I am left with the feeling that something is very wrong about the way people here live. After I've scolded myself for being arrogant, after I've extended the benefit of the doubt fully, seen, begun to understand and forgiven, I am continually disappointed. But the creative responsibility is ours, is mine, and it has been my fault always, dwelling, chewing over the same general malaise that's been swimming in my gut since I forgot I am a child.

I conclude that we are all equally responsible for the souldeath that cripples the human animal (and when has it been different?) if we allow it to set up camp in our own heads.

I can't do it anymore, ruminating always, scowly, whiny bullshit.

I've been watching birds lately, learning more about the world in the past two weeks than I have at any time I can remember. There IS beauty here.

Today I found a tiny hatchling, about two inches long, on the ground, struggling and panting. The nurturing instinct returns, a driving urge to protect vulnerable life. It is powerful. In a rush to identify its parents, I found that Orange-crowned Warblers build their nests on the ground. I watched one of the parents feed spiders and grubs to the infant. I would later discover a second hatchling. The cat stays inside.

There is a cycle, unyielding, a vaguely knowing consciousness in the inquisitive quickness of a bird's eyes. There is a web, and I am part of it. I put out seed and the birds come and more birds come to eat what falls from the feeder and their scratching feet plant the seeds and rabbits come to eat the sprouts. Mourning Doves, pensive and cantankerous, fight with one another. The crows, indifferent, watch.

There are no guns here, no politicians and politician language and politician thinking. There is no feeling awkward, mistrusted or unwanted. There is no dull, thudding heartbeat of a culture forgotten what happiness is. There is only the cycle, the buzz of cicadas, the shuffling of wings.

I think I'll miss it here.

Stillness and quiet
write softer their song
after stillness and quiet
pass on.

The smiles of friends
burn endlessly strong
when the faces of friends
are gone.

My life has struck a vein of coolness. Another of my poems was accepted for publication, this time by poetry.com.

Here's the poem:


Revelation

Soon,
you will be late
for waking.

And in that endless moment,
the song of all your gunshots
will deafen you
in the blackness.


(Click here to see my poem on the site) It's also a semi-finalist in the monthly contest with an $1,000 prize.

A truly wonderful idea.

I found out yesterday that one of my poems was selected for publication by the League of American Poets in their annual anthology. Here is the poem, I've posted it before:


Their Guns Are Not Toys

Sometimes I forget
that it's not silent here all the time,
then at 10:20, an hour after I was supposed to be asleep,
I hear the sound of gunshots from where the soldiers are training.

They must be out on late maneuvers,
roused gritty-throated from their beds.
"When yer in the shit,
Killing Or Being Killed
will not wait for you to drink yer got-dammed morning coffee!"

Soldiers would say things like "In the shit."

I picture them,
ropes and bars
bright in the halogen darkness,
weaving and dodging,
preparing for Killing Or Being Killed.

This is actually not a joke.

I got my Selective Services registration confirmation card in the mail yesterday. All the literature I've read suggests compiling a Conscientious Objector profile early, so I'm starting now. I hope all of you do this too. If anyone wants information, I'd be more than happy to share.

First things first, either send them a letter stating your intention to register as a CO or write it somewhere on the card. Photocopy this, mail it both to them and to yourself, to get the time stamp. Don't open the envelope.

How wonderful that playground bullies have the power to send the rest of us to die for their causes. Too many angry words for blog.

Aaaaaaaaaaah DAMMIT, that lasted, like, a day.

"Boy, I sure do enjoy the lo-tech egalitarianism of the internet, kept alive by sites like YTMND," I thought to myself as I loaded the homepage of aforementioned website. Clicking on the first animation I saw, I was greeted with this garbage: Bilbo wants it.

Good job, soulless, soulless coolfinders, you found the cool. Your prize? The knowledge that you wipe your asses with culture and cheapen everything you touch. The fact that this animation was in the "Top Five Rated YTMNDs" section doesn't make sense, because it's neither funny nor original, benchmarks of most super-popular YTMND's. That is, it doesn't make sense until you realize the admin may have been paid to display the ad prominently on their site.


THERE'S
NOWHERE
LEFT
TO GO.

It's time for a mid-year's resolution.

I've had my fill of Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter, President Poopyshorts and the proud nation that follows them around like a horde of lost ducklings. It's no longer about politics, it's about not being an idiot.

I am going to do my best to leave it as their problem. I'm tired of being worn down by ignorance, of feeling embarassed for my country and freaking out every time I see an H2.

I've come to the realization that there is balance to be found. For every Insane Clown Posse zealot, there's a thoughtful, insightful and informed citizen who can engage in intelligent discourse without screaming about "titty huntin' " and waving their middle finger around. For every overgrown gym class bully who watches Hannity and Colmes, there's someone who actually reads the newspaper and makes decisions only after close scrutiny of the information available to them. And maybe soon there'll be a hybrid car to match all the giant trucks and East/West/Orange County Choppers (side note: I hate "choppers." A lot.) clogging the streets.

My head needs a vacation.

Our childhoods will all be gone soon, in matter if not in heart and mind. Surveying the remaining artifacts, I can see only transience.

This morning I found that my rope swing is gone. I say my rope swing because it was mine. It belonged to me in the same way that it belonged to everyone else who enjoyed it when there was nothing else to do. In this suburb, where the best use of space that thousands upon thousands of people can find is to fill it with houses, manicured trees, concrete, emptiness, that swing was something special. It was my own. It was somewhere to go. Somewhere without straight lines. Now it's gone, because someone thought it was dangerous for children.

At home, I composed half of "An Open Letter to Scripps Ranch." I want people to see how lifeless they are making this place, how flawed is their manufactured perfection, how alienating. I want them to know there is a better way, to live together, to trust, to cherish, to grow and build and collaborate. I want to take them all to the rope swing, where there was some small bit of freedom, awkward and spontaneous intimacy, the simplicity of holding on to a stick thirty feet in the air.

But I know how easy comfort is. I know that people want the alienation, the appearance of community, the substancelessness. I didn't finish the letter.

I have always tempered this thought with the idea that what appears as empty to me is rewarding and stimulating to others. I have often thought that people may find real comfort, real community in Blockbuster, McDonalds, Safeway, endless streets and sidewalks, curfews, God Bless America, "Country Living," the Chargers, shaved mountaintops, stucco and stucco and stucco, but I am beginning to doubt.

And I see it all perpetuated. I see it in little acts of thoughtlessness. Like cutting down the rope swing. Like alcohol, cigarettes, Marijuana, Cocaine, Ecstasy. Like not caring. Like squirming at words like "love," "empowerment," "kindness." Like giving up.

I'll be leaving soon. I am thankful for my home, my life and the people who share it. I just hope people will remember that freedom is as simple as a rope and a ladder.


The Rope Swing
By Matthew Louv (3rd grade)

grab hold of the rope
run like the wind down the hill
hold on very tight
hope to god that you don't fall
and swing like never before
swing as high as trees
fly as high as high as a red-tail
don't ever look down
twist and turn and glide and fly
and land with grace and beauty
and then look around
the teenagers stand in awe
and then the applause
stand there, bask in your glory
hope you can come back again

The results of your analysis say:

You fill every waking moment with activity.
You are a social person who likes to talk and meet others.
You are negative, fearful, resistant, doubtful, and/or selfish.
You are not very reserved, impatient, self-confident and fond of action.
You enjoy life in your own way and do not depend on the opinions of others.

This Thursday, it happens.

I will be getting my driver's permit.

Here's to picking up ugly old battered coffee-stained books and spending hours reading them:

Henry Miller is incredible. Love it love it love it.

I watched Grizzly Man last night, and I think everyone should see it. I fell asleep thinking about it, I woke up thinking about it, and it becomes even more profound as time passes.

Sometimes I forget that it's
not silent here all the time,
then at 10:20, an hour after
I was supposed to be asleep,
I hear the sound of gunshots
from where the soldiers are training.

They must be out on late maneuvers,
roused gritty-throated from their beds.
"When yer in the shit,
Killing Or Being Killed
will not wait for you to drink yer
got-dammed morning coffee."

Soldiers would say things like
"In the shit."

I picture them,
ropes and bars
bright in the halogen darkness,
weaving and dodging,
preparing for Killing Or Being Killed.

Some day, I will do battle with this man.

Hello all. Sitting around feeling all Hunter S.'y with nothing to do.

There's going to be some new content on this blog soon as I get adequately mopey and/or pissed off.

I recently had a dream that I was walking the streets of London after hours, yelling in a cockney accent about how I was a prostitute to try to bait Jack the Ripper into attacking me.

Favorite dream ever.

I got a call from an army recruiter just now. He asked me about my plans for the future and I told him I didn't want to divulge any personal information. He pressed me and I said that I have major objections to the military as a whole and I don't want the army to play any role in my future. Then he accused me of sounding "anti-government altogether."

The thought that this phone call could have put me on some list is as frustrating as it is frightening.

I have had a string of waycool dreams the last few nights.

Last night, I dreamt that I was a disenchanted Bruce Wayne who had put up the Mantle of the Bat to escape all the hype that surrounded Batman. I lived on a hill and had an amulet that allowed me to transform into a squirrel or Andre the Giant at will. The house across the street was inhabited by criminals, and they had kidnapped a girl and were holding her for ransom. I decided to invent another superhero alter-ego by the name of Spook who was bound by none of the shaky morality that Batman had to adhere to; I took Andre form, dressed in lots of sweaters, wore two beanies and a mask. I picked up a big stick, swooped down upon my antagonists and proceeded to kick ass for half an hour.

The same night, I had a dream about reformatting The Hello Sequence. That wasn't as cool.

Just wanted to share.