and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

I wish I was a little bit taller.

I wish I had the sort of spastic abandon that makes anti and raymi what they are - not completely, of course, but just some of it. I wish I had more faith in the human race and I wish, oh how I wish.. I wish I had just a little more creative motivation.

I think the writing on here has been flat lately. I think I haven't really said much or made much sense or even made one single person ponder. At least not in the last few weeks. I think I've been coming here and posting like an old tired exercise - like a child practicing their scales. It's music - but calculated exercise music. It doesn't flow. It's about the fingers, not the eyes.

I want to write about the eyes. I want to write about the greens and the blues and the browns - all the eyes, really. I want to write about the ones looking at me and the ones averting themselves to my gaze. I want to write what they are saying - record the conversations between one pupil and the next. So much to say. They talk so fast.

If I could type that fast I would but as you can see from this place I have a hard enough time with spelling. I used whereing instead of wearing the other day. How lazily backwards and unacceptable is that?

Hooked on Phonics my ass.

Lotta good that did me, huh?

I wish I had a girl in the hood I would call her.

Girls make for amazingly great subject matter. They're like the enemy camped out on the other side of the river. They stomp around in the cold and feed their horses and mill about by the mess tents. They clean their weapons and even look back across the river occasionally to look back at you. Except everything you see - the whole scene - is in miniature. The details are fuzzy and you can't quite tell who is in charge all the time. It's obvious that things are happening over there - the troops seem restless and there is some whooping and hollering - but what exactly is happening you have no idea.

At some point you meet them face to face in a fiery battle.. or, on occasion, you retreat. Having faced the enemy and looked into her eyes you can sometimes tell when they have you beat. Best to cut your loses... Cause the last thing you want to be doing - the last thing - is to be sitting at that little desk in that one room school house or that grange hall or that church while they stand about in clean dress uniform and you sign the surrender of your one man army.

See you forgot that while you were staring over there across the river with your telescope looking at all the little movements of a division of cavalry and troops that behind you, on your side of the river, there is nothing - just you. Only. A one man army fighting for a unclear and questionable cause. Always. Fighting. Retreating. Executing failed ambushes and sneak attacks. Always. Fighting. Dying.

At some point it's not worth writing anymore if there isn't anything to say.. and some times it's not worth writing because there is so much to say that it's pretty damn impossible to get it all down in an understandable and linear fashion. See, that is the failing of human language - sequential linearity. Extremely limiting.

The only concurrence we can hope for is a little reading between the lines but even that is limited and ultimately the written word is a medium falling horribly short in this day and age of multimedia submersion.

Yet this is why, I think, I choose to write.

It's more challenge than a hollywood movie. It's harder than a sights&sound display. It's more intense, even, than a laser rock show. And all while being simple characters emitting forth in the form of little tiny phosphors from a very simple Cathode Ray Tube screen. It's so artless you'd think even Einstein would be offended.. but it's not.

I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat and a six four Impala

See writing is like a little magic show in front of you. It's a matter of illusions of grandeur. Get it? It's about painting someone's mind with a brain-tickle brush and getting them out of the space they are in and out into the world - onto that river bank with the opposing army right across the water staring back looking scared feeling victory wanting truce. Somewhere, there is a general writing his daughter, a soldier writing his wife, a bugle boy writing his mother.

Ahhhh, yes, ain't that fresh?
Everybody wants to get down like dat

Everybody writes every day - maybe not in a physical way, but they do - on paper, and in their mind too.

If Albert was around today he would have a blog. He'd work for the government and they'd try to stop him from writing anything for the public since they'd be scared for their secrets but Einstein would have a secret of his own - a secret blog. He'd post under a pseudoname and the whole site would probably be a collection of bad playboy jokes.

I wish, I wish, I wish...

See..? This is why I feel a little bad about the slowdown here lately. This language of ours - it's our one true communicative tool and I don't want to waste it or abuse it. I want to give everything I got but sometimes I just don't have much. Stick through it and maybe come back in a week or a month and I'll be back to my old self, I hope. Go read some of the truly good sites out there and when you come back you'll be able to recognize right away if I'm back on my game or not.

Her boyfriend's tall and he plays ball
So how am I gonna compete with that

And if I'm not back on my game - if I can't even hit an inside layup - than you'll know enough to go back out there and read some more of the truly good stuff out there and then, if you're feeling generous, you can come back one more time... eventually... until three strikes... and I'm out..