like starting fires or making clothing or tilling good rich wormy earth usurped from us by machines and Chinese slave labor, art making is the only really human activity left to us, and thus the only thing left to to write about?

tire fires

ah, cursed hours, fly slowly, for you each take a piece of my soul with you...

I think that in a few years when School is paid of (if the world doesn't end, which is sort of touch and go) I want to work with homeless people for a while. Its kind of selfish, because I doubt I could really make much of a difference unless I spent my entire life at it, and I can't do that, and I simply would not be doing it for that reason, etc.

But their world seems like some other world, outside of my comprehension. Do the things I think here, hold true there? What's this stuff I've learned worth- anything? Does it have any value in what looks like the absolute bottom of the world?

I smell the smell of distant rubber meeting road... Unless of course the world ends and I get to find this all out the easy way.

(and here I figured this post would be about Cthulu!)

A Minor Resolution

The thought occurred to me today that, since I have this blog just sitting here and the internet just pooled around it at all times, I may as well get in the habit of posting. I am going to try to put one coherent thought on here, be it small or massive, every day, and see how long the fad lasts. I want to see if I can make it to Graduation.

I give it a week.

Aaand, that was my thought for the day. Cthulhu fhtagn!

Strange Late-night Obsession

Every now and then, something reminds me that Rorschach is dead and that Dr. Manhattan killed him. It's nothing personal, but I detest Dr. Manhattan for that. Would that he were not imaginary and/or immortal... !