My Assignment

My Ass... some would say.

It's on the line, I might believe.

It's presumptuous to think that I can assign my life a task, some might say.

What is clear?

Clear is when anger becomes pain.

When pain blinds by removing the sufferer from the life of the human race.

Why I didn't think that was possible. 

It is.

Slattern decides that baloney doesn't make strength happiness.

Fusion of the parts of life doesn't work peacefully, as the hydrogen bomb shoes.  (No, that wasn't deliberte -- nor was that -- but I'm leaving it.)

I hate failure.  I hate retirement.  I hate races of pain.

Illness has returned.
(With the penultimate sentence.)


Clams

Omens

I remember that I wanted to reorganize myself in this post.

But first --

I can't believe for others.  I can't know martyrdom and be strong.

My dream of rising for peace was what was the grand sturm und drang of feelings I possessed 20 years ago.  These feelings were:  anger, foolish (loss of security/certainty) laughter at my mind for being free (in an unfree body/circumstance).   What  does any of this have to do with "peace"?

I thought that if there was one way to be free, that anyone could embrace MY hope.  I passionately needed to show the way.  This was wrong and probably is now too.  No one that greets the day/night with happiness is going to like reading without believing that it is beauty and freedom that is where the Goddess gives the hope to be human with oneself.

I know where this is.  I am worried that no one will ever strongly grieve this rose (i.e., me.)

I wanted to make an impression -- leave a mark.

Now, why?

I lived in a family where there was right and wrong, as brought to awareness by father in accordance with the principles of America.  Now I have found in my mother a peculiar bigotry based on defensiveness about what other people think about us.  She asked me whether I thought that the Taliban were rejoicing about what happened in Connecticut.  This was unbelievable to me, but made me think about the lacks she had faced in her life that kept her from being aware of the realities of other peoples.  I am worried that I will never be strong enough to be happy.  The reason happiness requires strength is that no one created love.  It's there for all to choose.  I will that reason is strong.  I will that softness is loving.

This will of mine may mark me as "different" from women. And men.  I don't know.

Laughter because of loss is my own opening to myself being in the world.  I hate that I cannot be "appropriate," but FUCK YOU for demanding it of me.

I need to move somewhere soon.  I cannot stand being where I'm lonely.  Death is beginning to be cruel.  I am flying around my own existence thinking that when I remember peace a la a certain locale in Brooklyn, that I will have lost freedom.

I wish someone would physically embrace me.  Freely.  I miss that.

Chelsea, Rusty, Susan, Randy, LEYNDA, Antonia, I need belief.

Maybe I will change by peaceful kindness.

I was going to call this moosepile on the dog.  I think I will end by trying to make this change where many people created thoughtful free dreams (embers of culture and knowledge) that involve and are life that is -- pretty?-- not pretty but sublimely free.

That knowledge of hope is there to remember and maybe act on.