Man as Machine

In 2005, human populations and activity function on levels which border on chaos. At the same time, a few societies continue to zoom towards the ever closer goal of simplification. With the infusion of technology into the mundane details of daily life, the mass storage space of our over evolved brains, space and energy which had been developed to keep track of the ever shifting variables that were the complex means of socialization; this space continues to be supplanted with the dull details of how to run and maintain the very technology which replaces piecemeal the little and large tasks once done by us. As these tasks previously required human action, and thus inevitably human interaction; the elimination of the need for human toil slowly eradicates the once broad array of social interaction into increasingly smaller and smaller circles. Technology even allows for less and less personal interaction within those small circles as well.

With the streamlining ability of machines to uniformly reduce options to a few mere choices, eliminating the small details which result in individuality and style, people likewise continue to form into one indistinguishable mass of decreasing tastes and variations. In such a world, the ultimate goal would be no people at all, since machines only existed to eliminate the doing of things by people, so once everything is accomplished, what then are we to do? The increased pace of living combined with the tedious task of keeping track of machines and not people results in simpler and simpler methods of communication, abbreviated speech and minimal vocabularies. Language, the very thing which sparked the fire of intelligence in our species, is dying. It seems that in less than a mere 100,000 years that humans have been capable of true thought, that we are growing weary of thinking.

For Katja and Marie

Good Company I Keep

Lonely is the hour
when night slips into day,
for if you are not careful,
weary thoughts will stray.
Ponder on your solitude
and little good will come.
Far better to listen to the birds
and watch the rising sun.
For blowing bubbles at the moon
in three part company
can get you through the darkest time
between hours four and three.
A friendly memory of warm shoulders
in the middle of the night,
side by side, heads and arms,
a blanket of stars for light.
Moments like these cherish long and true
as they are far between and few,
never knowing when next we might meet,
our lids to gleen the morning dew.
To brave hours, oh so late
when the world is fast alseep,
the crickets and frogs our concierto play
with thier chirp and peep.
So until we meet again, so long my friend,
you are missed and remembered well.
Eyes shine bright, smiles stretch tight
as I next see you my heart will surely swell.

A Dash of Bitters

Okay so that 20 oz coffee was a bit of an overdose at 9:30 pm on a Sunday night. Not only did I get stuck in traffic on I95, causing my back teeth to float quite boyantly by the time I crossed the Maryland state line; it is now 1:30 am and my mind is too wired to allow my body rest, despite the screaming protest of my ragged eyes. My nerves are jumpy and the random sounds of seven cats in this old house as well as the inhuman disregard for decency by the asshole who pulled up and honked his horn for my oh so civilized neighbors has me wide awake. That and a certain affectionate orange cat is determined to share the small confines of my bedroom, scratching, mewing, and even just now leaping up infront of the monitor, using my left arm and the keyboard as a spring board.

I attended two surprise parties in the last 48 hours, consumed too many good ales, better glasses of red wine, some covert bourbon, many cups of coffee and not nearly enough water. That and I drove almost 350 miles in the roaring clamor of my red Toyota which I had intended on selling as the need for two cars is immediately outweighed by the need for stable income; hell, any income.

Physically drained but emotionally fueled by family, fun, new old stories, and a wee bit of frustration I sit in a cold old house with no heat, the glow of the monitor an illusion to the idea of warmth, or memory thereof.

As often happens, my muse struck while I was doing about 70mph and blasting my radio. I was listening to an ancient mix tape I made after being dumped for the first time. The tape was a medley of songs that followed the progression of emotions that I sought to run like river rapids, turning to music to help speed the process along. As I switched out my cd player with an old tape deck and have long ago lost most of my tapes, these songs were my constant driving companion despite the actual emotions and person existing as mere memory and footnote of things learned.

A note struck a chord and I popped out the tape, listening instead to the words forming in my head as the background noise of caffine fueled mini-thoughts grew from a trickle into a roaring flood eventually escaping my very lips.

It is very surely love that inspires all art, or for that matter creation, and just as surely the lack of love that results in destruction...

So here I sit, the same as ever,
silent sometimes, sleeping never.
The rat tap tap of the keyboard stutters,
orange cat mews, window shudders.
Eyes are bleary but still see,
a magic mirror glowing with words reflecting me.
Unknown rythms pulse my veins,
murmered words escape my brains.
A clock tics softly keeping time,
the key strokes slow, providing ryhme.
Soft breath purring, no mice to peep,
I dream waking of long sought sleep.

On Loyalty

My loyalty lay in warm safe beds within the walls of the home I grew up in. Within a home and a house a score of minutes a way, a half a day’s journey. My ideals are the virtues and universal lessons I learned in Sunday school, at home, in stories and my own witnessed experiences of human value, all value, any value, true value.

I love this nation, it is my home. Yet its borders are less real than the walls of my home, the room where I sleep. A nation is as real and as fragile as the dusty cobwebs unswept from attic eaves. People are real. Hunger is real. Pain is real. Joy is real. Blood is real, and it stains.

What man has a right to tell another how to live his life? Does not this government, this long ago chosen form of political dictation, application, and function, does it not belong to us? It is ours by our will, and our will alone. This is a nation of the people, by the people, and is supposed to be for the people, not the persons, the few, the fiscal minority, who wield the majority, the capital, the power, the means and the command.

Beware the pugilists, the angry, the hate filled, the wild eyes, the smirking plutocrat, the war hawks, the fear mongers, the finger pointers, the so called patriots. Point a finger away so none look at the legal criminals. Make the decent fear so they will pay the thieves. Drive the young into bloodlust so they will spear themselves on the enemy’s barbs and shrapnel. Keep the plebes distracted so they see nothing of the crass evil around them.

Yet we sleep soundly, sometimes that sleep disturbed the media fed image of a horrific act of terror, more scared of lightning strikes and plane crashes than homicide or alcohol ridden car wrecks.

Drive them into fear and frenzy, point determinedly out where the evil is with catch phrases and words. Wave the banners and pins of loyalty, bandwagon propaganda, fear of not being in the group, being good.

Does the devil appear to you in hooves and horns?

What is more evil, a fiend committing sins among the wicked, or a good man mislead into harming another good man?

Is the righteous path easy or obvious?

Hate, violence and evil: the hurting hand, is as contagious as the helping hand that breeds gratitude, generosity, mutual respect: peace.

I challenge those who espouse to live fervently by the New Testament and His teachings, to actually practice them. You so called “Christians,” who whoop fear and hate of the other, the enemy. And to the so called “Muslims,” who distort holy texts into violence and destruction, hell does not discriminate hypocrites and murderers of one faith from another.

Yo Voté

I just a got a nifty little gift from my older sister who dwells in Buffalo. I'm sure most of you have seen those yellow LIVESTRONG wristbands promoted by Lance Armstrong to support research for cancer. Well, my sister sent my father and myself black wristbands that say I DID NOT VOTE 4 BUSH. Now the black wristbands were eerily reminiscent of Italian fascist black armbands, but the message won me over. She also included matching silver on black background bumper stickers for us. This thrilled me when I walked into my parent's house and found them. I found it appropriate and a little divisive, but very much me. The website for these nick knacks is www.nationdivided.com. Pretty true label in many ways.

I recently won a poetry contest for a poem entitled, "A House Divided," which contains certain remarks regarding the current state of the nation. I wrote it while I was in Europe prior to the 2004 election(returning specifically in time to vote). I got a lot of flack for my president, for whom I did not vote last time, either. But there were no lynch mobs waiting for me at international airports, just a lot of honestly curious and at least mildly intellectual persons whom genuinely wanted to know, what the hell the rest of us here in the States are smoking. I did my best to try and explain and at times defend myself and my fellow citizens. After all, as a public we are ultimately responsible for each other whether we like it or not, that's part of the deal when we accept all the freedoms and luxuries that come with our style of government and commerce.
Now, there are plenty of people who's politics I don't like, and plenty of them would label me insane as I would dub them fascist. But that’s fine, because we are damn lucky in this country to even have the freedom to argue over such things. As a nation we've always been divided. It’s always been us and them abroad, and back home. Whether its North and South, Black and White, Conservative or Liberal, or now Red States vs. Blue States, we've had plenty of aggressive political animosity, and healthy (sometimes ugly) competition. We need that; it keeps the ball rolling. Now, we don't need too much of it, because then we'll end up with a prime minister, who isn't even a publicly elected official, to play the role of bandleader in congress. Cooperation is just as required as competition. After all, if as a species we'd been too competitive with each other, well, we wouldn’t likely be around. Striking a healthy balance is not only the most beneficial way, but also necessary for survival. So while I dislike Bush and his cronies almost as much as I distrust them, I still respect their right to lawfully shape the direction of this country through policy and constitutionally sound legislation.

While it’s the greatest endeavor to work towards, harmony between individuals and demographics in our democratic republic is a long ways a way.

A house divided cannot stand—

However, a house united may still have many kinds of rooms and individual boarders that dwell within.

First there was the WORD

Thanks for humoring me. Ginger, thanks for the idea, and for getting me hooked on Damien Rice, and all those other things I owe you for.

So I'm 25, live in Baltimore, am a college graduate and according to Time, a "twixter." That lable makes me think of the old "Oh yeah..." Twix commercials from back in the 80's, you know, the song from Ferris Buller's Day Off, no real words just "Oh yeah . . . chick-a chick-ahhh . . ." very rad for back then. Wow, isn't it nuts? Now 99.1 is on 105.7 and 90's music is getting played on classic rock stations? Yes my friends, that strange and terrible thing called time is continuing its relentless march and we are getting older. But, you won't hear me bitch. I mean, did anyone really enjoy being a teenager? If those were the best days of your life, well, most of your brain cells probably went out with MC Hammer and Seinfield. Does anyone else enjoy this whole aging thing? I for one love being 25. I'll admit 26 sounds scary, but hell, even that's younger than 30. Remember when you thought 23 was old?

I am an unemployed traveling mooching writer. Bohemian? Absolutely. An asthete? 100%. I've held more jobs than anyone I know my age, and quite a few older than myself. I've been a janitor, fry cook, painter's helper, construction worker, English teacher, telemarketer, wrestling coach, gourmet cook, gas station cashier, pizza boy, camp counselor, kitchen manager, professional political activivist (see telemarketer), stock boy in a warehouse, cotton candy vendor at a zoo, computer lab manager, waiter, geriatric food specialist, bartender, mall kiosk calender seller, caterer, editor, dishwasher, book seller, grill cook, journalist, and TEFL teacher in Rome.

I've been from one end of I-95 to the other, from Fort Kent Maine to the Florida Keys. I've been to Los Angeles once and was not impressed. I've been to Rome where I ate pizza with my uncle who lives in Los Angeles, and was impressed. I fell in love with Venice and slept covertly in an all girl hostel run illicitly by a small Chinese woman fleeing at dawn through the six inches of water covering the cities cobble stone "streets." I've seen true poverty and true happiness. I've seen a little wealth, and a lot of ugliness. I've seen beauty that defies words, film, or canvass.

I am a brother, a son, a friend, a mentor, a teacher, a student, and sometimes a lover.

I own a black lab runt with one eye named Othello.

I have scars.

Horses don't like me.

But children do.

I am Dan Brown.

Nice to meet you.