thinkin' too hard

thinkin' too hard

stop what you're doing, everything you're doing. right now. stop everything you're doing and just listen to your lungs take in air. without the worries of daily life we might spend most of our time doing just this: listening to ourselves breathe. I can't decide which is more frightening, the prospect that there really isn't much of importance to do except listen to your breath or that we keep ourselves busy and running around to avoid the moment when we look into our own selves... and wind up missing the rest of life.
the pauses scare me sometimes, even though I search for them. I search for moments of perfection. I look for the convergance of comfort in search of my own meaning. Am I in comfortable clothes? Am I hungry or thirsty? Is the love of my life next to me? Do I need to smoke? Is it too hot or cold?
When we're done making adjustments, to our environments, what then?

It's easy for me to say that above all else, I'd rather be holding Lauren's hand. I know it sounds trite and everything else. Fuck triteness. I could be starving and filthy and baking in the sun, and if Lauren were with me, I'd probably be just as happy as I am right now, in an air conditioned office, listening to tunes and typing away, with Lauren 30 miles away in Reston.

I'm often frustrated by the convergance of reality and thought. In my head, floating in my own thoughts I process the connections between politics and personal motivation, culture and traditions and the hot breath of capitalism on the neck of the third world. I worry about gentrification, not so much why it happens, but how to stop it. How do you build a strong municipal economy and retain the Black population? What is the role of African descendants in the United States? Should they be given reparations, cash money, forty acres and a mule? Should they simply struggle along like white America has expected them to all along? Shut up and put up? What is the overarching pattern of repression, slavery, progress, manipulation and goverance?
Something's coming down the line and I can't see what it is. But it smells like trouble and I think it's headed for us. I worry that the whole global mess is just getting started. And that I am to blame. Me. Little fat white me. Playing my hip hop and peering in my belly button, I'm about to get caught with my pants down.
I don't always see things clearly, even if my eyes are open.

Where I've Been Before

gow'n down't the ocean, hon retired on 8/26/2002
happy birthday, Lauren retired on 8/19/2002
just visiting retired on 8/13/2002
taxi philosophy retired on 7/29/2002
I feel the Earth move retired on 7/19/2002
tick tock retired on 6/14/2002
The Story Thus Far retired on 5/14/2002
...And Much Later, When Every Thing Had Changed
Holiday Time retired on 3/28/2002
What is a Bear? retired on 11/22/2001
Happy Birthday Mom
Very First Page Ever retired on 11/13/2001

stop what you're doing, everything you're doing. right now. stop everything you're doing and just listen to your lungs take in air. without the worries of daily life we might spend most of our time doing just this: listening to ourselves breathe. I can't decide which is more frightening, the prospect that there really isn't much of importance to do except listen to your breath or that we keep ourselves busy and running around to avoid the moment when we look into our own selves... and wind up missing the rest of life. the pauses scare me sometimes, even though I search for them. I search for moments of perfection. I look for the convergance of comfort in search of my own meaning. Am I in comfortable clothes? Am I hungry or thirsty? Is the love of my life next to me? Do I need to smoke? Is it too hot or cold? When we're done making adjustments, to our environments, what then?
It's easy for me to say that above all else, I'd rather be holding Lauren's hand. I know it sounds trite and everything else. Fuck triteness. I could be starving and filthy and baking in the sun, and if Lauren were with me, I'd probably be just as happy as I am right now, in an air conditioned office, listening to tunes and typing away, with Lauren 30 miles away in Reston.
I'm often frustrated by the convergance of reality and thought. In my head, floating in my own thoughts I process the connections between politics and personal motivation, culture and traditions and the hot breath of capitalism on the neck of the third world. I worry about gentrification, not so much why it happens, but how to stop it. How do you build a strong municipal economy and retain the Black population? What is the role of African descendants in the United States? Should they be given reparations, cash money, forty acres and a mule? Should they simply struggle along like white America has expected them to all along? Shut up and put up? What is the overarching pattern of repression, slavery, progress, manipulation and goverance? Something's coming down the line and I can't see what it is. But it smells like trouble and I think it's headed for us. I worry that the whole global mess is just getting started. And that I am to blame. Me. Little fat white me. Playing my hip hop and peering in my belly button, I'm about to get caught with my pants down. I don't always see things clearly, even if my eyes are open.