The Need

I have a need to write right now, but I'm hesitant. My internal judge and my plans and schemes and maybe even beliefs stand in my way. As you can tell, I decided to say 'to hell with that' and sit down and start typing.

I have this notion about gaming the system, of broadcasting in the most effective way - reducing the noise, increasing the signal. This makes me think that there's an optimum way to go about it. That certain things should be blog posts, certain things should be tweets, on others just posts on social networks.

My plots and schemes have been to tweet the base ideas, all summed up neatly within 140 characters. That the really rough stuff, the in-process exploration of the thought - while it's cooking in my mind - should be social network posts. Then, that something of a finished product - a painting of the bigger picture should be what I post here (despite that I've named the place Raw Thought). Turns out I'm staying truer to the blog's name than my plans would have me do. I'm not sure what to make of that.

I saw my (maybe) son for the first time in person on Sunday. There's been no DNA test (the mother refused). I'd like to put that story out there, how it happened - particularly the improbability of it all. I'd like to publicly question my interpretation of that synchronicity. Yet, I'm not. I'm not sure that I won't. If I do, I'm not sure that it will be here. I've created a couple of communities on G+ (one public, one private). It might be fare best suited for the private one.

Who to share with, where to share, whether or not it will resonate or be received merely as noise. These are the questions that haunt - but the need is there. My inner judge that calls the endless monologues I constantly compose to you as unworthy, not good enough, holds only limited sway - for here I am telling you my secrets anyway.

My plans and schemes fall victim to procrastination and the notion that the circumstances aren't right. I don't have a private place to write you. I don't even have a desk at the moment. These are the things my mind tells me I need to have in place before you will hear me - before there will be resonance with what I broadcast. Every now and then though, the need wins out - and I write you anyway. Pouring what I can squeeze past the judge and underneath my plans. Missives from the cell in which my ego has me imprisoned.

We're All Whores, Really

When there's material wealth, we all trade our time and energy for it. Literal whores only differ that they cross the line by adding their body as up for trade.

The people that love what they do for a living? They're just getting to fuck in a way that isn't that unpleasant. A vast majority of us though? We don't like the way we're getting fucked.

We thought we could unionize and find a good pimp/government, but that's not turning out the way we'd hoped.

The Death of a Dream

or Faith Falling Short
or A parting of ways

I always struggle with the title. I have a whole unpublished post about struggling with titling of these damn things. Unpublished, there's a good title.

Once upon a time I was an office drone. I saw the Holstee Manifesto in a bookstore and bought it. I hung it on my office wall. Slowly it's evil hopeful message wormed its way into my dreams. A part of me was screaming, saying "if you keep doing this it's all you'll ever do! It's adding up to be the sum of your life!"

So, one day I said "fuck it." If you want to start living your dream life, you have to start living your dream life. So, I quit my job. I was nice enough to stick around and train my replacement, I would like to note. On my last day I got a fortune cookie from Panda Express.

And that, my friends, is how these leaps of faith get you. Little shit like that. The too-coincidental coincidences.

Next thing you know you're committing financial suicide (more like euthanasia), trying to live your dream.

Lesson #1:
You have a financial self.
It is a vampire.
It can die.

Medusa is capitalism, and we're all the little snakes that make up her hair. I have a great artist I want to do a visualization of that, but he rates about $500 and up for custom jobs, and I'm one of those reluctant vampires. I don't want to feed on other humans, so I end up eating rats. I won't be swinging $500 to spend on art any time soon.

In a capitalist society, you've got to find a consenting victim and bleed them a little - and I'm really bad at that. So, back under the fang I go. The time and effort I should be spending living my dream instead feeding some corporate entity, grown fat from feeding on people just like me.