Coincidences are a bitch, aren't they? We're so certain, adamant that the world is driven by choice and not some unseen force that causes convenient coincidence. But, things happen, and it seems like choice is sometimes an illusion. We're meant to be and see that which we don't expect, and may not even want. And if it were the roses-and-sugar coincidences then it wouldn't be so bad, but it's always ironic coincidences.

The universe has a fucked up sense of humor sometimes.


There are days...

There is beauty in everything. There is an aura, akin to a faint light but not quite. I see it in the pine trees lined along the walk next to the east building. Someone planted those trees; someone cares for those trees. The children play underneath those trees as they laugh and giggle, holding hands as they are sheparded towards the playground next to the volleyball area over in that corner of the campus. The parents watch proudly as they walk away from their beloved little innocent angels, and I swear on some mornings I see tears in some of their eyes. I fear I, too, would shed tears if I had children. It would be the first time I would shed tears of joy, but there's a first time for everything. This beauty permeates the people, the trees, the richly worn wooden bench that looks like it would be a tranquil place on which to contemplate the meaning of life (or at the very least read a book). In the sky are clouds piled high, mountains of fluff above and beyond it all and I wish, how I wish, I could be up there to see the beauty up close. I don't wish for much, because really who am I, and who are you, to wish for anything? I just want to fly.

Inside is not like outside, not even close, not at all, but we always have to go inside. Maria is always there. Beautiful Maria. Cinnamon-tan Maria. Her wrinkles and lovingly round body are so warm. Her beauty shines, as does all beauty at this point. A tall blonde in tall boots and tall pants smiles as I approach the counter and my heart and my mind are ready to bust loose and take her along for the ride. If I reach.

"Hola, Maria. Que linda te ves esta manana."

"Ay, tu. No seas loco y dime lo que quieres." She blushes and tries not to smile. Ay, Maria, how she tries.

Hatred washes over me. The hatred for the fat man sitting at the cafe table, his food piled high and cheeks jiggling in a sickening display of cellulose and fat. His tiny little spectacles squeezed around the fat along his temples and above his ears. Fat head.

It's one of those days.


I need the ocean. Too many years here have tied me to the waves, to the sound, to the lull. I'll never be able to leave, not for good. The things I'll miss out in the inlands I'll never know.

The boy sees darkness, endless and all-encompassing. The old man sees a sea of lights, stretching to the faintly lit mountains beyond.


Why does a man choose to sit next to the airhead? Look, the one I should be with is sitting over there. Over there is the smart, cynical one who would provide scintillating conversation. Over here is the airhead who doesn't get poetry and nearly falls asleep during readings.

Why would he want a writer when he could have a dancer?

What is this beautiful, beautiful woman settling for?


Neverending dreams of neverending travels are not so unusual.


I'm walkin' down the hall and playin' a holiday tune on my gut (rapuh, pum, pum, reverberatin' like a finely crafted drum) when Laurie says "hello," to which I reply "sup." Laurie's nice, kind of mousy and quiet. She's a kind spirit most def.

In the kitchen, grabbin' some of that fruity chamomile tea, and Mike says "sup" (he knows sup), adding "man, that beard is getting savage." Sorta, but not really. It's still too much face and not enough beard.

Headed to the end.

Back asswards and drunk in 2 days. Them's the bday breaks. On to next year.


A year to the day. B still fades, but isn't gone. Suppression is most effective.


Imagine no depression, no anger, no fear, no hatred, no desire, no happiness. Do you find it difficult? I don't. It comes as natural as breathing. I do not want fear so it does not exist. I do not want happiness because it leads to inevitable sadness which leads to inevitable anger and inevitable hatred, and in the end it is back to the neutral state of being.

Fascinating, yes? Being able to control everything. This is no joke, nor wishful thinking. It is reality. I do not want to be sick therefore I will not be. I do not like a person and they go away.


Life without money? Unheard of. Need goods and services all the time. Can't function without them.

Career's a drag. Bundles of money fall from the sky during the economic crisis and don't particularly care. Never have when it comes to money. Just a thing needed to do other things. Always there, always in abundance. Work work work, money money money.

Homer Simpson to everyone's Frank Grimes.

Significant other significantly absent. Married to an office man, no good.

What's next? From the mouths of babes it comes.


The Russian girls and their haven in Alaska. Heaven or S&G? Either way firmly embedded. The single highway and five hours later there's a canyon town. Locals friendly, tourists shiny, and backcountrymen smiling with grit. A place like no other, best of the bunch. The search isn't over but paradise while there's a paradise to be had.

A*ban"doned (#), a.


Forsaken, deserted.

"Your abandoned streams."



Self-abandoned, or given up to vice; extremely wicked, or sinning without restraint; irreclaimably wicked ; as, an abandoned villain.

Syn. -- Profligate; dissolute; corrupt; vicious; depraved; reprobate; wicked; unprincipled; graceless; vile. -- Abandoned, Profligate, Reprobate. These adjectives agree in expressing the idea of great personal depravity. Profligate has reference to open and shameless immoralities, either in private life or political conduct; as, a profligate court, a profligate ministry. Abandoned is stronger, and has reference to the searing of conscience and hardening of heart produced by a man's giving himself wholly up to iniquity; as, a man of abandoned character. Reprobate describes the condition of one who has become insensible to reproof, and who is morally abandoned and lost beyond hope of recovery.

God gave them over to a reprobate mind. Rom. i. 28.


© Webster 1913.

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