Random exerpts

I did have a test today. That wasn't bullshit. It's on European Socialism. I mean, really, what's the point? I'm not European. I don't plan on being European. So who gives a crap if they're socialists? They could be fascist anarchists. It still wouldn't change the fact that I don't own a car. It's not that I condone fascism, or any ism for that matter. Isms, in my opinion, are not good. One should not believe in an ism. One should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon, I don't believe in beetles, I just believe in me. A good point there, considering he was the walrus. I could be the walrus. I'd still have to bum rides off of people. A brief and timeless quotation from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Snow Angels, by Donna Grosvenor. You can feel them coming, the times for making snow angels, I mean. But it isn't so much when or how, as daring to that matters. For the sheer brimming joy of it. The pity is that mostly the world's too busy, or too old, too tired, too important, or too afraid. For leaping without looking are snow angels, of course. If you don't have snow, there's always grass or sand, or even concrete, if that's all there is. You'll know the mark is there, it's just that snow is so perfect for them. I remember looking back to see our imprints in the snow, for all the world knew, they were the shadows of birds passing together, wing to wing. Good morning. It's 8.30. Coffee grounds still on the kitchen counter. A little bit foggy. Unable to get my bearings. Wondering why the world has taken such a turn. Why we are stuck within such a mire. When there is so much beauty at our fingertips. An excerpt from the Journal of Claude Fredericks. Fleeing you, I find you everywhere. You who had a fixed gravity are now as volatile as air. You wantonly take the body of any stranger I see, or hover outside the window here, as the train hurls me through space away from you. I see you painted on the wall, I hear you speaking in the wheels. Visions and auditions make you everywhere at once. Transubstantiated by this growing distance, I find my nourishment becomes air as pure as light. Wheat and grape become flesh and blood, flesh and blood become love's deity. I myself, by such metamorphosis, become my own unsaid sayer's seer, and my own body undoes doing to make spirit with spirit one.