I suppose it is all in an attempt to talk to you.
I slept on the train Saturday. I don’t ever sleep on the train. When I woke, half in a dream, there was music. I had left it on, but I don’t recall what song. I looked out upon the world and didn’t really know much of anything. All that was in my mind wasn’t. I just wondered, for the sake of wonder and lack of a desire to do anything else.
Yesterday it rained all day. I did nothing yesterday.
Today, I worked from seven this morning. Happy Fucking Independence Day. It’s kinda hot out too. And some dumb fat bastard was bitching about having to wait more than five fucking minutes for the first time in his most likely, short and I suppose meaningless life, I guess. Yeah it was mean, but he was fucking mean. I want to yell at them. I used to be able to yell at work. Bummer right?
And I told you about my past two and one half days for the distinct reason that I can’t think of anything to say. It’s stupid because it always happens when I actually try to do anything. It’s kind of counterproductive and a bit hypocritical. I suppose I’m just cranky from getting my teeth pulled.
That’s another update in my life, btw. Yeah that’s right, I said btw. I’ve completely downgraded. Fuck writing because it has value or beauty. Break it down into just pointless communication. Why bother? Right? Who the fuck even reads this? Hi Maureen.
But I do have something I thought about writing on the train when I was falling out of dream. I guess it’s not that bad, but it really fucking is. I’ve been better than I’ve been but believe me, but ol’ B-ri wastes a lot of time thinking about stuff. And I waste a lot of time thinking about nothing. The only thing that has been poking at any kind of spark is good ol’ Sammy Clemens. He makes a point about how when he wrote this autobiography, he didn’t want it released until one hundred years after his death, which was in 1910. Do some math, and then know why he did that, and no it wasn’t for any type of bullshit afterlife fame, I mean maybe a little, but there was an artistic reason also. He thought that if you write something, knowing that no one you know now will ever be able to read it, wouldn’t you feel more free to write? He figured out a way to truly express his suppressed thoughts and release only the purest truth that his mind could produce.
So in the sense of that, without concern, I will tell you this much. The thought on the train was to write to one specific person. I am not now, because I am just writing. And I kind of doubt if this will even get read so there’s that too. I don’t even think that one person would read this. They could just end up wasted words and boy, do I hate that.
Why waste expression? Yet we do everyday. Even in the arts today, beautiful expression is wasted in so many ways.
Why waste anything beautiful? If anything has any kind of true grace or essence or anything else that sounds kind of spiritual, it should go to waste. But it does and we do little.
Happy Fucking Independence Day. I napped, ate, showered, went to space, had a cigarette, read this and now I’m back. In the spirit of the men who fought, sacrificed and died so I can sit on my computer and whine about people at McDonald’s and girls (Whether you notice it or not), I should do something. But what? I suppose live freely, that’s what they wanted. And I suppose protect the freedoms of others, as best I can. I don’t want God to bless America. I want America to be it’s own blessing. I’ll do what I can, as a true American citizen and not some political or religious nut case, to keep the world I live in free. Free love man.
But seriously, what’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?