And that's some of the rest of the story....

When I was young, I used to imagine that I would one day be nobody, and that I would fail at things that I eventually would hope to achieve.  At the time, I had no hopes of achievement, as this would certainly be merely feeding the flames of the inevitable bitterness. I only hoped one day that I would be maimed severely, or blinded or something- nothing that would make me too unattractive, but might heighten my other senses or force me to overcome it by gaining amazing skill or strength in a specific area. I had never watched the Special Olympics. I thought that they would be glamorous, because the guy in the wheelchair that I knew, Victor, was so nice, and had such huge arms. 

When I was young, I used to think that grownups were entirely fallible, and frequently made mistakes.

When I was young, I would dream at night that somebody, always a grownup, would be driving a car in which I was a passenger, and they would always drive me off a cliff, because they were too busy  reaching down for lipstick or something. Once I dreamed that I saved myself from Native Americans on a beach, who had tied me  to a chair, then, feeling quite proud of my cleverness, got into my mom's car, and we promptly went over a cliff. Sometimes in mid-air, as we were plummeting to our certain doom, I would scream to my fellow passengers, reassuringly "Don't worry. It's only a dream."

Same fLY Same LEaF

Fly on a LEaF

When I die

When I die I want the corpse that I had inhabited to be mulched. Put it in a mulcher and grind it up. Collect the pulpy mess in zip-loc bags and give them to my family and/or friends. I ask then that they all go out and plant a garden with my pulp. In the garden they must plant avocado trees and cayenne peppers. Someday they must all gather together and eat a spicy guacamole from my garden. It should be fresh, delicious, and painful. There will not be a dry eye after eating my spicy guacamole. Feed it to my friends, and feed it to those who hated me. everybody will get a chance to suffer the sweet, delicious, and painful experience that is honoring my death.

Update

A few new items up including a song, slapped together, emotion barf called "Something"



Also some pictures. One of them is here. This picture was taken from my front steps. My neighborhood does not actually look this nice. When I was showing this to a friend, I explained to him that one thing I loved about photography is the hunt for something beautiful. One must frame what is already there in such a way that the image is not merely a reflection of the blurry mess we live in. Most often it is distinct, whether distinct in it's beauty or distinct in it's hideousness, or distinct in it's contrast of the two. When I was explaining this brand new philosophy to him, in the way that I explain things when I've just stumbled upon a new way of framing an idea only seconds ago, we were walking through a parking lot, and I said "Somewhere in this parking lot there is a beautiful photograph. I have only to crop out what is not in the photograph to find it." I  am reminded of Michaelangelo and his stone-work being only a removal of what is not the sculpture inside. To the right of this photograph is one of the most hideous houses I have ever been forced to look at. This picture is given the opportunity to say something, not drowned out by it's hideousness.

And this picture makes me happy. It is rain crawling down my car window after a day of class. The world and it's colors are being washed away, and I have a sense of closeness. It is a similar sensation to the rush of adrenaline I used to get when we would build a fort, dig a ditch and put plywood over the top, arrange pillows and blankets in the living room and make a maze, hack away blackberry bushes and create a series of tunnels inside that led to little rooms. This buzzing sensation, it comes back when it rains. It comes back when the clouds cover the sky low down, and it is just us in this tiny space. This is the type of space that things would always happen in, that secrets would be told in. What is it about this space, and why am I programmed to respond so childishly?