buffalo lung is best thought of in long verse rather than trite medico-lexical subdivisions. buffalo lung has the overall feeling that would be an not all together un-pleasant headspace if it were induced by choice or even in fairly meted out doses. a here-not-here sensation that is uncharacteristic of sick occasionally joyous. buffalo lung is the thin grey mucus (opposed to the thick green and yellow) that coats the lungs and makes their functionality decline to a level that would not permit you running for your life or skipping through a field of frozen over daisies. It is a barking cough and splattering sneezes and sinus drainage and nose honking. buffalo lung is not caused or transmitted by cats nor is it the avian flu. buffalo lung is shy of a he'd cold and more than well. you feel bad for telling people you are sick when you have the buffalo lung as after five days you realize it isn't the beginning of something worse but the middle of something not so bad in the grand scheme of things. buffalo lung is real and doth protest when provoked by cold and short sleep nights.

good morning to one and all. woke up way too early thannks to the buffalo lung i contracted this week. oh and stuff to do but nothing that can not be done after the hours of sun up. any way i outlined the diagnostic criteria for buffalo lung but i then lost the post, so i repeat only me inquiry as to whether any one else is experiencing this not-so-bad malady.

Now, why am I in a bad mood? I was doing ok. nay, I was doing well. Well, well, for a thursday morning bleeding into an afternoon. I spoke to a friend with whom I had been on the petit mal, if you will allow the term without forcing clarification. I have a moment to write and elaborate upon some thinking and I am confronted with a besmirched sense of things. Ask me, “why?”... I don’t know. I still don’t. I am sick and tired of feeling like a nonchalant and highly abstracted batch of chemicals. Having no control over the reagents or what movements or thoughts should catalyze a new sensation or spark a new indignation. That is what my latest batch of surgery has taught me. Familiarity with these sensations by the process of learning may be all that prevents us from being the “true” animal that I believe we all might be. Guided by these emotions, or the release of one emotion into another. Feeling pensive? Try yoga. Feel persecuted? Try political activism or zoloft. There is no sense of letting things pass. not time for this, I guess. Seems like I have a lot, with which I use to entertain the unentertain-dead cells hiding out within my noggin. Everything is cause and effect these days. But, what if.. yes what if what if what if.. My favorite game of self-indulgence.

What if these sensations are a direct result of frustration that is unyielding towards this cause and effect reality that is crammed down our throats. Says man to mother “ he is at the age when he can either become a person or turn into every body else.” Mom smiles. Perhaps a trifle self-indulged by such a proclamation. Perhaps by the affiliations included when making such a statement. Darkhorse. Weirdo. Black sheep. Anti-social [more in flaw than in trait this one]. Labels for the members of my family. Affectionately applied all. Can you drop out in the year 2003? Can you just drift away into a fantasy land and merge this with the real in a way that you might inspire yourself? To feel proud of yourself as a self not for an accomplishment dictated by the society at large. Not for a raise or a new job or because of the successful completion of a project of some long length - hinted at, even teased at by the educational experience - training the attention to focus into the depths of minutia ... and for why? But to eradicate the sense of self. What about concentrating on all those distractions. Thinking about things beyond your particular ken or arena. And not feeling amateur or that these speeches must be practiced. Honed. Simplified. Graduated. Qualified.

Just to let it out. All the frustrations that are felt but go unchecked and unfettered to this earth because they are common knowledge really. We are a lost people. Forgotten the faces of our fathers -- in a not so local parlance. To not let it be. To twist a stick and waggle it in the open wound that we all ignore. The facade of happiness and coziness as achievable through this hall of entertainment and modest [and not so] process of accumulation and arrangement of one’s self into categories. The illusion that content-ment is meant to be unattainable or else thee might lack some motivation. That one is a simpleton. Idealist used as thou the word should be an insult and never a compliment. As if idealism decried rigid inflexibility and hopelessness rather than the opposite. Oh to be conservative and want things to stay as they are or even to retract into yesterday, year, century. As if these qualities should be lauded and the retract should be seen as anything other than that which is most obvious: a pulling back into a shell. Protective. or so you would believe...protection by way of isolation. By shutting down. By eliminating all voice of dissent and question. By eliminating choices. This agenda so praised. As if the desire for constant change (of the self as much as of the world) was wrong save for the included implication th
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inance over the environment and over these urges is all that should change.. To change by being so bold as to stand unswayed. A trifle pretentious and bloated in this hypothetical sense -- that of Rand’s ideal to be sure -- but here, in this now. In my now. More than a trifle outdated and unrecognizable to boot.

Yar. So in this and from within this to go away. Physically in a sense, but mostly mentally, mostly to want some others to come with me. To feel that feeling I once forgot. Of community of many people many needs but similar (never ever singular) desires and hopes and wishes and dreams. And to discuss these things in terms of possibilities. To not want to run away...like that sense of childhood when one realizes they are prisoner to the desires and needs and wants of their family untill they physically leave. Even if they mentally stay behind. But to run toward this place. Truly home. or maybe hoam. It would be a new concept so why not an homophonic equivalent as well? Not a comfort or a respite from the outside worold, per se, but certainly these things as well... But a source of content ment -- a wellspring from which to draw and recharge and reinvent -- the self.. And not for some daily travels from hoam to the whirld and back again. But as a world, in miniature no doubt, but as example of not losing these desires. Not assimilating. Of remaining in flux and in change. To have this sense of rehearsal remain but not feel as though it should end. What if all the performances just ended and rehersal was the accepted. This thought alone I can live on for a while.. Hopefully until the sense of hoam comes round. Or near. Or until the people do. Or until the what if that begins with...i stop writing about these things, get up and don't go to the fridge for a drink. But get up and go out and spawn this without my biggest prejudice... That i will be let down. What then...