Mother's good graces are only sometimes important. I once brought hand made tomahawks to class. Duct taped true sharp swords. The security measures heightened and mother loosened then tightened her grip. The naval officers who become monsters enough to use cannons on any species they encounter, enemy humans, or friendly other species. Disgusting acceptance of horror. Playing with hearts like a stacked deck, full of reds, of face cards and jokers, I thought you've evolved but now with the credentials you can become anything, with 20% off and then a seat in the front of the stadium like other ingratiated peons. I realize myself. I heard my words all over today and realized I'm being a high and mighty asshole because I desire so strongly to communicate with myself in depth that I have difficulty with the repetitive triviality of everyone else. Even my family. I was thrown into this life without a decision on the matter. I can be like my ancestors and burn out with a faint spark or I can live a fluent and important life on the edges of definitions, lost and hunting for that elusive beast of future self. I could not make a kill. I've never been comfortable with killing anything. I love wood working and gluing together scraps of other projects to make something new and beautiful. Not just smoking pot in order to communicate. This weird new modern culture.
I could not consider myself better than television. I hate the commercials with higher decibels and the legitimate articles I've read that I find fascinating and that others can't follow entirely when I try to communicate them. The texting and the mindless references, holy shit. The needless negativity and the holiday preparations. The family disoriented and clearly confused by the games because of days of drinking or holy warfare inside of the mind. He drops bombs on civilians while contemplating the size and clarity of a television screen. My father bought a new tv on one Seahawks game day because the other one wasn't working. Now there is an enormous tv sitting in the garage, useless and vulgar with its expense and purpose. a christmas present from long ago. now gathering dust like everything else. and everyone else. playing with hearts. killing whales. hard to find anyone to communicate with sincerely. without some crazy obsession of theirs or a crazy anxiety of mine, about doing something, anything productive, some blessed, ingenious conversation that lightens everyone in the room into blossoming flowers and great growths of concord light like mountain ranges forming suddenly in between highly disputed property lines and then swallowing those who were disputing into the crevasses and tasteless blind jokes, materialism, capitalism and every other part of my own culture ruin and retracted, I reject so wholesomely, the lives of my parents, and I know they know this but still attempt to impose their ideals into me. I agree with many facets of their thought and both have inspired me to become a better person to others and to myself. I wish to attend to mountains like I'd attend to a newborn child, with delicate steps and soft breaths, and then the art, the creativity and the legacy left behind, I must recognize this with full clarity and concern, consternation, we are in this together because I am your spawn and you must deal with my insanity every now and then, but I should hide some of it from you if it turns you away from the "better" parts of my personality. I do not want to be who you want me to be. But I can pretend to be, through exclusion, the child you wish me to become because your friend's kids passed or failed at the same task...
then it fades.
