My Daughter Has Great Musical Tastes...

Some days I wonder where the youth of today are headed. I doubt many.

Then I see something, hear something like this and I am assured in my soul that the future is in good hands.

Thank you, Bri.

---The Frey - How to Save a Life---
Step one you say we need to talk
He walks you say sit down it's just a talk
He smiles politely back at you
You stare politely right on through
Some sort of window to your right
As he goes left and you stay right
Between the lines of fear and blame
You begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Let him know that you know best
Cause after all you do know best
Try to slip past his defense
Without granting innocence
Lay down a list of what is wrong
The things you've told him all along
And pray to God he hears you
And pray to God he hears you

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

As he begins to raise his voice
You lower yours and grant him one last choice
Drive until you lose the road
Or break with the ones you've followed
He will do one of two things
He will admit to everything
Or he'll say he's just not the same
And you'll begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life
How to save a life
How to save a life

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life
How to save a life

Saturday Night Thoughts...

Special note: I have had a few drinks... nuff said.

It sucks when you loose a friend for what ever the reason.

I am SO broke. I promised my daughter she would be signed up for the classes she needs to graduate, before Christmas break. I couldn't pay for it... not enough money because I was stupid enough to loan my ex enough to fix her car. Now, not only can't I pay for her school, but I can't buy her Christmas gift - A new keyboard..

Can't pay credit cards, can't pay the regular bills. My truck broke down early December and had to spend $700 or so. Well, didn';t have to. did

Was moving out a week ago. No go. Not enough money. Still here

Here indefinite

Jitter... Sad... Must move on.

Blood and Snow - Chapter 2

And here is chapter two from my brain-dump. As this is flowing from brain to keyboard, it seems I have seven chapters in total. I'm not asking, and my gray matter isn't telling. :-) So... Here is two-of-seven...

Bulldog slumbers and smiles, his friends laughing and playing in this mortal universe; mortal but immortal. Need.

Friend honor betrayal. I make happy. Battle within not without, I fail; loose for my strip of recursive iteration. Paper. Judge. It is done.

Friend and mate walk away to the shade of an oak. Marlow and I subsist. Cookies of grain. I work and learn and fail; more school to be a notch up. Up. A thrown wine bottle, night, green park and smoke.

Twist. Hot sweaty nights in my cave. Universe dark from my own blanket of depression and honest understanding. Poke and prod for light and I see through a tunnel but resist, comfortably warm in my blanket.

And there she is. Embodied lust to illuminate. My world is bright while dark matter and orbiting rocks remain at bay; stable but unstable; waiting for the fateful; the inevitable.

Quickly jump my dear frog. Electrode to muscles I push the buttons, hand held by another. I enjoy and am consumed by this new universe. Twisting beautifully into a spiral galaxy. Beauty in the chaos.

Twist and conjoin and lustfully consume. Wait! Slow! Too soon! No! Hold On! Plans and hopes scream! They fall asleep; inattention. Red banners pushed to the periphery.

Warm in my new blanket I revel in the possibilities. I am desired. Plans and another carriage. We join under the darkness of privacy and another mortal paper is signed in watercolor black. I ride along in the back of the truck. Smiling, I sleep.

Into the Fire Again

Just some ramblings & a little update.


Saturday started as rather benign. That was a blessing since Friday was a rather confusing day. I am not exactly sure what to think. I am no stranger to confusion but this certainly came from an unexpected direction.

I am out driving the ex-wife to a store Saturday to get something; a simple hour trip. The water pump on my truck locks up. $650 to get it fixed. But I had planned on moving in a week; moving out of chaos. $150 for taxis and other associated expenses. Hat to wait for four hours or so for a taxi.

So I had to use my apartment money to repair my truck. I didn't have to, but if I didn't then I couldn't move. Sure, I could have rented a moving truck, but that would be more unexpected expenses.

No choice; back into the fire until February. And my daughter will suffer. I see echoes of my ex-wives behaviors in her. I have failed her in some way. I know it.

Until later...

Blood and Snow - Chapter 1

Here it is. It is more than a little cryptic and odd and strange; somewhat like parts of my life! I am not going to explain this; only say that this is a flow, right from brain to computer. All I am doing is correcting the spelling.

---

Dawn. My adolescence blooms into a rancorous period of puberty. Smells and tastes and touches and sites are different. Adrenalin and hormones mix in an intoxicating cocktail of manhood. The way of wandering the woods wondering of animals and monsters and glaciers and storms pass, allowing a new sentient being to emerge.

Strength and intelligence and desire spread out to the world. Senses heightened to my body and its inherent biological purpose. Disinterested girls skirt my universe with little more than passing glances. Inner galaxies tumble into serene pools of my mind as day after long day pass.

There, amid the din of daily parochial life she emerged from a newly birthed world. Dawns were deeper blue and sunsets a deeper crimson. Hands and lips and bodies touched; Devils and angels merging to form a being not unlike the one before. Full was I with life and death.

Pappa. My blood. My progenitor. My teacher. Floating on a tempest sea, raft of cornstalks and broomcorn. Impermanent, fibrous existence stripped from inside and out. His heart tired and broken rages no more. Eyes still, cold and sunken. The bulldog rips and discards the straw and sticks floating on the surface. Rest well my father, may you farm in peace forever. May the tears of my soul provide gentle spring rains and may you never worry of many things solely within the domain of this, my mortal world. I pray this to repay my foolish choice as our small world; my childhood home sold to the highest bidder with nary a tear or shudder. A singular word, “YES,” never uttered.

My carriage passes by a singular tulip on the bank. I know her from another time and another existence. Her beauty absorbs the color from nearby space with the promise to repay the debt double over. Light and her very essence swirls and plays around my soul as I pass. I freely drink the brilliant red laughing tendrils of memory swirling within my consciousness. An acrid intruder bursts forth. I twist left and right, knowing my universe has changed but not immediately how. I see him. The bulldog of brimstone and smoke tramples the singular tulip and exits this dimension, leaving only a cloud burning flesh in exchange for now nonexistent happy futures.

My mate and I weep over a singular perfect tulip petal mired in mud and blood and asphalt. The bulldog did not accomplish his insidious goal. Another younger tulip grows unseen. Tiny narrow green shoots of youth peek through the otherwise lifeless ground, promising to honor its mother's debts.

Dark gas of death comes forth when summoned. Filling the cage with odorless stench. The bulldog laughs. Blooms wilt and die, their invitations for the gas' visit etched in their eternal souls with a rusty nail. Sobbing and confusion and sadness saturate the universe and the world's oceans are filled with the tears of fond friends. A fleet of boats pitch to the storm. The bulldog sleeps and the dark odorless gas leaves a permanent tendril of its existence throughout all universes.

White beauty of youth, long black hair, flowing wedding dress. Simplicity. Bounding through the fields and forests of exuberance and youth and lust do we go together. Touching and experiencing. More responsibility that others but in the same, less. Trees of knowledge grow for us and we eagerly consume their offered fruits. Ageless streams, fed by virgin springs quench our lustful thirst and baptize us unto nature.

I please. Anger and conflict do I avoid. Tales and fables told to settle and calm. I scar my own soul. Only ten lengths down the road I see. Not a single sin did I commit but tales continue. Discontented smoke swirls, words to cover. Why? 'Tis not a sin? Yet down that path I continue.

Bikers Against Child Abuse - Another PSA

BACA International

Bikers Against Child Abuse

Tumbling in My Brain

There is another tale tumbling around in my brain. This is an important one, I feel. It is close to my heart and must be written. It is not something concrete, but rather flowing. It is full of cryptic symbolism and unexpected references.

I see a sharp turn up ahead at the crest of a hill. I know not what direction it shall take me; sharp to the right or sharp to the left. I only know it is there, and that knowledge keeps me safe... relatively so.

Riding Light

The world of motorcycling has quite a few safety rules. Good rules, like checking your tires and your chain and head light and so forth. They are not simply convenience checks; they are life and death items. Should one or more of these things not be right or within 'operational parameters,' fact of the matter is, the operator could die.

And so goes for loading a bike for a long trip. The more things placed on a bike, the more its handling will be effected. Sure, there are saddle bags and sissy-bars one can strap things to. But, that is not what the bike was really intended for.

From the 2007 Honda Rebel CMX250C Owner's Manual, page 29, “Your motorcycle is primarily intended for transporting you and a passenger.” There you have it, straight from the manual.

Perhaps on a trip, one should travel lightly, only bringing along a bare minimum. Traveling with too much cargo, or baggage can easily cause handling problems and quite possibly send you and it into the ditch at the side of the road.

Riding with too much baggage is no fun, even if you do manage to not crash. The balance of the bike is off, handling can be sluggish and aerodynamics can be all out of whack. Just when you think your baggage is stable and you have a grip on the handlebars as you buzz down the highway, that thirty pound bag of stuff strapped to the rear fender bounces loose, falls over and starts rubbing on the tire.

In short, excessive baggage can kill.

And, how does a passenger ride with all that baggage? Hop on top, grab a bungee and ride along? That is certainly not the safe way to go. Any operator who would allow this is quite remiss in his or her responsibilities.

Ride safe, ride happy and ride light.

Flowers and Memory

Three things and that's my limit. When I go to a grocery store, that's the number of things I can remember without having to write a little list. That's it. More than three and I run the chance of forgetting something.

It is interesting the things I can remember easily and those I can't. Birthdays? Holidays? Events? Forget it! Even if they are written down, my poor little brain has a difficult time remembering them. Heck, I can't even remember to look them up after writing them!

However, there are some things that I remember rather easily. Not sure why; I guess my brain is just wired that way.

I remember flowers.

My friend in LA likes sweet peas.

My friend in Louisiana likes columbines.

My friend in North Carolina likes daises.

My mom likes violets.

My grandmother likes roses.

A woman at work simply adores birds of paradise.

A fellow I used to know in Colorado was a HUGE orchid aficionado.

Me? Orchids and sunflowers.

I find it interesting that simply by looking at an orchid, I can generally determine the species. It doesn't matter if it is flowering or not. I can simply tell. The orchid; how strong yet fragile. How varying yet similar.

And sunflowers; how noble in stature. How strong and varied. Sunflowers blooms are really rather complex. Each large sunflower bloom is actually hundreds of small blooms. They feed birds and bees and other wildlife. They provide oil and a great snack food for us human folk.

Now that I have stated my favorites, I must admit that I love all flowers; Geraniums or tulips or cherry blossoms or daffodils or iris.

Such function and beauty. The procreatory device for nearly every plant on the earth can be so varied yet related to all others through function. So soft and supple and complex.

Very few other things can touch skin so lightly yet have such a large effect.

Yes. I remember flowers.

Motorcycle Maintenance

Motorcycle maintenance is far more than checking the oil once a month and maybe looking at the tires once they start squealing. Polishing a fender or cleaning a rim is a portal to concepts of mortality.

Operating and maintaining a motorcycle is much more like an airplane than a car or truck. Car or truck drivers seldom think of their oil or coolant levels. Infrequently the tires are checked for wear and typically lights are ignored until a police officer issues a ticket.

With a motorcycle, as with an airplane, it is different. Low oil can cause a motor to seize up, in a matter of moments. Tires with insufficient air pressure or excessive wear can be a catastrophe waiting to happen. Lights are SO important. A single missing tail light on many motorcycles, means they are virtually invisible at night.

On vehicles such as these, the little things are vitally, if not mortally important. A loose brake caliper can mean near instant death to a motorcyclist. To a pilot, a broken brake caliper can throw the plane into a ground loop or even cause the entire landing gear to separate from the craft at touchdown or take-off.

Preparing to take a bike out on a ride is much more than turning the key and hopping on. It is like a plane's preflight check. Turning signals; lights; front brake; rear brake; throttle; clutch; tires; oil; brake fluid; gas; chain; and constantly checking for loose items. If any of these are not operating correctly or within tolerance, they can easily be the direct or indirect cause of death.
Polishing the fenders and forks and suspension and gas tank provides ample time to think of these things.

I have never been one to buy things because they are “new and shiny.” I typically prefer function over form when it comes to my vehicles. This is an interesting case.

The bike's sharpness, the shiny suppleness of the rubber hoses and cables and fenders, are simply not for show. They are functional. Part of a bike's purpose is to draw attention. This is not for some self aggrandizing reason; simply an important purpose. Shiny and bright -equals- more noticeable and less likely a car driver will fail to see it.

I can't help but think of these things as I carefully ensure the hoses are clean and check for loose bolts and connectors and cables. And while thinking of physical mortality for a while; I think of emotional mortality and of my friends who were shiny and brilliant and caring and protected my emotional mortality.

The next time you see a red motorcycle being ridden by a guy with long hair, please pause. If you are my friend, and it is I on that bike, be prepared for a hug or twelve. Life is too short for one to not show a friend their thanks and appreciation.

Solitary Life

Solitude vivifies; isolation kills.
Joseph Roux

I yearn for the road less traveled and a comfortable ride; the clink of a tequila bottle on a wine glass; the laughter of a good friend; the view of an open field of wildflowers on an April morning; the salty intermingling of tears and spindrift while looking out to the ocean's horizon; the palpable quiet of a snowfall in a Midwestern wood; the crackling of a fireplace; the scent of coffee and a woman's hair first thing in the morning; the intimate tranquility of two people quietly walking down a peaceful country road, hand in hand.

Living alone is not necessarily a function of a solitary life. Being comfortable within oneself is outright necessary.

The road beckons for my embrace. Near infinite miles and combination of paths echo their siren song to my soul. There await friends and experiences and places and family and solitude beyond my meager estimation. Beyond the mountainous prison gates of this place.

Left or right, high or low shall be my choosing. Concrete or asphalt, gravel or dirt; these shall be my choices for I am the pilot of this two wheeled machine and of my life.

Endless fields of flowers before me. Sweet pea and daisy and sunflower and columbine and lily perfume my universe and indelibly place their gentile marks on my soul. Fragrant memories dance on the periphery of my consciousness as I follow my path.

Indefinite ways and intersections lace my future into a patchwork quilt, finally converging into a single point over the horizon in a direction I know not. I shall know it only once I arrive.

Passion???

Long hair, as dark as a warm humid night, draped down over her firm bare breasts, barely perceptible in the midnight summer moon. The scent of sweet skin and green grass blend with the opus of a whispering Midwestern night. We embrace. Skin touching skin. Bodies intertwined in the enveloping darkness.

We kiss. We hold each other. We caress. The ethereal touch of the moon's light and a brief cool breeze yearn to become one with the young lovers. Nighthawks flit overhead while the owls stand their nocturnal watch. The gentile cooing of the rain doves foretell an oncoming summer storm.

Our bodies wrapped in a blanket of heated passion, merge with the rising wind. Clouds build to the west as thunder echoes in the distance, vibrating the ground with a primal energy. Leaves rustle and the woods come to life, awakened by flashes of nearby lightning. Simultaneous crashes of electrical energy introduce the clearing to a much needed gentile quenching rain.

Quickly recovering our damp clothing, blanket and empty bottle of wine, we quickly make our way out of the clearing to the protection of a nearby abandoned farm building. Without a word, we stand in the barn door's ample threshold quietly kissing, rain and sweat mingling. The scent of passion and hay and the woods and rain press against our souls, making their tender but permanent marks in our memories.

***********

Whew. That has been rolling around in my brain for a few weeks now. Sometimes ideas just do that; roll around in there and just push and prod to be released. This was definitely one of them.

While this is for the most part fiction, it is based on a real event. There was no clearing or woods or bottle of wine. The altered details and extrapolations not withstanding, this is an event I will probably never forget.

And I wonder about it. Will I ever experience this sort of passion again? Will I ever kiss a woman in the rain or maybe a lightly falling snow? Is young love or passion relegated only to the young?

And I further wonder, for me, does it matter?

SNOW!!!

It is Snowing!!!

Well, not here in Vegas but in the upper midwest; Michigan, Wisconsin and a little in New York, Indiana and Maine. Some people have opined that I must be slightly masochistic. I love snow. I love winter. I love the shoveling and blowing. I love to see the snowplows on the road. I love to go for walks, feeling its unique crunch under my feet. I love to hear the absolutely tangible nothing as it gently falls in a field or woods. And I love the contradictory, melancholy beauty of a barren landscape after the snow has melted.

The snow and cold are like some primeval energy source. Walking out in the chilled, snowy winter air, to me, is like connecting my soul to a battery charger.

Ah, the memories... Memories of walking out to feed the cattle and hogs and chicken in a moon-filled early winter morning. Fresh virgin snow, never touched by a human, yielding yet supporting me. Unforgiving to stupidity or inattention yet that gentle white blanket protecting the earth from the killing cold of winter.

Sitting for hours next to a stream carrying a babbling flow of freshly liberated water from a winter's collection of snow. It's seasonal job now complete, it transforms to liquid beauty and tumbles away without complaint to its next job. The stream, performing it's duty with nary a whimper or whine, decade after decade. As its liquid passenger, it does not tire of its duty; it simply transforms.

Kissing in the falling snow is, for me, a sublime experience. Lips pressed together, passion melting the tiny snowflakes even before touching skin.

Watching a gentle day-long snowfall in solitude, feet propped up next to a blazing fireplace, good book in one hand and cup of coffee in the other. In my life, there are few other things that rival a day spent like that.

I was born a Midwestern farmer and lover of nature, and I shall remain one in my heart and soul until the day I die.

Missing...

You can only miss something, if you know what that something is.

As a child I never missed quite a number of modern day conveniences. I never missed color television; cell phones; central heating or air conditioning; being able to run out for something at the local 24 hour store; reliable utilities; and... well... inside toilet facilities.

I certainly knew they existed; they simply were not part of my daily childhood life.

Am I missing something? It certainly feels similar to missing something. But, I am not sure what it is. One must know what is missing to miss something. So, what am I missing?

One that misses an unknown is a seeker. At least a seeker should know a rough direction to travel. I haven't a clue. The fog of the unknown embraces me in its lifeless arms.

So, there is some empty place somewhere in there. Somewhat like the lingering vibrations of a long forgotten favorite song. The tune is gone and all that is left is a shadow of a vibration. There was something there, once, I simply have no clue what it was. The void is at time seemingly tangible. A physical and mental weight of nothingness.

A forgotten song? A book I read?

Solitude, I think, may be part of my path. I need time for quiet reflection. Please though, if you have my phone number, do not hesitate to call, or e-mail, or PM, or IM me. There is something more specific in my mind. Perhaps a trip.

I have in my garage a small motorcycle. At work I have more than three weeks worth of vacation. Perhaps, once my life starts to settle down, and I get a few hundred miles under my belt, I will go for a little ride. Nothing but a few day's worth of clothes, a little cash, few books, map and an emergency-only cell phone.

Three weeks on the road. It may not make clear what I am missing. It may not help me figure out what I am seeking. Minimally, it will clear away a bit of that fog.

Expect weirdness... I am going to attempt an upgrade to the newer blogger interface.

You cannot open the frontiers if you want 100 percent probability that nothing is going to go wrong.
Dan Goldin, former head of NASA, reflecting on the possible loss of Steve Fossett.

........................

Two weekends ago my daughter had a brush with immediate death. She is fine, dear readers. No need to worry. You see, she was doing something very benign; something that tens of millions of people do everyday. She went out to pick up the newspaper from the driveway.

The skies were cloudy and ominous but not terribly so. Coming back into the house, while closing the outside door, there was a powerful SMACK and an immediate boom. She, as she put it, “screamed like a girl,” and jumped into the house.

Lightning struck the street, not 20 feet from where she had been only 15 seconds before. Holding onto the steel outer door, she could even feel the discharge.

I see this as a lesson not only in our own mortality, but in taking chances.

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING has a 100 percent probability that nothing can go wrong. I sit typing this in a car, outside a casino. The laptop could short circuit, giving me a sharp bite of electricity. Or perhaps the short would cause the battery to quickly heat up, possibly catching on fire or burning my leg. What if some miscreant grabbed my computer off my lap and ran, or worse, threatened my life?

Driving to work? I have been driving for more than 25 years and quite throughly understand that it is a crap shoot.

The reality is that we are not immortal. We are going to die sooner or later. The preference is of course later... much later.

Knowing that reality, why not take a few chances in life. Mitigating the possible damage in case of failure is of course a good thing. Don't jump in and tilt at that windmill without making sure you have a sturdy horse.

The simple things: Don't sky dive with World War II surplus equipment; Don't scuba dive with empty tanks; Don't take up street-luge on a busy six-lane highway. That sort of thing.

I guess the point is this: Take that chance but cover your ass. You may need it the next time you try something. Now, if you will pardon me please, I have some lightening rods to put up.

Thrash – Definition: To move wildly or violently, without accomplishing anything useful. Paging or swapping systems that are overloaded waste most of their time moving data into and out of core (rather than performing useful computation) and are therefore said to thrash.

Someone who keeps changing his mind (especially about what to work on next) is said to be thrashing. A person frantically trying to execute too many tasks at once (and not spending enough time on any single task) may also be described as thrashing.

Foldoc.org (Free On-line Dictionary of Computing) Definition of Thrashing.
..................................
Thrashing and procrastination have been a monkey on my back for years. I start something and then move on to something else before I finish the first. Why? Am I impatient with myself? Do I have a short attention span? Is there some ethereal, unrecognizable fear of me actually accomplishing something?

To be honest, I have asked this question for years and not once have I struck an answer. Maybe, just maybe there is no answer. It just IS.

Fine. I am through analyzing and measuring and wondering. Time to change. Time to stop thrashing and get down to business.

I am going to be open an honest here; I have a goal; I have one large personal thing in my mind now that is important. I want to live in the country and participate in the agricultural life again. If this means starting out on an acre in a travel trailer with a large garden, so be it. Living in a barn while I remodel it into a residence? You bet.

This is not to state I am going to be single-minded. I will absolutely work to help my daughter through college. I will pay off the bills after the divorce. I will help my friends when they need assistance.

What about those other things I want to do? What about writing? What about flying and that plane I want to build? What about ham radio? What about traveling the country, maybe even the world to visit my friends? What about that motorcycle?

All in due time. I will get to them.

To that end, I have started another blog: To Farm Again . I will post there regularly, even if some posts may seem small or insignificant. As for this blog, I will probably post rarely or irregularly; so, really, no change here (LOL).

It's a cruel and random world, but the chaos is all so beautiful.
Dante – a Character in the anime Full Metal Alchemist.

I sat down today and attempted to write something coherent. With full intention, mind full of thoughts, I placed pen to paper and my brain just seemed to stall. The translation from thoughts to written word simply broke down.

Typically when this occurs, I write a few notes and toddle off to do something else. This time I decided to just keep writing these little notes. The result was interesting, if not a bit confusing, if I do say so myself.

Judge for yourself... Chaos? Beauty? Both?
.....
I want to do something great,
but not be great.
I want to do something fantastic,
but not be fantastic.
I want to do something amazing,
but not be amazing.
I want to do something interesting,
and yes,
I want to be interesting.

Accomplishing something great merely requires the fortitude and persistence to accomplish many minor tasks while keeping the greatness of the complete task rooted in the heart as if it is already complete.

Regularly pursuing trivial pursuits with no goal is a closed stateless system.

The result of one deconstructing their creation is akin to a sculptor deconstructing a marble statue of their own creation. All that remains is a pile of dust whetted with its creator's blood and tears.

A person's limitations should never be allowed to get in the way of their dreams.

I don't care if you stop this treadmill or not. I am getting the fuck off.

Since when has a bank account been required to do something great, fantastic or beautiful?

Different is not always interesting, but interesting is always different.

The property known as “interesting,” requires no explanation, marketing, selling or advertising. “Interesting” is inherently a self defining property.

Everyone has the right to sell their own life. I am tired of living mine on credit.

Every journey starts with a single step. Unfortunately, the highway to hell has many pedestrians whom started their way to damnation with a single step.

I think the frightening thing is when we lose our civility, which I think is happening across the board, and I find disturbing.

Emmylou Harris

It is my firm belief that a civil society requires a firm amount individual solitude. This, we have very little that is obvious in today's world. We are close together; constant contact. The pervasiveness of cell phones, internet, e-mail, and all other forms of relatively new communications modes strip us from our solitude. We become angry, introverted, disconnected from the real and natural world. We spend so much time interfacing that there is no time for introspection. We become a mass; not unlike a large hill of ants or termites. A school of fish with no individuality, simply moving in synchronicity with the mass.

Some samples of incivility. They disgust me.

Woman Stabbed to Death
http://www.lse.co.uk/ShowStory.asp?story=KI1941006C&news_headline=man_arrested_after_woman_stabbed_to_death

Mother's Deadly, preventable Secret
http://www.baltimoresun.com/news/opinion/oped/bal-op.neonaticide19aug19,0,1975658.story

Woman Killed by Ex-Boyfriend
http://www.wsoctv.com/news/13923400/detail.html

Signs Of Domestic Abuse Not Always Recognized
http://kdka.com/local/local_story_228171105.html

Woman Shot on Ute reservation
http://deseretnews.com/article/1,5143,695201958,00.html

Jealous Boyfriend Gets Life in Murder Case
http://www.ocregister.com/news/aguba-bumatay-told-1813630-times-pregnant

Woman Shot to Death After Domestic Dispute
http://www.wtvynews4.com/news/headlines/9149191.html

Woman Fatally Stabbed, Suspect Arrested
http://www.courant.com/news/custom/topnews/hc-ap-stabbing-0814,0,3100004.story?coll=hc-navigation-mhc

Local Woman Slain by Boyfriend
http://www.cherokeesentinel.com/news/2007/0815/Front_Page/025.html

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This must stop. How? I plan on trying.

(sorry for the formatting wierdness on the links)