Monday Morning Haiku.

Smoke curls so pretty 

when there's no wind. Don't worry 

dad, it's just incense. 

I'm a broken man on the Halifax pier.

When I was younger I wasn't exactly the most active of fellows. My brother used to come into the living room, which is this beautiful room with a high roof and a ton of skylights and windows so it's always light and amazing, and I'd be sprawled on the couch, not even watching TV, just lying there, soaking in the light of day. And a few times he said that in about 20-30 years, I would be a bum lying on some dock somewhere.

And it's weird, because this never especially bothered me. I mean, sure I'd be a bum, not contributing to society and just lying there all day, but on the upside, I'd be spending all day just lying there, sitting next to the whispering mermaid sea and under the wide baked sun, and I could watch the clouds and gulls go sailing by, and maybe someone would stop by and try to help me out or see what my deal is, and I'd meet all these new people, and guaranteed I'll have some sort of story to tell then. And I wouldn't have to worry about money or nothing like that, I'd have the sea as my bride and the sky as my son and that'd be enough, y'know?

I suppose the point is that I can think of a lot of worse things than living my life out at the end of a dock, as long as I'd be allowed to do so. As long as I have a typewriter. Naturally. 

three cups of coffee & escapism.

So, it's 3 in the morning on a weeknight. 

What does this mean. 

That's right, I thought it'd be an awesome idea to wage war on sleep and drink trois cups of cafe in the wee hours of the morning. 

I stand by this decision, I hate sleep. When I close my eyes, I see nothing worth turning my eyes to. All I see is darkness. I don't even like to blink. And it shows. True fact: I am awesome at staring contests. I once stared down a stuffed animal. 

Okay, that's a lie, but whatever. 

I miss stuffed animals. I miss believing that this little piece of fabric and stuffing was real and I could go on adventures with them. I still remember blasting this Pokemon CD I had, which was full of original songs all about Pokemon and detailing Ash's adventures through the first series, and having a stuffed animal on my shoulder and pretending I was Ash and this stuffed animal (it was a Tabby) was Pikachu, and I'd run around my room that was unreasonably big for a child (it was the entire attic, and yeah I shared it with my brother but he never hung out up there like I did) and pretend that I actually was on the Road to Viridian City. I remember snapping that CD in two when a friend of mine called me out on liking Pokemon, and I was embarrassed and wanted to prove I wasn't that much of a kid. I was a stupid kid. Probably still am. 

I don't know man, I miss escaping like that, but I guess I got something good out of living in the real world. For one thing, I got a love for the world. 

I'm scared of escaping again, of retreating into books and inspirational people and music and fooling myself into believing that this will be me as soon as I'm done school or more settled or whatever. I'm scared of always putting this off and making excuses and dying in discontent when one summer of living like a gypsy or one year of hopping freights with a typewriter will be enough. 

But I guess it wouldn't be enough. And I guess that would just be another escape. I just have figure out what from.

Oh and also if you feel like still asking me a question then go for it. I'll answer them as I get them now, fuck that whole schedule thing. 

I got rid of facebook tonight. Or deactivated my account. Not sure how much it did, but whatever, it'd gone now, I can be free. 

Because, honestly, half the time lately all I want to do is read and listen to music, and the rest of the time I want to wander and write poetry. 

That's right. 

No sleep, no food, no nothing. 

Just poetry. 

Truth of the Universe.

Joey "Gaylen" McQuarrie is, quite possibly, the most splendiferous cat I have ever had the pleasure to meet. 

Fact: Just a few moments ago, I was petting him from my chair. He flops over onto his back. I start scratching his chest. HE HUGS MY HAND AND STARTS LICKING IT. 

What is this I don't even what.

Peace.

On January 8, 2011, a symbol of hope died.

Christina Taylor Green was 9 years old. She was born on September 11, 2001.

She, and everyone else born on that day, were looked upon, by the people of America, as proof that even in the most chaotic situations, fuelled by hatred and pain and anger, there was still hope. There was still life.

And she was killed today, in Tucson, Arizona, in a botched assassination attempt. Along with 5 other people.

Judge John Roll.

Gabe Zimmerman.

Dorwin Stoddard.

Dorothy Murray.

Phyllis Scheck.

I'm trying really hard not to make this political. I don't want to degrade it to that level. I want to focus on the fact that there was life. That there existed here life and love and hope, and it's gone now. And I'm really sorry I gave top billing to this little girl, because yes it is tragic that she was killed, but other people were killed too.

It took me so long to find the names of any of the victims that weren't her or Judge John Roll. But I found them. Because their names, their lives, are just as important as the two the press have leapt upon.

I don't want to be angry or hateful about this. I really don't. But I read the profile of the shooter.

Jared Lee Loughner.

He was only a kid, 22 years young. He made some videos on youtube. He seems like a smart guy, he talked about the new currency of ideas, he talked of libertarianism, he talked about grammar structures, and about words losing their meaning. Interspersed within this, interwoven, is ideas of racism, xenophobia, classism.

I don't want these words to lose their meaning in repetition, because this man, this boy, whatever, who I am not going to lie I am not going to disguise it I hate him, he represents everything I do not like, that I believe must be gone before we can go any further, he makes a good point.

"What's government if words have no meaning?"

Please. Please. Please let these words have meaning still.

Phyllis Scheck.

Dorwin Stoddard.

Gabe Zimmerman.

Judge John Roll.

Christina Taylor Green.

Dorothy Murray.

Peace.

That is all I ask.

Peace.

A very important matter.

Dearest readers,
I know that here I don't always discuss pertinent issues. Mostly, it's narcissistic blurbs that reveal a bit too much, or extended discussions of minutiae from my everyday life. But today, today is the day to change all that.
There is a question that we, as a society, have to confront. One that will change our very zeitgeist. Our paradigms will be shifted. Nothing in the Western world will ever be the same again.
The question:
Is Sylvestor Stallone a genius?