Post # 100 [Power Outage].

Harsh light,
gentle hiss of the propane lamp,
soft patter of fat wind whipped snowflakes on the window,
rumble of distant aircraft above the clouds,
pinging and chuffing from the old earth stove,
bubbling of the cast iron stew pot,
dozing under a pile of blankets.

Sometimes I miss a world without electricity.

Fifteen Cheers for Efficiency.

We just finished a round of budget and personnel cuts where I'm currently working.

The efficiency experts came through with their red markers and hatchets and decided which of us were redundant, and of course how many of the peons were getting paid too much.

Many of us received at the best a wage freeze (all in the name of shrinking budgets and the almighty bottom line) The unlucky ones, the ones who maybe used more than half of their sick leave in the past year, or failed to kiss the correct asses, received summary termination.

With that in mind you can imagine my reaction this past Tuesday when, while working with four other stressed out peons, I happen to look up and see not one but seven managers standing around smoking cigarettes, leaning on the wall with their hands in their pockets, watching us.

Each of these individuals makes at least twice what I make, I am better educated and better trained than five of them, I have more actual on the job experience than four of them.

Management wonders why morale is low and the employees all seem to have attitude problems.

Something stupid that came to mind while I was sitting here drunk with nothing better to do than screw around on the computer.

How do I make myself say I miss you,
how do I convince you that I care,
how do I ease the sorrow within me,
when I'm not even sure that your there.

Defacing a country road.

Good aim,
bad aim,
aimless writings,
writing my name,
writings on pale cold asphaltic concrete in the moonlight,
writings on throughways of modern commerce,
writings on the meridian divide twixt conflicting realities,
on the double yellow of unyielding compromise,
coyote's writings in a land of shepherds,
writing to mark time,
writing to mark territory,
whispering the night breeze,
echoing primordial dreams,
stale smoke steeped evenings,
the great wending,
winding and withering,
adrift in seas of reason.

Echoes from the post modernist confessional booth.

It occurs to me that I like a life of excess.

When I eat I like food that has real flavor,
I like backwoods cigars once in a while,
when I regularly smoked tobacco I smoked home rolls,
I drink Irish whiskey,
I like dark beer,
I like heavy ale,
I like rich pilsner,
I like my lovers both gentle and passionate,
I relish spicy food,
on the rare occasion that I have a cup of coffee I like it dark as midnight,
coffee so thick the fork stands up,
or with bushmills and cream and sugar,
and more bushmills.

I like to stand in the light drizzle in the dark,
smoking a foul smelling cigar with a wonderful taste,
drinking Pendeltons out of a ceramic steel cup,
watching cars on the slick asphalt,
listening to the wind in the trees,
and the coyote's.

When I'm happy I'm very happy.
When I'm sad, I'm extremely sad.
When I love, I love in abundance.
When I hate, I hate with every fiber of my being,
and when I feel nothing, I truly feel nothing.

I often wonder if that's why I resent being just another faceless mindless drone working a pointless, soul crushing, menial job.

I guess it must have something to do with the men in my family.

We tend to die young in my family.

My father is 60,
he faces every day as if it were his last,
because in reality it very well could be.

His father died in his late 60's,
and his father's father died at 42.

My mothers father died when she was 28,
he was in his mid 60's,
an ex-marine,
ex-cop,
in pretty good shape.

We all die young,
so I guess its almost natural to want the excess in life.

I suppose I could watch my diet,
exercise more regularly,
do more cardio,
eat bland tasteless food and abstain from any and all sinful entertainments.

But what point is there in a life never lived?

If I die at 60,
reeking of strong drink and good cigars,
in the arms of a passionate lover (or two);
is my life any worse than it would be if I did all the "right" things and lived to 65 and died with a tube up my nose and spent my last five years in a sterile hospital room?

In the end I guess it really is a choice between quality and quantity.

I suppose I should apologize to the world in general for this,
but I'm really unsure as to why.