words can express…
they must be able to express. however, they may end up meaning nothing.
I’m watching the state I live in fall asunder, lost on the high seas of smugness. Not one single thing the leadership has chosen to act on will lead us to reknowned and respected heights. There is no JPL being crafted, no Los Alamos for our future – it’s rich assholes acting like rich entitled assholes – and those of us who have not enough money to get the assholes’ attention are left un-empowered.
Except, just maybe – with our words.
It’s what’s noodling in the back of my brain bucket even as I create a 10GB folder with pictures of Izzy for Morgan and Beth to enjoy. Even as I craft witty responses to how Window’s deals with 3D graphics cards for my Comp Tech Support class:
Windows has the power (and with it, the responsibility) to control 3D graphics, and they call it… DirectX. Invoking dxdiag at the run command shines the tiniest spotlight on the inside of your PC case, where you then end up with a bat cave where the fumes from the jet engine never overcame the old gent who kept secrets so well. Odd. Also, not only do you get to check some of the display settings but you also get to futz with your audio settings too!
I suspect the instructors glance at the paragraphs upon paragraphs and pull out a word or three and give me the credit I so richly deserver, but still, I do toil over the keyboard, and find that with a finely turned phrase a bit of enjoyment.
My anger and resentment for ending up powerless after years of ‘doing the right thing’ however makes the words clunk onto the page, both rusted tight against one another while simultaneously also feeling slimy and covered in bloody bile, vomited onto the page as my eyes dart back and forth, my ears ringing with the tone of my righteous fury, trying to see if the incantations I hurl at Boo or the steering wheel or the signs along the sidewalk on campus cause the bolt of lightning to strike it’s richly deserving target through the eye socket, into the fronal lobe, down into the esophagus, the burning and buzzing and blindness driving them to their knees where they might just once think about begging for mercy before their hearts burst from the inside out, finally their shit and piss soaking down their legs and into their shoes, shoes that probably cost more than the monthly income of a family of 4 in my ‘hood. Bastards deserve to choke on their own vomit instead of causing me to spew onto this blog. Again, though, feelings of meekness and powerlessness, the wind-mills of Jones street are as evil and pointless as the ones near pennsylvania avenue. We Do Not Count. That’s not the game I thought I was playing, and sad as it is to come to that conclusion this far along I’m not quite done yet.
We’ll see if I can get started – summer’s started already – where will we be in the fall I wonder.
{{11:11p + 11 July 2013 = thursday night || Get lucky by Seseme street rolls on YouTube in another tab}}
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So my circle includes people such as nancy g. she’s kinda awesome. she posted sinead’s ‘black boys on mopeds’ from a snl performance. just that. no rant. no cringing. just a comment on the times we are in.
touche, mi amiga – out of the park. 1990, the clip said. 1990. a time of such possible hope. lost to the tides of time, sadly.
zimmerman’s a punk with the law on his side, martin was a black kid – he never had a chance.
we’ll watch the voice, or america’s top knitting talent, or the xxx factor or somesuch – we will never do what egypt did, or syria. or even east germany. we are fat and lazy. united states of assholes, I believe is what that old italian pharse was meant to be.
i read late last night a report on the occasioning of the nyc legal system’s incredible horridnous. and the luck of the breeze pursuit of justice.
{2:47p + 14Jul2013 = Sunday afternoon || Sinead sings with Roger ‘mother’ … }