I am goddamned determined. The journey begins anew, but I am not boarding a train or hitting a trail—I am putting boots to the earth and hacking a path with the nib of my mind. I will walk myself haggard, dance myself ragged, sing myself hoarse, scribble my fingers to the bone, fight and drink and fuck until the sun and moon go down in shame, then I will illuminate my path with the light of my own burning body.
I have no reason nor purpose but to make it known that I exist…that I am part of this. Insanity is a risk I’m willing to take.
Björk’s performances make me realize how petty the shit I sometimes worry about is, how subtle social norms and self-conscious awkwardness really don’t matter after all, how fear of failure and the lack of ambition and confidence are excuses, and how unfortunate a waste it is to let these humdrum insecurities inhibit me, these bramble bush thorns that discourage the timid but casually adorn a traveler’s clothes.
In the end, it won’t matter whether my hair was parted the wrong way the other day, or that something I produced wasn’t particularly successful, or that I said something that someone didn’t appreciate; it won’t matter that I stumbled over rock #1,517 or pissed my pants just past mile marker 329 and took the wrong turn. What will matter is that I took the journey, along the higher roads that exit from Mediocre Expressway and veer off into lands of dreams and nightmares, the asperous precipices of the gods.
That’s why when I see Björk doing what she does, it brings tears to my eyes, because she’s there on that jagged horizon where I want to be… because she’s weaving beauty from the fabric of the Universe and giving it back… because she is so wholeheartedly doing something meaningful… because I know I’m seeing God, and she beckons me.
My voice is a little horse
galloping lost through the woods
calling your name
It’s new to me
but just the same
the earth is an old canvas
painted over many times
The poet rambles
the world it scrambles
but who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men
Your shadow knows
it’s right behind you all the way
your shadow knows where you’ve been
Somewhat disturbing is the sound of birds singing
when you know you don’t deserve it
You are not here today
and I feel just like an empty eggshell, and
my yoke is heavy
my yoke is heavy
The SUV-driving, kid-hauling, petroleum-consuming, red-blooded Americans seem to be letting their guard down against small, efficient vehicles. This year’s new subcompact imports like Toyota Yaris and Honda Fit are finding decent acceptance so far, thanks to perpetually high gas prices and environmental awareness. But the greatest blow to America’s vehicular manhood so far will be arriving in early 2008… the new smart fortwo. With a length barely exceeding the width of some larger trucks, fuel economy pushing 60 mpg, and supposedly eco-friendly production, the smart car (originally called the City Coupe) has been around since 1998, but only now is it daring to break into the burly American market. To add insult to injury, DaimlerChrysler (smart’s daddy) has announced an all-electric version in the works.
My only concern is the safety of such a small car sharing the road with such large cars. Drivers in other countries of the world are already acclimatized to the smaller-vehicle environment, whereas we in America are not.
Yes, i know i already have a WordPress hosted on my own site, but i think i’d prefer the community and ease of wordpress.com. Apparently, also considering my current move to flickr, my fancy hosted web space i paid for is getting neglected. Perhaps i’ll get around to doing something worthwhile with it.
My voice is a little horse
