Organic Spam

Yep – you guessed it! My latest search for a new name ( which is becoming more of a sarcastic joke at this point, since all the supposed genius names I come up with are TAKEN) left me out in the cold again. Even was somebody else’s idea before it was mine. So I guess this is what that “collective mind” is all about…the “we are one” I continue to be persuaded to believe in. The Buddhist booby prize…the Way.
When I was growing up, we went to church most Sundays. A congregational sort of hippy collective that read (somewhat metaphysically I think) from the Bible but which also hosted meditation classes and Tibetan bell playing on Tuesdays. I remember going to the bell session with my mom – she was a master at it – and writing an essay on why Jimmy Carter should be re-elected for president. I am pretty sure my main argument in his favor was “because he is nice”. I felt this way about George W. Bush also – not that he should be re-elected but that he was probably just a “nice” guy who bit off more than he could chew. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but “nice” nonetheless. I just couldn’t believe someone who could get their photograph taken reading a book to a children’s class, holding the book upside down, could have the kind of calculating malice his adversaries suggesteded he was capable of. Also, I always thought of him more as a big (duh umm?) golden lab who thought hanging out with pitbulls would get him a better seat at the doggy park. Kinda like he was playing a game of pick-up baseball and he was way out of his league but didn’t realize it until it was too late to quit without disappointing his dad.
I cannot imagine for a second why I am even suggesting to have an opinion about any of this. Sorry if I offend. Tough job, really, the Presidency…I couldn’t do it.
I am not sure what class it was or even what grade, but I remember the teacher saying “Everything is political, even a bowl of fruit”. I think it was an art class, maybe art history. The point I think the teacher was making was something along the lines of…if one had the resources to draw a bowl of fruit, or even to have a bowl of fruit to draw, one had means and having means, or not having means, was a matter of political persuasion. Does that make sense? It did when it was spoken – I’m just chopping it up with my wordiness.
I like poetry because it is quiet even when it is yelling. It makes one feel more than it allows for one to understand. At least, that is what it does for me. Like a good song it makes me ache – either for the sheer tragedy of it all or for the joy….and then there is that fine line where the two sensations mirror each other and I feel so damn happy to be sad.
I want to be a better. Just a better.
Mom, friend, wife, student, athlete, sister, daughter, niece, spatula….wind.
I want to wake up seizing the day when my head leaves the pillow and pass out praying to make a difference when I hit it at night. I want to live like I really am aware that this is all I got.

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