I've been struggling with a dillema for a while now. It involves who I am, what I want to be, and my personal responsibility. I think I am coming closer to a decision. I am not responsible for the world. I am only responsible for myself. The decisions of others may have an affect on me as my decisions may affect them, yet I don't believe in judgement. The only judge in my life is myself, and perhaps those few individuals deciding whether to hang on to me or let go. What am I getting at? Only the most important decision to make: to escape or not to.
I am ready to leave. To start anew, in place, ideas, and livelihood. I choose to live my life outside of the mainstream. Both taking and giving as little as possible. I don't want to be dependent on it, while I want to keep apart from its foulness. Together with those who share my ideas. I am tired of feeling depressed, anxious, and nihilistic. I want to feel like I am making a difference in the lives of those I care about instead of feeling like I am perpetuationg endless violence against those against whom I have no grudge. To be free of the system and rigamorole, able to create something new, making things, actual things with my hand and mind. So I go, taking those who wish to travel aboard the ark to nowhere special, only removed. If only we could commandeer a shuttle to take us far away, I would be first in line, me and my animals. We will, however, take the chance on earth to make of ourselves something better than what exeists. I can't do it any longer if I have to care about every false move my government makes in my name. Shall I let them rob me of my happiness. Pure anarchy is as far from altruism as from possession. If my society doesn't give me what I need than I have no duty to give what it needs from me. I will secede to my own private ranch, paying property tax and no more. Me and the goats. With their handlers of course. To live a dream other than the American. To me it's become a nightmare. I just want to sleep in peace.

The only woman candidate has dropped out of the race for the democratic nomination for president; she also represents 50% of the people of color vying for the post .
Carole Mosley-Braun will be missed. She would have brought change. She is endorsing Dean now, maybe he will bring change. Not as much though. I wish she had endorsed Kucinich, who I believe, shared more of her ideals. I'm sure though that she realizes, as do I, that he stands about zero chance of gaining the nomination. Isn't democracy grand?

Big Brother by Stevie Wonder. Tells it like it is. Click on my pic to hear a little bit. Thank you Sara for introducing it to me.
"Your name is big brother. My name is secluded. I live in the gettho. You just come to visit 'round election time."

A question for the ages. Where even to begin? Like everything else in my life my defintion of love has changed as I have. The first love that you're ever aware of is that amongst your family. You love your family members, your parents, siblings, and the rest of the assorted relatives. This love is the unconditional kind, for the most part not even questioned. I love my mom and dad and my brother and sister, and will forever, despite circumstances (maybe I'm lucky here because many don't have that kind of lasting family environment). Love becomes more complicated as soon as you start actively looking for someone(s) to share your life with. What is it that you look for? There are looks of course, you want someone nice to look at. There are things you have in common. There is sex. And then there is sex. Sometimes I hate sex. It's one of the most fun things you can do with someone(s), it can bring you closer, but... Sex is not the end all. I look at it this way. At most, I will spend maybe 1% of my life in bed with someone(s). The rest of the time we won't be having sex. Why are we supposed to think of sex as the most important part of love? I think of the moments I remember with loved ones, and what I remember is not the sex (okay, maybe those special few awesome times are in there too) but the times we spent talking in the park, the times we spent dancing our brains out, the times when I'm so down and they're the only thing holding me afloat. Those are what I remember and what really matter. You can bump uglies with anyone and have it turn out nice. How many people can you spend the other 99% of your life with? I hope and pray that the people who love me don't do it because I'm a good fuck. I hope they love me for everything else I bring. For my cooking, my singing, my intelligence, my craziness. I hope they remember climbing mountains and taking pictures more than any great hour long sessions in bed. It all goes back to our culture. We are taught that we find the special person and then we become close through intimacy (maybe this is the first step in breaking from the initial familial love). Sex sells. Love not so much. It's easy to market a sex-crazed culture, much less so a market that values warmth and coziness. So, like most other things in my life, I try to see beyond the hype. What is sex? Why is it supposed to matter so much? My answer is that it probably doesn't. Not in the face of what true love is at least. I think if you cut my dangly thing off I might even experience depths of love that my sex-crazed hormone-driven psyche can't even understand (not that I'm tempted in that direction). Okay, my lovers call, time to get freaky.

My friend Sara is here from San Diego with her 4 year old. It is just about his first exerience with snow. Yesterday we went sledding at Chestnut Ridge. It was Thursday so there weren't too many people. It was great fun, I was somehow so enthused that I actually ran up the hill, crazy. Today we are going to Olean to build snowmen and whatever else you do with a 4 year old in the snow. It should be fun. Then we come back for catfish. Yummy!

Whether I am going to start reading again. I can't decide. It's kind of defeatist because I want to do something. Of my own creation instead of absorbing the work of others. I keep feeling smarter, or more creative, or developed in a particular manner. It needs some release. Something to make it more than a tiny portion of me trapped forever in my mind. When I make thoughts appear in other media they become more real to me, more substantial and believable. I can't retain every detail of my own thoughts; I need to make the specifics have a life of their own without my capacital boundaries. So probably anyways I will start to read something otherworldy. I am so lazy. Schade.

I am very tired of getting movies just because hot stars are in them and then they don't even do me the favor of getting naked. Seriously. The last two movies (discounting that horrible BBC thing) that I watched were The Bourne Identity and Igby goes down. Both featured rather talentless actors, Matt Damon and Ryan Philippe, who would have made their presence on my televsion like a million times better if they just would've showed a little ass. C'mon, who's pretending that they like these hacks for anything besides their studly hotness? Everytime fucking Philippe got on the screen I started yelling "shut up and get naked for Christ's sake"!!! At least in that other stupid movie about rich people and drugs he showed his cute ass. It is a shame that the Culkin brother in the film actually showed him up in Igby. I can't believe I am writing about movies. What has my life come to? Where am I? For flyin' fuck's sake, I mean it. I am trying not to let my current bout of semi-depression affect my journal too much, but it tends to seep in anyway. At least my father hasn't come out to me as a closet born again christian like poor Trisha's has. I feel for you baby. I hope I am allowed to say that in the journal. You're probably not reading though, so... Going now. Whatch a movie and feel sad for me please.

This one's close to home for me since I'm from Las Vegas, but should get everyone's hackles up. Here's the story from the LV local the Review Journal .

The FBI was granted special investigative powers in Las Vegas following the elevated "orange" terrorist alert level around the holidays. It is estimated that as many as 300,000 people had their personal information handed over to authorities, including names, addresses, phone #s, credit card information, etc. The information was gathered from hotels, casinos, and the airport. A disturbing point is that no effort was made to deaggregate the information, which means that all info was handed over whether required or not, no time was taken to make sure only info requested in the individual requests was submitted (they basically gave everything they had on every guest). The FBI also has the power to make follow-up requests for individual guests and to start investigations with any part of the data mined. Ironically this flies fat in the face of Las Vegas' new slogan, `What you do here stays here' Maybe it should be amended, `What you do here stays here, unless the FBI says differently.'

This morning I awoke to a mysterious sound, the result of which eminated from below my peripheral undersight. The rythym varied but the pulse was never satisfied. A bit of both pleasure and elastic, manueverings allowing perfect moment to ensue. The story at this point must undergo a wendung (d.). An underlying cause must be found. Language must not be used frivolously, to the benefit of only one, who's typing. Vietnafood is good especially twice. The third time in reverse makes much less sense though it titilates aural nerves. Isn't it ironic, don't you think, a little too ironic, and yeah i really do think. But it somehow manages to figur. Life, such a funny place. Helping you out. I feel that way when I go to Olean. Sometimes. I love to attach some- to my words. It is satisfying, for vanilla white bread. Or Swede. We feel it, really, on the inside. You couldn't tell on the outside. I wish you could more. I wish I could.

An entry whose stimulation derives from digesting <ahem> matthew's excellent Poopeye dissertation:
I think one can liken the process of cognitive thinking to the progression of thoughts on farts. Far-fetched, say you? I start with the memory of parents telling you, especially after particularlly pungent episodes, that farting is bad and not to be done in public. In high school and college you come, through experimentation and practice, to the realization that farting is a normal thing-everybody does it. So you start farting in public, you and your friends do it and even have commentary and contests. Eventually, you have the experiment with lighters which ends in pure frivolity. That's stage one. Eventually you have a partner and such, and you know what? You don't want to smell their farts anymore. You realize they do it, know it's normal and that the whole world farts, yet somehow it's better if they do it somewhere else. Hence, you come to this ethical realization that though it's a normal process that everyone partakes in, somehow it should remain a personal and private thing; for very pragmatic reasons. We can all grow to become individuals that recognize the needs of others. Selfless acts, such as retreating to a private place to flatulate, are examples of altruism reserved for sapient beings. Isn't it nice to be evolved?