Crime and Punishment

In my dream. I’m about six years old, and I’m walking with my father. It’s a holiday of some kind, and it’s near evening. We’re on the outskirts of our town, which is all laid out in front of us like a toy-train city, running right off up to the edge of the sky. There are no trees around, for some reason, except for a little black line of the forest along the horizon. That little line frightens me, so I try not to loot at it. I think we are going to visit the cemetery, past the tavern, going to visit my grandmother’s grave. Also the little grave next to hers that holds my younger brother, who died shortly after he was born. I was still an infant myself, so I never really knew him. I only knew that I’d been told about my younger brother, so every time we went to the cemetery, I would make the sign of the cross, very religiously and bow down and kiss the little headstone.

So I’m walking with my father, when we see this crowd of people. Drunk. Singing and laughing and playing balalaikas. And in the middle of the crowd is a heavy old cart, filled with stuff, with a tired old mare strapped into the harness. She’s sitting on the ground, refusing to move. Her master is a big, red-faced young man, who keeps whipping her and saying “Climb in! She’ll pull us, she’s going to pull us if I have to beat her to death!” And he keeps whipping her, around the face, around the eyes, and now she’s bleeding, and everyone is laughing and shouting, “Finish her! Finish the old bitch!” So her masters= takes out a crowbar and says, “She’s mine. She’s my goods, I’ll take care of her.” And he starts to beat her, on her back, on her legs and her face and her head and everywhere. But she won’t die. She tries to pull the cart. But she can’t now, with broken legs and a broken back. And he keeps swinging the crowbar, beating her into the ground. Beating her. Till there’s nothing left. Nothing at all. In my dream. I’m clutching my father’s hand and crying, crying so hard that I can barely see. And I say, “Father! Why did they kill her? Why did they kill the poor old horse?” And he says, “Because they’re drunk, Rodya. Because they’re people.

DREADful

My rant begins with a story. One of horror and disgust. It all started on the bus this morning... I, like most normal humans who board the bus instinctively find a seat that is completely empty. That is to say no one is sitting in the adjacent area next to the empty seat. So, like most mornings I took the liberty of sitting in the afore described seat. As more and more people piled on to the bus I knew it was inevitable that I was not going to make it to the end of my trek sitting alone. This notion is normally fine, but today's exception was absolutely horrific.

She ambled up the bus steps and paused before plopping herself down next to me. There dangling like strings of fecal matter were her dreads... Ugh, seriously dreads? Who in their right mind finds it expressive to allow their hair to fester to the point of this...

It is utterly disgusting, but that is not the end of this nightmare in real life. Mere seconds after her abhorred arrival in my vacant seat, she brushes the dead cell caterpillars that are her hair around her head and WHAM! A brief moment of shock passes... Was I just clubbed in the face by this chicks decaying, moldy, poop strands? A gag abruptly reaches the top of my throat followed by an extremely motivated urge to punch this bitch in the face. Finally my stop comes and the fresh air is finally filling my lungs and as I am calmed this conclusion graced me.

There is a reason the hairstyle is called dreads... It is because anyone who doesn't have them (intelligent clean, showering people) dreads being around anyone dirty enough to grow hair like those ridiculous playdough toys... oh and p.s. it looks dreadful. END OF RANT

Who am I...

I am a particle amongst the cosmos. Insignificant uniqueness bundled into a speck floating through what is known as life. This inconsequential speck is filled with love, hate, tears and joy, a complex web of bipolar inimicality. And as I am washed up like sand upon the shores I lie with all the other snowflakes not knowing, that when I melt, how I will be remembered. I am your perceived notion of who I am, but all the same, we melt together forming a river that will carve through the bedrock of life, leaving an imprint of erosion showing; who will notice us?

I am deciduous: filled with color and beauty when the sun shines upon my leaves. Left barren, delicately naked when darkness comes. I am the cicada who sheds its protective cocoon only for a brief time before life ends. Yet inside this cocoon can also be a butterfly anticipating the exquisiteness of metamorphism. I spread my new wings and fly leading the way for those crawling inch by inch below me. As I am all these things who I am will always be bound by definition, words that have different meanings to different people. Who I really am can not be put into words and is incomprehensible by even me.

FUN^10

It has been ages since I last posted here... this is mainly due to the lack of internet that currently resided in my house. That has been mended! So now i sit waiting to fall asleep... like always. But this time it is at 9:30 a.m. WHA!?!?!?!?! That is right folks tomorrow is an early day. One filled to the brim with anticipation and excitement, for it is labor day weekend. You know what that means? FOUR CORNERS FOLK FESTIVAL which consequently = music x hot springs x jams x late nights x great people x music again = FUN^10 = Jealousy from anyone who is not attending. If you are not jealous then you either don't comprehend FUN^10 or you lead lives filled with monotony and, to but it bluntly, lameness. On that note i bid you adiu and hope that you all will be showing those pearly whites all weekend, cause I know I will!