Losing My Way

I am feeling so chipper right now. I should shave my face and put on a frilly yellow blouse, and a nice, pink skirt, because I feel just like Pollyanna. The sun rose today, and the earth's atmosphere, though a bit dirty, is still intact. What about gravity" It's STILL WORKING!!!!! I am so glad I'm not flying off into space. It's amzing to me that people take these common miracles for granted, yet they do. No wonder so many people are such grumps. Phooey on them. I think anyone with all their limbs and who are not suffering from some horrible disease should be happy for each second of the day, but the fact is that some people, even those who are wealthy are actually sadder than people missing limbs and suffering from horrible diseases. What is wrong with those people? Some are even sadder than one-legged beggars on the streets of Lahore, Pakistan, who have stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and they have no one to blame but themselves. Yes, every day is a miracle, so w

Alone in the darkness...dare I make a sound? I can't help myself. I sing out a song Leadbelly sang long ago and keep walking. Can't stop now...keep walking. There are glimpses of life as I pass by, and I listen as the song ends. No applause (none expected), no sound at all except for autos on the street I walk along. The sun is shining, but it is all darkness to me. Maybe yelling would help. Yes, yes, yelling would surely help. I'll channel my inner Jim Morrison and let the world know about the time when Jim and I were back in seminary school. No response from this cold world? Guess I'll have to finish the song, and throw in Shaman's Blues for good measure. I feel so good as my voice vibrates the air that surrounds me, maybe too good. Most people in my situation would be miserable, but I'm too easily satisfied I suppose. "The only solution is the amazing..." I say to some lady walking down the street, but she smiles weakly and scurries away. No con

Soon Henry made it a point to see Melinda every day, after his duties for the day were done. He felt good to be near her, even though his senses were limited by the cybernetic shell his psyche was encased in. And every day, he knew the question on her mind that she would never ask. Why? Why did he decide to take on a solitary existence with death no longer an option, with so many pleasures of life no longer possible. Was it just so he could listen to Mahler without end? He did like Mahler, and somehow the man's music fit the vast expanses he viewed each day, and the giant planet that his station orbited each day. But it was too late to regret his decision, too late to change his mind. Time meant nothing much to him any longer, but now he faced a situation where the passage of time had some meaning, for soon her vessel would be able to go back into space, and she would be on her way, leaving him alone once more. One day he was playing the piano in the lounge, and she was smiling

It's good that people are willing to help the detitute, but there's a certain lack of class to the endeavor. I know I shouldn't complain, but when I ate at the Dorothy Day Center on Thanksgiving, the lettuce in the salad had wilted, and on Friday the milk tasted funny, not laugh out loud funny, but they should make yogurt out of this funny. Today I had the milk, and it was obviously the same milk, because it was nearly sour. As a poor man who's happy to be alive and with my body intact, I am grateful for just about anything, but sour milk is never acceptable, nor is wilted lettuce. Shouldn't pigs be eating this? Yes, feed the pigs the wilted lettuce, then let us eat the tasty pork products; that's how it should work. Now I suspect that the rich will start to harvest us, because the rich know they won't go to heaven so they as well be cannibals. It's probably not true, and won't be for the forseeable future, but when Mister Bezos is willing to spend

Today's entry concerns dreams of the future, and what steps it will take to make them reality. Now that I have a depressing, but free, place to lay my head at night, I can focus on what to do next. I offered the Donald my services as a philosopher, since he doesn't want to become a big-time Hollywood producer (I can't understand that at all), but he hasn't got back to me on that. Does he have a mole from the Democratic Party preventing my messages from reaching him? That possibility seems likely, so I suppose I should just give up on the Donald and getting any help from him. It's his loss. I'll have to think long and hard about any other rich people who need my services. Jeffery Bezos pops into my head, but he might want to shoot me into outer space, and it seems like a waste of time to go that far and come right back. If I go into outer space, I would want to stay there. My priority is getting a band together. I need a bassist and a drummer, of course, and

Many in my circumstances would Crack, but I can keep my cool. I got to sleep in a bed on Thanksgiving night, for the first time since August. It was with over a hundred guys, each in their own bunkers, and I had to win a lottery to get in here. As long as I show up the bed is mine, but I don't like all the people there. For now I'll enjoy having a blanket and a pillow. So I should also be thankful for the people who have helped me, as well as those who have hurt me. I have decided to collect Social Security, since my unemployment payments will soon come to an end. No sense trying to find a job, a realization that came from working for incompetent bosses, who care more about rules than people. I forgive them for their stupidity, and their ulterior motives are not for me to judge. It's a shame that Susana Santiago, who handled newspaper distribution in the Twin Cities, fired my cousin Vanessa after V's car was stolen, and even though I got the papers there without a c

At this moment, I am listening to the Atom Heart Mother Suite by Pink Floyd. Despite all the great music they have done, I think this is their best piece. Everyone should listen to it. I, myself, play it at least once a month, and usually more. It's classical in its form, with adventuous flourishes, and sounds great after Beethoven's Ghost Sonata. Back in the 18th century, classical musicians were not afraid to improvise, like they are today. Wolfgang A. had a female piano student once, and he felt bad that she couldn't improvise a sonata, which is proof that musicians then improvised a great deal. I am certain that most of Mozart's sonatas were things he made up at the spur of the moment, and with his marvellous memory, could recall later, note for note. Why this changed I don't know. I know Beethoven got to writing cadenzas for his concertos, because he probably thought most musicians could not be trusted, but Ludwig van was one of the greatest improvisers eve

I am often sent messages from psychics who say they have the answer to my insurmountable problems. Recently, Maria Luna and her niece, Gaia, contacted me. Actually, Maria just popped up on the computer screen when I was checking my horoscope, and I clicked on her image. She wants to help me, and said her niece will too. Unfortunately, even though they each offered me their services at half price, I can't afford to pay $49 for anything right now, other than my phone bill. If I pay my phone bill, I know I will be able to use my phone for the next month, whereas if I pay the Lunas I can't be sure of anything. So I have offered them 1% of the first $50,000 I get if they choose to help me, which would be ten times what they would get if they got the money upfront. I hate to be pessimistic, but I will assume that all I get is another email asking me for $49, because all they care about is the $49. The same goes for all these other powerful psychics who can solve my problems, and ma

And where do you go now/ Now that you've lost your way?/ Wherever the wind takes me/ Though I'll have nowhere to stay// I belong nowhere to no one/ with nothing to call my own/ with no one to turn to/ so onward I shall roam// Circling on the endless sea/ no one in sight to rescue me/ There's no way I can be saved/ from the crashing of the waves/ onto the rocky shore/ At least I'll cry no more// That's depressing. Luckily, the brain likes to balance pain with joy, so my inner depressive state reacts to sorrow with glee. No wonder I would just to kill myself, but I can't let the bastards win. I would like to think I have someone somewhere, who might do something to get me out of this rut, but I know I don't. I've been thinking about an old high school friend lately, but he's happily married I assume, with a nice house, and I'm sure he would talk to me, but invest in my mad schemes? I remember him saying he would kil

The worst thing about being an American citizen is the fact that the majority has no class. I am not talking about money and material possessions, but the way that people conduct themselves in public, and the wealthy are just as guilty as the bums in the street. I would have to say the rich are worse, because they should know better and remain willfully ignorant. Of course, I like to think I have class, despite my dire condition, so I think it's up to me to ponder some solutions to this American condition, which has plagued this country from its founding to the present day, with no signs of it ever getting better. As a philosopher, it is a problem that is always being worked on in my subconscious, in the hope that one day an epiphany shall burst out, that all citizens shall hear and respond to because I am certain the solution would be simple, yet elegant. The first thing people should do is to recognize each of their fellow citizens as their equal, for indeed that is what we

As Amy Klobuchar puts on silly hats, the scam artists on the internet perpetuate their fraud. I'm convinced that the grifters said to her, "Senator Amy, here's a bunch of silly hats for you if you let Thomas suffer and let us keep lying." To which she replied, "You betcha." If one of her wealthy constituents had called her with a problem, I assume she would've got right on it and did something. But that's politicians for you: if you can't contribute to their campaign, you might as well not exist, because to them, you don't. Of course, she has not heard the last from me. It's been a few weeks since I talked to someone in her office, and the nice man I talked to her seemed interested, but he was only pretending. With acting like that, I'm sure he'll be appearing soon in King Lear or Long Day's Journey Into Night, because insincerity is a core attribute of the Democratic Party. I'm sure if I talked to a Republican, I would

Wouldn't that be a great name for an instrumental? I think so. Anyway... I saw a man underneath a blanket, with big cats adorning it, standing on 5th Street in Saint Paul today. He asked me for spare change, and I told him I would be glad to help, since I liked his blanket so much, and I gave him every coin I had. It was only 47 cents, but 47 cents to me would be like $237,682 to Jeffery Bezos. Still, I wanted to do more for him, and maybe one day I'll find him. He looked Japanese, was about my height, and maybe 20 years younger, but as I went my way, I wish I had asked him if he wanted a blowjob. That will go immediately onto my long list of regrets, because I could have knelt in front of him, and as he put the blanket over me, I would take his cock out of his pants, and put it in my mouth without delay. Maybe 8 people would've passed by before his cum shot down my throat, because downtown Saint Paul is one dead place. On Sundays, walking around downtown Saint Paul is

At times, I find solace in my horrible freedom. To go wherever I want, whenever I want, there's a joy in that, as long as I don't dwell on the fact that I have nowhere to go to, and no one to care. I know I can survive, but, damn, that's not enough. I wonder if I should commit myself, but I don't want any strangers in my head: it's already crowded in there. Psychics try to help, but they cost money, even when they say it's free. I can't begrudge them trying to make a living, because people gotta live. Some that I pass by in my daily travels don't seem to like the fact that I live, but I do, if only to spite the sanctimonious jerks. People like that seem to think they're better than me, but, here in America, no one is better than anyone else, whether it be the CEO of a major corporation or some bum in the street. Happiness comes to those who let it into their hearts, and possessions are no guarantee of joy. That is my message to the world. I just

I am glad to tell the world that suicide is a bad choice to make for anyone who has more than two months to live, because God takes great pleasure in our antics. All the world is indeed a stage, and God never misses a single show. He loves my act. When depression hits and I get deadly serious, it's even funnier. I find it hard to keep going, but the show must go on. How disappointed he must be in the performances of others, like when some uptight White who's got it made can't even say hello to me, a fellow human being. That's why I must get rich, because then I would be chauffered around instead of walking on the streets where these dumb White bastards congregate and I wouldn't have to be within speaking distance of them. Not only that: God promised me that if I die poor, He will destroy the Earth. "Don't do that God. It's no big deal." "It is a big deal. I'll blast the whole planet to bits." "But what about the bunny ra

I gave her a personal tour of the facilities. Near the end of the tour, she touched my hand, but with the cybernetic shell that encased me I felt nothing but the warm feeling behing her gesture. She realized that immediately, but said nothing at first. Soon afterwards, she had to ask, "Was the operation painful?" "No, nothing worse than stubbing a toe. Not even that bad," I replied. "Any pain I felt wasn't physical." "Oh." She pondered my answer for a few minutes. "So the only pain left for you is in your head, isn't it?" "You are correct," I admitted. "I try to delete any unpleasant memories, in order to minimize the effect. I've probably forgotten just about everything about my life on Earth." She forced a smile. "I'm surprised you still remember me," she said. "I suppose I found our time together mostly pleasant," I answered. "I loved and lost, and I can live w

I want to start a philosophy business. I wonder how that would work. Do I charge by the word? I doubt that's a good idea, because it would encourage unnecessary talking, and would run contrary to the core belief of my particular philosophy: the more that is said, the less it means. As I demonstrated a couple of entries ago, I think the on-site approach is best. I get paid to just hang around being philosophical, questioning and making profound statements when the situation demands it, as well as playing a few songs here and there. Corporate clients won't get the music, of course, because they would find it hard to fit that into their schedules, but I am certain there would be more to question, and questioning is a certain path to improvement. The problem people have is taking things for granted, for things that can not be questioned invariably are things that are of little value. That would prevent new ideas from gaining ground that are worthless, as seems to have happened a

I believe the title is misspelled, but pot puree sounds like it might be delicious. I wonder if there are any recipes available for it on the internet. Maybe I'll search for it later, but right now my purpose for this entry is to clear my mind of things I have been concerned about, and to plant seeds for future entries and other endeavors. Donald Trump...remember him? He keeps hitting me up for donations to save America, but when I reply that I am homeless, he just sends more requests for the money I don't have. I also give him great alternatives for how he can live a better life, but he ignores that as well. With his money and crass demeanor, he is perfectly suited to be a big-time Hollywood mogul, where America's real power lies, but he wants to go back to the swamp. I'm starting to think he has got the hots for Nancy Pelosi. I sent him a response today when he asked for more money that she hasn't been lovable for 25 years, but he must think she's one fin

I can't remember the actual date I came out of suspended animation, but I know it was a long time ago, at least one Uranian year. I've forgotten how long that would be on Earth, forgotten pretty much of everything about Earth. I know it would be pretty much a perfect planet, if it wasn't for all the people. Is it wrong to hate my own kind? But then again,after coming out of suspended animation, I chose to have my consciousness placed in a cybernetic shell, so one could say they weren't my own kind anymore. Only a few dozen others had the same operation, though I have yet to meet another, but I was sick of being frozen and refrozen, like a piece of meat you decided not to serve and didn't want to spoil. I could last a thousand Uranian years now, and with future updates to my system, probably a few thousand more after that. Back on Earth, I was known as Henry Martinson, but I didn't think anyone who knew me as Henry was even alive. I tried to remember the name

Since I've decided to be happy all the time, theoughts of suicide have fallen 93.7%! I only say that because on the bus to the library, I was thinking about how good a friend was being to me when a brief thought of killing myself passed through. Is it a cause for concern when suicidal impulses show up during a good mood? I had never experienced that before. It was like running past the old bully from high school who says hi, then is gone, failing to leave much of an impression, but still leaving an impression far beyond what any other passing thought would leave. This looks like a job for...PHILOSOPHY! Actually, I believe everything's a job for philosophy. I'm thinking of offering a door-to-door philosophy service, or better yet, for a nominal charge, one can have a live-in philosopher, right in their very home, or perhaps place of business. Imagine coming home from a hard day's work with a vexing thought that had been troubling you all day long, but luckily you have

Where does one start? Biden wants to build back better, but he doesn't consider that some things should be destroyed first. I propose that every dam in the country be obliterated for the sake of the environment. Louisiana loses territory every year because the sediment that once flowed south is being trapped behind dams along the way. The Colorado River no longer reaches the Gulf of California because of the same effect: in an arid area, millions are allowed to live, further depleting the water supplies, a development model that is not sustainable in the long run. I am sure that other, lesser drainage systems suffer from the same problems, and others besides, such as the dams on the Columbia River preventing salmon from spawning. Since damming streams is an invention of beavers, this further illustrates a point I previously made, that human brains are very closely related to the brains of rodents. We only do what the rodents would do, but on an absurdly larger scale. To begin m

I have decided to be happy no matter what. Given the many turns a life can take, is that a valid decision? If a happy man's dog is run over, wouldn't he cry just the same as a sad man? In my case, I came to the conclusion that being sad is boring, but isn't it also part of the full human being? Perhaps it is impossible to always be happy, especially when life is full of hardship, but one should bounce back from setbacks quickly, lest the tears prevent one from seizing an opportunity that may arise. Lord knows I've let many an opportunity slip away because I was in the throes of depression, but then can mental illness be considered the same as normal sadness? I think not. Everyone has moments that are sad, whereas someone in a depressive state will be sad holding a winning lottery ticket. I think when I made this decision, I was in a manic state, and next week I will be wallowing again in the dark corners of my mind, but we'll see. I could just be putting myself on

It's obvious. By their pseudo-intellectual sanctimony, the Democrats are busily paving the way for Donald Trump's triumphant return to power. That's the only logical conclusion I can reach. When mothers are called birthing persons, it is obvious that they want someone to skewer their sacred cows, and that's a job for Mister Trump. Why such nonsense is tolerated, nay, encouraged, it is plain that they want to turn off two thirds of the electorate, which leaves plain speaking iconclasts in a great position to achieve popularity. Why? I don't know. If you want social justice, I would think it could be done without engaging in such wordgames; one would be better off speaking plain English in order to galvanize the traditional American impulse towards justice. Instead, the American left wants to reinvent the language, like Big Brother in Orwell's 1984, and insult the intelligence of anyone who refuses to accept such a ridiculous project. Nancy Pelosi misses the Don

I can barely walk, I have no friends and family left, and I am poor, but does that mean I can't be happy? One might think that in those circumstances happiness would be impossible, but when things are that bad, why should I make it worse by being sad? It's very tempting to sink into an all-consuming despair, but then I would miss out on the cosmic joke that we know as the planet Earth. God tries to make it as funny as can be, so I think I would be ungrateful if I just thought about my miserable condition and missed the punchline. That would truly make me sad. Still, maybe if I killed myself, that might be funny, in some sick way that only a divine intelligence could fathom. But I don't think that's true, so I'll trudge along, in my pain and woe, and I think all the angels in Heaven will find that humorous. I sure hope so. If my life was a movie, this would be the end of the second act and the fabulous climax will soon begin to unfold. Or maybe it's the begi

I hate propoganda, and I hate it even more when it comes from what is supposedly a free press as we in the United States are said to have. I realize that climate change is a problem, but it also is being blown out of proportion for some end goal that is not for the best. Every storm has the Chicken Littles out there screaming, each fire is used to scare the little kids into thinking that the end of the world is just around the corner. Rational analysis is what is called for, not the fearmongering that the New York Times in particular indulges in. It's so obvious to me. Climate changes all the time, and while the planet suffers, it also adapts, which we should also be able to do. Is the ultimate goal a one-world government? I don't relish that possibility. Each nation does such a poor job running their little patch of ground that to think one government could take care of it all is frightening. So each wildfire season in the American West from now on will receive an unhealt

For years I have wondered if I should commit myself to a mental institution, and now it seems as if one hard, cold wind could blow me in. Why a small, submissive homosexual should insist on being tough, even when wearing lady's underwear, is beyond me; obviously, it must be considered as part of my condition. But I'm frightened of being in an institution of any kind: I much prefer to wander, lost and lonely, than to be locked away, wrapped in red tape. Yet I need a change of some kind, and to be honest, it seems as if all my meager efforts can't save me, and no one will give me the help I really need to thrive. Survive, yes...thrive, no. Perhaps a manic burst of energy will release an epiphany, that will show me the light, but I don't belong out in the streets anymore. I need a warm room, with nothing to do but think. I want to die, but again there's something feral about me that screams at such a conclusion, and adds, in bold letters I MUST LIVE. Logic can't

The cold wind lays waste to my self-esteem, yet still I endure. I walk through the town, a shadow of God, but no demon will touch me. I beg them, please lay me to waste, but my pleas go unanswered. I can not even count on one mortal man to fuel my destruction, though they are out there, I know, most likely in the places I refuse to go. Why am I so picky? If all I want is someone bad, for what reason do I avoid the worst of them all? Am I stupid enough to believe love is still possible? No one has ever loved me before, so why would anyone love me now? When some pervert looks at my ass, does he decide that fucking me would be too much like kicking a puppy? So many questions I can't answer. Thinking of possible replies excites me as I make my way through the crowd, and I use a rolled-up newpsper to rub my crotch, unnoticed by passersby. The eyes of the crowd are fixated straight ahead as I let the newspaper drop, and my hand continues its motion over my genitals. Madness? I feel

The eyes are heavy. I think they wear more than ny entire body, and I long for them to shut tight for a few hours. But I must write something, anything. What interests me today? Nothing. Who's pissed me off lately? No one. I force the words out of me, and they land with a heavy thud on the page. The sound keeps me awake, which I wholly resent. A few hours of oblivion I crave, without pain or thought, or the prescence of those who pass my way. Safe within myself I could forget; there is so much I don't want to remember. I first became aware sometime this year, limping down the street towards a a park. A creek ran through it, the water low and slow moving. I have not seen it again since that day. The songs I sang as I walked along that path were new to me, seemingly packed within my brain, along with memories of a life I had never really known. The only thing real to me was an imagined future I doubt I would ever have. There were signs that I had lived before, and someone cll