Rarely will I ever blog about politics, in fact I believe this to be my first venture into that arena. However, I find sufficient dissatisfaction and a bitter enough taste causing my patriotic emesis as those evident by the current leader of a nation that used to resemble some sort of hope for the rest of the world.

I find it completely ominous that Bush decided to continue on with this final presidential tour of Europe while his people were suffering in areas ravaged by floods. Looking at the videos of our illustrious leader are only demonstrative of how insignificant the people really are in comparison to his own personal agenda. How fitting for him to shake hands and dedicate himself to continuing on with a facade of a welcomed trip to Europe while American citizens who are bearing the brunt of all his poorly executed and thought out decisions are literally drowning in economic turmoil that can be visibly represented by the homes completely engulfed by water.

Towns have become islands of possessions destroyed along with lives of people who are suffering in ways that are innumerable to comprehend. The entire world watches Americans drowning in various realms of our current political and national status; yet, our humanitarian President can only physically show the entire world of civilization and perhaps developing civilizations that he is neither concerned by the suffering of his own people, who happened to put him in the once illustrious office that allows for this trips to Europe, nor willing to risk political turmoil for the betterment of his people.

Really, what would have been so bad for him to cancel his promenading around Europe meeting leaders that do not respect him and only feign tolerance in order to better serve the needs of his people? Would there have been such a disease developing because his trip being cut short in the eyes of the world or would there have been a realization that President Bush really does care about his people? Instead, he finished his tour and took his sweet ass time visiting with those who are breathing, sleeping, and suffering on military style cots in gymnasium refugee stations.

I find it disgusting and a true testament to what this presidency/idiotic regime has been about this entire time. Our president resided in hotels or residences of important political figures throughout his trip while eating delicious foods and the American people watched the situation develop into a dire situation everyday while at the same time being privy to seeing an idiot smiling, waving, and promenading in Europe representing a country that he has disconnected himself from by completely disassociating himself from the people who elected him there in the first place.

Call it what you will, but I think I’m becoming more and more of an ex-pat as I continue living in this disarray that has arisen from the ashes of what used to be a nation the whole world respected and appreciated.

Have you ever wondered why everyone always refers to life as being a book yet to be written with chapters as the appropriate continuation of the aforementioned cliched metaphor? So, even the most illiterate and incompetent buffoons are writing a novel of their lives, in theory, that is comparable to mine–a person who can manipulate words and grammar to better suit her incessantly changing and chaotic mind?

How in the hell is that fair exactly?

Now that I’ve ranted and pointed out the fallacies with that metaphor or analogy of life, I have something important to say: My chapter(s) on Undergraduate Collegiate Career is/are over.

“What a weird and strange trip it has been.” I cannot be happier to be over this hurdle and begin to actually live my life; wait, I can only live it until mid-August and then I get to begin a new chapter called Master’s Collegiate Career intermingling with Graduate Assistantships.

So, the only logical question I can ask myself is this: what is this episode in my life supposed to be called if I continue on with the novella theme akin the my life? I mean Faulkner had one chapter with just this “My mom’s a fish.” Although that seems great, would I consider these few months in between school worthy of being dubbed a chapter?

What else is there in regards to novel speak anyway? There are prologues, epilogues, chapters, indexes, author notes, bibliographical information, footnotes, plain notes, and an explanation page; however, what about parts of the book that are short, insignificant to the overall plot, and really just filler for the audience to indulge and digest in between the good parts. You know, the parts that are really overwhelming with who knows what and you have to have a mental break, a coma from intelligence if you will, just to be able to trek through the rest of the story?

I’m just curious what I should call this brief moment in time seeing that I am lacking any original concept of how I would group my life. I guess, after all, everyone is a writer so it would be only appropriate to see life as a book filled with chapters that you can essentially leave behind to enlighten the world that you did once exist, breathe air, feel the itchy stickiness of grass on your feet, have your heart broken, stubbed your toe in the middle of the night while doing the walk of shame out of a strangers bedroom and feeling as if you are going to suffocate on your cursing and screams piling up in the back of your throat out of fear of waking the beast. You know, all those great moments that will make the world a better place, even if only in your ego centric mind!

UTM: you say goodbye, I say hello.

There is a song, just one song that I can listen to continuously that sings to me. It gets me, understands me, reaches into the deepest part of my psyche and brings moments of tranquility and bliss to a mind ravaged by worry.

The visual imagery may be lost to some; however, I find it as the reinforcement of my existence at this particular plane in that, I can understand the words as if they were my own unique experiences that were the happiest, beautifully serene times in my life. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I am doing, a smile slowly crawls across my face (not a guffaw or laughter based smile but a peace smile that is indicative of a mind suffering from only happiness and nothing else).

“I dig my toes into the sand / The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue plane / I lean against the wind / Prented that I am weightless / and in this moment I am happy / happy [...]“

I can remember the gritty goodness of sand squished between toes. A scalding sand that burns the feet; yet, as you dig deeper, a cool escape from the burn is as welcomed as a mug of hot cocoa to fend off the hypothermia that ensues after a much enjoyable endeavor building snow people in snow villages at the base of your grandmother’s massive hill that is now converted to a snow sled ramp.

I can remember the beauty of the sun rising, dancing and setting across a sky filled with the whitest, fluffy clouds that only exist in the summers spent at the beach. I can remember the dance of the light atop the blue water as it slowly creeps its way to meeting you with your feet dug in deep to the yellow, scalding sand.

I can remember the wind. Smells of clean and pristine majesty that only kisses the inside of the nose and it brings memories of years and years of the same episodic adventures to the most prevalent portion of your brain. I can remember jumping off the sand dunes with only a beach towel tied around the neck to serve as a brace for the eventual reminder that gravity does indeed still exist, regardless of whether you believe the wind is strong enough to carry you out and away from the circumstance you foolishly created for yourself.

I can remember happy. The memory itself is happy and brings a feeling to the heart that is often dwindled away and lodged deep into the part of the brain that relies on the sentiment instead of the present.

“I lay my head onto the sand / The sky resembles a black lit canopy with holes punched in it / I’m counting UFO’s / I signal them with my lighter / and in this moment I am happy / happy [...]“

Even on the darkest, most dreadful days there was a comfort in the sand being used as a pillow underneath my bright beach towel. Half drowned rat mixed with half sea hag, the hair all sticky from the salt gathers underneath my head as the sand envelopes and comforts in ways no natural or artifical fibers can ever replicate.

I can remember thinking the same exact thing and pondering the meaning of life, Earth and existence throughout the universe with a black sheet strewn across the globe I am privileged to appreciate for the arc like nature it represents. I can remember wondering if there was a being, some unknown creature who spends the time shining a flash light through the holes punched in this blue-black sheet keeping me warm and comforted in the wonders of these nights.

I can remember tracking down the shooting stars from those unknown glitters from unknown constellations hoping that there was a being much like myself doing the exact same thing in a place just like mine: a heaven that is the purest form of sanity and peace. I can remember questioning whether these glowing orbs were really there at all or, in fact, whether I was truly laying in the sand at this particular moment in time.

I can remember happines, and I appreciate the value this song holds in my heart. It appears as simple, easy to understand words for most. For me, it is a ballad that is the truest reality I have ever known and can only envision as clear as night in a fog of memories surrounded by the longing to return forever in that one particular representation of time that is mine as long as I can hold on and keep dear.

It always started out as something effervescently beautiful but ended up as yet another example of why there can be no peace when brown liquor is involved. Innocently waiting in the room blasting music on her stereo, she enjoys the moments that transpire as dictates of her own reason. Awaiting for moments of incoherent, blissful sleep, the tragedy begins to envelope the house as the screaming and yelling serve as an alarm beacon for anyone existing in this particular house to run, hide, seek cover, and be frightened for what will come.

Harpies. That is the exact moment when the noises of the stereo begin to fade into a bright moment of nothingness or static as the harpies engage in their usual decay of harmony and peace. Reason tells her that now is the best time to turn down the stereo to avoid conflict that is quietly rapping on her door as if to allude to the eventual drama that can only take place immediately. It is a known fact that the brown liquor always leads to this sort of ritualistic display of life dissatisfaction; yet, it always appears on the faces of those who fear it as a moment of utter disbelief, surprise, and complete disenchantment.

For whatever reason, the tap tap tapping has begun on her door. Feigning the ignorance currently associated with sleep, she desperately maintains her eye lids as being clung together in order to avoid yet another dramatic episode in the tumultuously disheartening aura that she calls home. Tap tap tap becomes screaming, yelling, and an overwhelming aroma that is acrid enough to cause water to flow from her eyes as if she had been privy to the drinking of the brown liquor all along; it burns all the way down to her toes and the nausea is the only logically sound evolutionary trait she possesses in regards to this one particular yet echoed moment.

Disappointment. Yet once more there is the air of disappointment in the room that all can smell and sift through yet she is the direct result for said disappointment. The whites of the eyes stare aimlessly as they all attempt to figure out who will be the martyr of the evening. Martyr is such an inappropriate word here, but the word drips on their lips and rolls off their tongues in complete silence. Someone must be the scape goat this time so that all can eventually return to the peace.

Unfortunate. She is yet again chosen to fulfill this task and has to endure the travesty of a life served and lived in complete unhappiness in a speech that is only berating and denouncing in nature to disguise the disgust one feels towards the life currently being wasted away in the brown liquor. Stern and unwaivering she tolerates the daggers of language being hurled towards her in order to cut her down, break her spirit, and eventually lead to the usual familia meltdown.

The threats empty and the words stinging, she waits patiently for her moment in the hell of the room to fade away so she can return to the temporary solace she finds some sort of comfort in. Although, a fire begins to develop as a direct result to the burning, itching atmosphere compounding the problem. Heads shake side to side warning her to avoid trouble, at least for tonight, and let that which needs to be said to bounce off her back, trickle to the floor, and be ignored once more.

Heavy. The weight of turmoil is deep enough to cause heavy breathing, fast heart beats, and a difficulty to maintain composure. The brown liquor reminds her of each and every time this cyclic self medication takes place and how absurd it is for the brunt of abuse to be directed towards those who only ask for one thing: a sane and rational parent who can feel pride in those people, those people who bear the brunt of all this useless abuse.

Alcohol. It rears its ugly head yet again only to remind everyone how tragic the consequences truly are. It is currently a demon staring into the nothingness of existence with her as it patiently sits on her soldier waiting for the inevitable strings of oblivion to find their way to she who has struggled for so long to avoid the label of he, the drinker of the brown liquor, because she wants an existence filled with happiness instead of a substance dictated life.

I got into a discussion with a friend of mine years and eons ago about any monumental discoveries that have occurred that should be considered “new and innovative.” I took the stance that indeed things are created and discovered daily that are worth consideration for those labels. He, on the other hand, made a statement that there has been nothing monumental or worth second consideration because, at the root base of everything, it has just reinvented the wheel.

Ever since, I have had extreme difficulty letting those words leave my mind all together. So, as I sit here and write about this experience of love and loathing with the paradox of the words, I cannot help but laugh. Blogging is supposed to be great and innovative, except for us pessimists who see it as an alternative to writing in a once cherished journal.

Omitting paper from our lives has been extraordinary in that, the world should be benefiting from the additional trees and, therefore, more oxygen in atmosphere. However, what are the sacrifices made daily as technology runs faster and faster towards the finish line that may never exist?

Stop to think for one moment something you deem an exemplary benefit to mankind…it’s ok, I’m waiting patiently by my keyboard. Now, was that considered the original invention or, did some ancient culture/society use some other means of obtaining the same result. For example, I could not help but mention how hormonal birth control remedies were monumental in their time, because we all know that having 8 kids is not a possibility in today’s times.

As important and liberating the pharmaceutical companies lead you to believing the sheer magnitude of one tiny, hormone ridden pill, there were other means of controlling unwanted pregnancies way, way, way before anyone could think twice about it. In fact, there was once a plant that is completely extinct from this Earth as women in developed civilizations utilized its medicinal properties and enjoyed all the guilt free sex that was only possible then. Suffice it to say, thanks to our toga and wig wearing mothers of eons ago, women today will never enjoy the benefits of said plant.

Tragic, I know.

I’m not feeling as philosophical now as I was when I began; thanks to the pain slowly increasing in my ass region from this chair. The storms appear to have subsided and I want nothing more than to take my dogs outside before the madness ensues.

Tschoos!