Losing My Way

The era in which I dwell is crude. Everyone is obsessed with numbers, and beauty has been relegated to the garbage bin. All that matters is the coarse and barren drive of commerce, and all that we once aspired to is now suspect and truth no longer is noble, just a mind nummbing jumble of facts and figures. We are all focused on mere statistics. We are forced to live a lie. Even the idea of beauty is frowned upon by many people in position to make our lives uglier. Children are discouraged from learning about culture, because for some reason excellence is seen as part of an oppressive system, when in reality it is an escape from the dreary reality that most of our minutes are consumed by. When I grew up, Leonard Bernstein has a TV show exploring classical music; children nowadays are forcefed drivel. It's considered elitist to enjoy the great works of the past, and people go out of their way to mar the beauty God gave them with piercings and tattoos. This is one subject where

I wanted to kill myself this morning. No big deal: I usually want to kill myself at least once or twice a day, either as a brief thought or a long, deadening cloud that hangs over me which eventually passes. That's one of my secrets, which I never express verbally, but when I write I get brutally honest, and soon the secrets that have adorned me will be stripped away, and I'll stand naked before the world, to await the judgement of all who think they know so much more than me. Strangely though, if someone would tell me their secrets, I would never tell, because I like to be trusted. That's why I would make a great consigliere, because you could tell me anything and the word would never leak out from my end. Of course, not many people are in need of a consigliere these days, but I think everybody should have one. Where could I offer my services? I think a consigliere should be part of everybody's life, not just members of the criminal underworld, because it's impor

Writing this blog is like throwing a bottle with a note inside into the ocean, never knowing where it will go, or if it will ever be found. Despite the hopeless endeavor, one must persevere, and keep up the futile quest for communication if salvation is to ever come. According to my records, some of my entries have been read, but my reader chooses not to comment, which I respect a great deal, since the right to remain silent is our most precious right of all. I'm not trying to be funny either; I truly believe that. To force someone to speak is the most horrible thing I can imagine. I continue to try to grow my audience, but I wonder how to categorize my blog, or if it can be in any category, or even should be in a category. Perhaps it's in a category of its own, and it's pointless to try to pin it down, much like music. I am a philosopher, so it should be in that category, but it has many diversions so far, and philosophy, in my philosophy, is something that the less on

Speaking for myself, I am shocked by the lack of good judgment on the part of Thomas. I can guarantee you that today there will be no perverted sexual conduct, or any whining. It is too bad this permissive society has encouraged such behavior on his part, but I am here to make sure nothing will happen, and if it does, he will hate himself even more than he does now. No one wants a transvestite to tell them how to live; I know I am sick of it. Especially a poor, rundown old queen who never joined the lagibatique community, and I made sure of that. I find all that talk disingenuous, a fiction, and if it's true at all, he will never get to know. I'll see to it that he dies in the street like a dog before his lips touch another man's cock, and that he wears coarse, unfashionable clothes instead of anything nice. When myself talked to I a few weeks ago, there was so much talk about love, but there will be no love here, no joy, not even sorrow. Just a blank, unfeeling backgroun

I have recently contacted the office of Senator Amy Klobuchar about the matter of fraudulent game apps that don't pay out the money you are owed, while the creators of these apps keep taking in the money from advertisements you are forced to see. I didn't talk to the Senator herself, but I did talk to a nice man about the matter. I explained that I sent an email about the fraudulent gaming industry, and received a form letter 2 minutes later, to which I sent back another email saying how I saw through that ruse and that no one had even read my email, certainly not the Senator, to which I received no reply. I told him that even though I wasn't charged to play these stupid games, I was promised compensation, and that they profited off of my playing their game. He understood, and said he would get Amy right on it...not exactly quoted verbatim, but that was the gist of our conversation. He sounded very nice, but this is serious business so I will restrain myself from any sexu

I had my psyche totally devastated today because I spent $1.16 on 4 cups of ice. People around me were not sympathetic, even though I am down to my last 5 dollars and won't have money for 3 more days, if at all. I don't want to ask for help, though I need all the help I can get, because White people never want to help unless they can make you feel bad about being in a dire situation, and the Black people who care have already helped me. This situation calls for an extreme level of sublimation! It's really my favorite thing: rather than mindlessly destroy something, or hurt myself, or just scream vulgarities at whoever I pass by, I can use the power of sublimation to create some new wonder out of all my misery. It is an amazing thing that more highly developed Killer Apes use to retain sanity when all around them seems to be collapsing, and is responsible for many great works of art. As long as I don't dwell on how worthless art is, this level of agony should produce a

I've always liked just walking around, with nowhere to go but going there anyway. It's part of being a loner, like being an icon seeking a connection, and if failing at that, just enjoying the scenery. What is the scenery like in the microscopic realm? Is that what Whitman meant when he said that he contained multitudes? Probably not, but it never ceases to amaze me how the large and magnificent objects are built up of small, insignificant particles.

Once my admirers were gone, I decided to get comfortable. I stripped to my panties, then went to my clothes box and pulled out a red satin dress. It felt nice against my skin, the soft fabric smooth as I ran my hand across my chest. I thought it was a shame to be alone, when suddenly my unspoken wish came true. The door opened. There was Mister Biden with two men in black suits at each side. "Hello Mister President," I said. "I thought you'd be in Delaware by now." "Well Thomas, I kissed ass for 50 years to become president, so I decided I wouldn't give that up without a fight," Biden said. He nodded towards the man on his right, and the man walked over and grabbed me. "I've got him sir," the man said. I tried to pull away, but his firm hands held me fast, and I felt a twinge of excitement to be so helpless. "Philosopher King, huh? Looks more like a Philosopher Queen to me," Biden said, and his security de

Music is my balm that lessens my sorrows, the light that exposes the dark corners of my mind to reveal the monsters dwelling there are small, scared creatures. My hearing has shown signs of weakening but the joy music gives me has not lessened one bit. If it's listening to a symphony or playing a song, music is what keeps me alive. Otherwise I would end it right now. I am sick and tired of living like this, in a totally barren culture that celebrates mediocrity, and presses on in its endless campaign to make the world as empty as the society we are part of. Yes, many talk about saving the planet but they ain't got the guts. As long as there are millions living in deserts, the Earth doesn't have a chance. Why this changed from music to doom is a segue I have no answer for, but it sure rocks. Music is humanity's only worthwhile endeavor, the one activity we engage in that doesn't make things worse. Of course, trees were cut down to make those guitars, and the carb

Often, the best thing about my blog has been the titles. They are so good I should offer my services to some big media conglomerate, just sit in my corner office with the mahogony desk and oak paneling and think of nothing but titles. Then writers would come in and they would get the titles they like, to do whatever they wanted with. For example, the title up above could be about Noah and the biblical flood, or it could be about some dystopian future. It's something Ray Bradbury would've loved, and he was a man who loved a good title. Several of my songs started out as titles for more ambitious projects, but when those projects withered on the vine the title was still there, crying to be born, even if just as a 3 minute long song. A good title is like that: titles are very easy-going, unlike most white people. Just what is it about White people that makes them so uptight? Why is it when they decide to take on some noble cause, they are even more unbearable than when they d

I think I am starting to fall apart. Don't worry about me; I'll be fine. I had written a couple of paragraphs expanding on my opening statement, but an evil computer shut down in the midst of my explanations and wiped out all I had written. I tried for a minute to use my wracked brain to remember what I had said, then I decided it was too depressing to go through all over again. Something about pathetic analysis, it's only fun the first time around. There was my bad ankle, and emotional instablity, and how the richer white people are the creepier they are. That's hardly anything Nobel prize worthy. I don't think this blog would ever win a Nobel prize, but there was nothing I wrote that I genuinely regret having lost. I had resolved not to do that kind of entry anymore, anyway, but there I was, examining my psyche and worrying about something I can't control. Though I guess the fact that I can't control my feelings is a reason for concern. But in the wor

This is about the band I intend to put together, which I call The Polluters. It is a project dear to my heart, which will play my tunes, plus old rock and blues, some Hank Williams and some improvisation. I would like to start by recording an album of songs I've written over the last few months. They range from slow and soft to outraged with some improvisation to fill up the time. I always say when in doubt just make it up. The band even has a back story, and deals with sex, death and madness. That's what life is all about. Since I have lost track of time I should put some other stuff in as well. How do I get it done is the big problem: for now I have no answers and if I had any sense I would just kill myself. Luckily I have no sense. I will have more on this in the future. I just wanted to write something positive for a change, and hopefully it will make me think and give me a way out of my current dilemma.

Today, I will try to look beyond myself, to the world I never made. Many things are happening, and I have gotten to the point that I may decide to quit reading newspapers once and for all. The last time I quit reading newspapers was in 1988, when Bush the Elder was running for President, and I was so sick of the fact that no alternatives to the Bush/Dukakis choice were explored in depth that I went 2 months not reading the paper, not even the sports section. The feeling has returned, not because of some campaign, but by several disturbing trends I have noticed in the reporting of the news. One trend I have noticed is that when Trump was President, every inaccurate statement was deemed a lie. Now that Biden is President, every lie is just an inaccurate statement. Is this because Trump began as a regular citizen, and we are supposed to be honest, and Biden has been a career politician, and they are supposed to lie? I believe there's something to that, but the deeper problem is t

I refuse to surrender but it is hard to fight alone. Who and how and why get mixed up, and where and when become everywhere and all the time. Being new and improved, I hesitate to go on, because this is where the darkness of my mind rises up to swallow me. I am not supposed to indulge my demons in this venue, or so I promised, but the thoughts and feelings don't care about my ambitions. If I had any sense...yeah, right. I am lost, a dense thicket of woods the life I try to hack my way through, towards some dim light in the distance that leads me to...where? There are still grand ideas in my head that I think can salvage the wreckage of my life. From that disaster can still be found precious gems, but I can't do it alone and I can't get anyone to help me undertake such a massive project. Today I got to stay in my cousin's hotel room, which I think is where this latest foray into the dark began. It's no fun on the street but I don't have to listen to anyon

Two scientists want to bring back wooly mammoths. It's always shocking when smart people can be so stupid, but when smart people are stupid, their stupidity is far more wasteful than that of the average civilian. Why someone didn't smack them in the head when they were younger and give them some common sense is an indictment of the age we live in. These guys watched Jurassic Park and thought what happened was not only plausible, but a good idea too. Why anyone would spend a dime on an idea that has no positive return on it is beyond me: the people who go for this want to bring back something long dead, to a world that is rapidly killing off the wildlife it has. That's why most people hate scientists, especially in our society. They're smart enough to understand very complex equations, but dumb enough to waste more than 20 seconds on an idea like this. If I had an idea that dumb, I would tear up the paper I wrote it on and toss it in the garbage immediately. Worse yet,

Where do I start? With my vow to make a new, improved blog, bolstered by a score of exclamation marks, I may have painted myself into a proverbial corner. Eliminating the woe often expressed in my writing, I threaten to become untruthful and unrealistic. Not that truth and realism matter that much to me, but I shouldn't censor my own feelings in the pursuit of...what, exactly? I don't know. I just like writing. If I just adjust my stream of consciousness to a more fact based narrative, it could be dull, or even call for the hard work of research. What fun is writing if I can't occasionally make up my own facts? For God's sake, as Ronald Reagan said "Facts are stupid." If I have to be stupid, I might as well just wing it. But I should be more serious, because facts can be a valuable source, from which insight can be found. Let's just say facts are the ore from which wisdom is forged. Knowledge, in and of itself, is often dubious, worth nothing other tha

Yes, this blog is now 37% better than ever before. Depressing explorations of my psyche are set to go down 83% while whimsey will increase 42%. That's significant! Imagine if I could give away BIG CASH PRIZES! SO what's next for me as I roam the streets? I DON'T KNOW! Rest assured that as I delve into new and improved subject matter that there will be lots of exclamation marks!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can feel the excitement building up with each stroke of the keyboard. In a world so stupid and mundane, perhaps this radical embrace of joy will go unnoticed, but I will proceed to make life on this Earth worth living. All it would take is to get thousands and thousands of new, improved readers to appreciate how new and improved these new improvements truly are. What category would this blog fit under? Eclectic examinations of Eternity? There are 66 million entries, but I think they fudged the results, because some are eclectic, some examine, and most deal with eternity, yet the

I looked down the street and I was scared. If only I wasn't in such pitiful condition, I might've wandered down to the gay bar and mingled, but I had no confidence. There was a part of me that had no desire to be loved, that didn't want to have a chance of being happy. I should've gone down there but I was too pathetic to join their company. Disgusting isn't it? I mar my blog with queer ravings, then run away when a realization of those fantasies presents itself. I don't want to be happy but I can't endure the sorrow anymore. No wonder I think about suicide as often as I do. But I would never do that. Must be the megalomania: I am convinced that being a closet case would make me a success, but I am sure that the world needs me so much that I won't kill myself when I am in the midst of a massive failure. Breath is hope. As long as I persist I think I can eventually succeed. Indeed, I think the songs I have written lately would make a great album b

This will not be nice. That's one of people's big problems anyway: being too nice. I prefer someone getting right to the point, and letting you know what they think, but instead the truth gets sugarcoated or avoided because it wouldn't be nice to say what had to be said. Of course, it hurts when people aren't nice, but often not being nice is the nicest thing of all. One can avoid trouble, or see an opportunity that would otherwise be missed, whereas the nice people would leave you floundering, or set up for some embarassing revelation. Of course, in my current circumstances, being homeless and unable to care for myself, I love nice people, and anything bad they have to say is obvious. Still, if only there were more assholes in my life, especially ones who could help me cultivate my talents before they are degraded and lost before the world can notice. That danger was seen in this blog only a few days ago, and it should scare me, but it doesn't. Another sign of me

I don't understand why so few people want to be vaccinated. It takes 20 minutes, sometimes cash is offered, and it will keep a tube from being shoved down your throat. What's not to love? Yet, some people refuse vaccines, including those who went to major universities. That's right, I'm talking about Kirk Cousins, the Vikings quarterback. Given a choice between some dim thought in his brain and no vaccine, or ensuring that he will be there for his team and the vaccine, he chose dim thought. Is this what individuality leads to? That some put their misconceptions ahead of the group? The truth is when you join a group of any kind, one has to accept the same conditions that other members of that group operate under. Otherwise, the cohesion that leads to success is undermined, if not destroyed outright. My dad's generation would've rolled up their sleeves and all got the vaccine by now, but modern Americans have become selfish and lazy, and dumber than ever. The on

Hours pass without a word/ just the sound of a bird/ and the feeling/ it was only a dream.// Days without the human touch/ becomes just too much/ for the soul to endure/ in a world so cold and mean.// The fire that burned/ has been snuffed out/ and all joy becomes pain/ and the dream is all too real/ and the ashes of the past/ are all that remains. That wan't very philosophical, and hardly lusty at all. Sanity is firmly embracing me, like a lifeguard preventing me from being sucked into a riptide and being carried away. The madness of a few days ago seems like it never happened, but I am ambivalent about my safety. Though I was absolutely mad, I felt alive and free, unconstrained by the bounds of decency. I still have that post to prove it happened, and I feel excited when I think of my wild ride, the incoherent rambling, and of evading the librarian's attention as I pleased myself again. The madness shall return, driven by the lo

I was thinking about yesterday, as I made way through the city, the first waves of madness lapping against my mind. Today, sanity, dull and chaste, prevails, and my memories attack. They have no power over me when insanity reigns, but on most days they have an iron grip on my psyche. I prefer not to remember, aside from the lyrics of a song I might want to sing, but sometimes the memories come unbidden, like old friends long outgrown, who show up unannounced at my doorstep. Funny how one memory can lead to another, when suddenly a creative spark is lit. The power of imagination is my only shield in this world. Some would say that time is a dimension, but I say that is wrong. Time is a force, as I wrote in a short poem (years ago? last week?), as much as gravity is. It is inescapable, and assaults us with persistence, even when we are unaware of it passing. It is a wave on which we ride, leaving its mark on us as it does on the mountains and the sea. We never feel that difference fr

I think I am going mad. Not complaining, mind you, just stating facts as best I can without incriminating myself, though I have committed no real crimes, just acts that could be considered embarassing. The fact that I just don't state what I did shows I still have a modicum of decency, which is evidence of some lingering sanity. I should be glad I don't just say anything that pops into my head, but it will get more likely as homelessness inevetibally destroys what's left of my internal editing function. Very few have read my blog so far: maybe the whole world is waiting for me to let my pants down and scream obscenities from the virtual rooftops. My real pants have a problem staying up, which gets worse every week, a combination of larger pants than I need, not enough calories, and too little money and too much cheapness to buy a belt. A nice one at a Goodwill store cost $7, which would buy me a nice meal and feed me for the whole day. I insist on eating. Perhaps I could

The grass was mowed today at Hutton Arena. As I laid down on the good earth, I was intoxicated by the aroma. Crickets nearby sang their song of love, and I felt blessed. If only I could see the stars, but it's not possible with the light pollution. No wonder people's imaginations have withered and we are all at each other's throats. Divide and conquer is how this country is run though, when it should've been unite and liberate the whole time. I still imagine though. There has to be a way to rise above my pitiable condition. Only something as crass as money can restore the beauty within me; I suppose it has something to do with the old Yin and Yang. The wisdom of the Orient brings me peace. I can still live and not be overwhelmed by the dread hanging over me like a gathering storm. I know that makes me strange, but I have always been a stranger wherever I am, whomever I am with. I think that this life of mine will not have been in vain, that the path I have taken d

This blog is an exercise in random Observations. It has no underlying theme or a purpose of any kind. Kind of like life itself. My main focus now is money, how much I want it, and how to get it. Right now I am in a dire situation. My cat friends are up north with a friend, and I miss them badly. Joshua, Jeremiah, Megan. Brian. Lucy, Brian, Rusty and Daisy, and don't forget Robby, all are up in the middle of nowhere. I like to think that they miss me, but I'm sure they're having the time of their lives up in the Great North Woods. I need cash to see them again.

I woke up this morning, not wanting to be seen. Fat chance of that, when you wake up on the street and all the busy ants are going about their business. I find solace in how oblivious they are to my presence. Still, I find myself enraged by their very existence, preventing me from finding peace in my despair. Some seem happy, which I find preferable to the grim faces I see. Those people I want to grab, shake them and scream, "Would you rather be me?" That might cheer them up, so I don't do it. Days since I have been shown any kindness. I try not to think about it but I can't help myself. Thought has betrayed me so many times before, but it's all I have left. I thought I had more to say, but it wasn't anything worthwhile. I would've had to force it out, the words fighting to stay in my mind where it's always safe and warm. I am sure I just would've made them look bad. From now on, I will try to stay away from the bleak examination of my

Today I have finished replacing every cell in my body with new cells, a process that takes 7 years, as I once read.I don't feel any different, but...I do have more varied complaints than ever, yet I find myself more forgiving, better able to handle really shitty music, and ready to help any of God's creatures at a moment's notice. I have reached that tender age of 3 and a half years old, when a man attains wisdom if that be what he seeks. Such I have done. I often think I'm not rich because I never really cared about money, though when you do most of your sleeping on buses and trains, one does begin to see how money could come in handy. I expect that feeling to really kick in with the first frost, coming soon to this area. Until then, I live my life like the carefree grasshopper, depending on the charitable whims of industrious ants. That is an allusion to one of Aesop's fables, when the grasshopper spends all summer hopping on grassblades and playing his fiddle,

It's been weeks since I've played any gaming apps on the internet. In a previous entry, I detailed how all those games would say you won, yet did everything possible to keep you from collecting any money. It occurs to me that I can't be the only one affected. If only 1 other person is hurt by these con artists, it's wrong, but if it's thousands of people, it's an abomination. I believe it's a matter for the United States Congress to solve, without delay. Why do they tolerate the fleecing of Ameicans? After giving us billions, one would think they would close the loopholes these companies use to keep Americans from enjoying the money our citizens supposedly won. Start by making companies honor their promise to let the winnings go automaticallly to people's paypal accounts. Also, investigate if paypal and google are in on this con game. If some game claims to have successfuly sent me $4900 and it never gets to me, where did the money go? Why do they do

After John Lithgow and his crew got in their car, which was an advanced alien spacecraft in disguise, and left the Earth, I turned to Mister Biden and asked him,"What did you think of that?" "That was pretty good. I really liked the part with Elvis Costello." "It was the high point of his career," I opined. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, then I spoke again. "You see why this was the greatest farewell episode in television history, don't you?" "Well, it was funny." "Exactly. They didn't try to make something big out of it, other than getting Elvis Costello to sing at their party. Now, MASH on the other hand, tried to get all important, and it totally sucked. And Seinfeld, when they did their last episode, completely lost their way. For years, it was a show about nothing, and when they did their last show, they made it about something, and they fucked it up completely. Did you ever see it?" Joe