Modicum of Veracity....

Oi Fan ska jag hatar mitt liv sa mycket? Ska jag sager, Jag vill inte har skit folk pa mitt huset eller mitt liv sen, lat det samma kommer in och stanna....och stanna....och vara mig sjuk pa varje punkt av mintt sjal, och mitt Intellekt? Vad handar sagar jag, till sig sjalv, ar du fortfarande sa SVAG (definera liksom: weak, feeble, mild, flimsy, (PERFEKT!) pa Engelska, tack) Jag ar inte stilla, aldrig. Inte pa mitt huvud, inte pa mitt ordet, bara, mitt Rost. Och varfor? Vad ar jag radd av? Att losning, men vad? Folk att hjalpar mig inte, folk att ger ingeting till mitt liv? Ska jag holla till alla det har for inget? Det ar sant att Jag ar mitt egen, och mitt egen hjalpa, mitt egen hoppas. (Jag talar inte om Gud har, ok? Han ar en annorlunda topik) Jag forstar att det ar INGET man att ska hjalpa mig, inget kompis, inget fran det Stad. Jag ser att MOST folk ar skit, och att det hela varlden, jag vill har INGET part av. Det ar sant att most flickorna ar WHORES, och att jag ar inte. Jag ser att most men pa Amerika bryr inte om dom barnen, och att dom lamna nar dom vill, Om dom vill. Har, alla det responsibility ar on det MOTHER, det kvinnor; och det barnen ar dom att suffer, men inte so mycket as the mother. Nar det mor gor hungrig, det barnen ater. Nar det mor gor utan klader, det barnen gor varm. Jag onskar att lamna det SKIT landet, tycker jag att mitt liv har ska aldrig bli, battre. Aldrig....men vad kan Jag gora? Inget, inget, inget, bara gor hungrig for en mer dagen.....Varfor det ar so jag vet inte, men sanning det AR.

On the Issue of Respekt, and Misuse of the Word HATE

I was recently introduced to someone who i have grown to have nothing BUT respekt for. In doing some research on my new friend's life, I discovered an overwhelming sense of humility, and an enormous sense of the power of my own voice. Albeit through pen and paper, I am not silent, should never HAVE been, and shall not BE again. I have lived this spare joke of an existence, having been taught from generations all the way back to Ireland, "You don't get above your raisin'," Or, "Who do you think YOU are, you're nothing but one of them white trash Blackburn's from the West End," as if, I HAD no right to dream, or that my dreams were too BIG for me. This friend has REFUSED to be silent, he has come from NOTHING, my Gahd I have some hope for myself!! As in, I KAN be fucking somebody and I WILL be heard, somehow. I have seen from this friend, that HATE is a terrible horrifying thing, and having just only recently identified what hate actually IS, the irresponsibility of misusing of the word, hate. My God, when Daniel used to scream at me and threaten to kill me, when he would punch me in the stomach or put me against the wall by my throat, THAT is what hate means to me. Not what i feel towards him, (because I DON'T wish him harm,) but HIS hatred. HIS anger, HIS violence. Looking back at it, I can see that what was IN that man was HATE...Just fucking, hatred. And man, to think that I could throw out that strong of a sentiment, with already attatched to my mind such a TERRIBLE set of broken memories of what HATE looks like, what an ugly fucking thing is HATE. Such a word that, to think of what I know of hatred, to attach the face of HATE to any word that comes from my sweet mouth, from my sweet heart, is just shameful to me. I must thank this friend because...I covered a beautiful yellow and pale pink peonie (pynie :) bush i had in my yard with balls and balls of manure, courtesy of Festus the Red Mule. I left them there and my bush just burned up, and it died. Even the strongest harshest shit imaginable piled high on top of the most beautiful plant, still must have a gardener to remove the shit, just a little...to break it up and just sprinkle it out a little more evenly, so that the plant can breathe. Too much shit and eventually the plant will burn, dis-integrate. I am finally finding the coherence of thought and motion and consequence of action and word, and the blooms that are startin to grow on this straggly Kentucky flower are gonna be fucking somethin'.

fellas I have entered the building...finally!

k so I finally got me a darnd laptop and joined the rest of the world outside of kentucky...jk...but not really. So now, I will be online doing a LOT more writing, and more videos and the like...so stay tuned...for I am arrvied...

Samma Skit, Andra Dagen

Allting po mitt liv ar JAVLE skit, just nu. Jag har mitt alskling, och han ska flytta har till mig nesta vecka. Jag alskar han, men jag ar radd att han ska bli snell po forsta plats, da att senare, han ska bli precis som Daniel, eller andra manniskor jag vet forut. Jag ar jatte constigt po mitt insiden... Jag sackna Sverige, och Hasse, och min hela klan po Good Foundation. Du vet vad jag talar om, om du inte vet, kanske du behover inte.
NOTE: SKIT is pronounced, like "wheat" except you blow out air when you say it, like the French, grossly, "huit"

You Can't Take it Back

You know, more people should put a lot more thought into the things they say.  Someone once told me, 'Words are like bullets, once you let them out, you can't take them back,' and people, this is true.  I learned about diplomacy when I was 10 years old.  My father took me, my aunt Alice and her new grandson out to lunch one day.  Thing was, the baby wasn't her grand baby at all.  Her son's wife had cheated on him, and everyone in the family was talking about how the baby wasn't my cousin's biological child.  So when we sat down to lunch, my aunt held up the baby and said," Doesn't he look just like Ed?"  (Her son)  I huffed and said, "No, I think he looks like Chris Lavon," (the man her daughter-in-law cheated with) My aunt said nothing, but put the baby back in the car seat. After a few minutes of strained silence, she got up and left the restaurant.  My father said, " Erin, do you know what diplomacy means?"  I said no.  He explained, saying, " You know, you hurt your aunt Alice very much by what you just said.  You should always think before you speak, and if what you are thinking may be rude or hurtful, then it is not necessary to go on and say it,"  I hadn't actually thought before I spoke, and frankly, it had never occurred to me that my words could hurt someone.  When I look back on it now, I am horrified, and hope to God that my aunt doesn't remember what I said that day.  I learned that lesson very early in life, and make a daily, conscious effort to make sure I choose my words carefully, analyzing my words almost to death, and the impact they may have on the listener.  It is easy to do, and I find that I am the better person in many situations, even if I am the only one who knows it.  Sometimes I nearly have to bite my tongue completely off  to keep my words in, but in the end, I find that this effort is always worth it.  If you read this, take a moment think before you speak;  If it's not necessary or constructive, then for the love of God, don't say it!  I guarantee you, people around you, especially spouses or significant others will love you for it. 

The Nut Ward

Yes I called it that, and I have every right to, considering that I have been confined there more than once. The last time was 17 days of confusion, hilarity and damn good times on the Fourth Floor Psychiatric ward of Denver Health Medical Center. I met some kickass people there, like George Welch. An old Hell's Angel biker from Sacramento, he checked in after being cracked out and not sleeping for more than a week. He was short and thin, with long hair and a Fu Manchu mustache that only old bikers can pull off. He was a con, and would wrench open the newspaper machine and steal a paper each time we went outside to smoke. And my best friend there, Pretty Girl who had the impulse to draw her own blood and shoot it out into the toilet, than draw it again, shoot it again. Then there was Noelle, who thought the devil was trying to eat her, and she so fat that she couldn't run to get away from him, a man named, and I shit you not, Robert Robert Roberts, we all just called him Bob. Or Sarge, who was a lean hard Vietnam vet who barely spoke until I went up to him one day and said I was proud of him. I had a special spot in my heart for him cause he'd lost a wife and very young kids in a wreck and then he had nobody so he went to live in his truck. Or Darren, who to this day more than a year later, is still sitting outside the public library next to Centennial Park for want of a place to go.
Or the artist Troi, who drew a landscape of mountains and pine trees on my foot with a blue ink pen, complete with flowers on each of my toes....One day I'm gonna send out invites to all the crazies I met on the ward and we'll all just show up one day and check back in...and have the time of our lives, all over again.

Leadville

I lived in Leadville Colorado from July 9th 2006 until April 13th 2007. It sits 10,200 feet up in the mountains, officially the highest incorporated town on the face of the North American continent. It is a creepy place in a way, an old silver mining town that somehow never died. Two songs by slipknot take me back there like nothing else. "Circle" and "Vermillion Pt.2," I can taste the cheap coffee I would buy from the Kum and Go on 4th and Harrison. Every morning I would rise and walk for coffee, and watch the moon over the eastern mountains turn into the coming sun. I went overtop of Hagerman's Pass in a 1988 Honda Accord with a bent antenna, 13,000 feet; this with friend Jeff who lived in a school bus. I remember Rex, the drunk who also lived in a school bus with his Sharpei Pokey. Rex woke each morning to Red Bull, Squirt and vodka. He wore a blue cat collar around his ankle and had a leather harness with the words "Colorado Association For The Blind" that he would put on Pokey; he would wear dark glasses and pretend to be blind when he flew so Pokey could come on board for free. I remember the dark winter nights, sitting at my window in the Tabor Grand Hotel-turned-low-income-apartments, watching the snowflakes that were pat as pillows and thicker than clotted cream. I would hear the howling wind, shrieking and thought of how terrified the miners and prostitutes must have felt living only in their shanty shacks. I remember Jan, the purple nosed drunk fry cook at the Golden Burro, driving me over the bridge at Redcliff, I-24 West. My God, what a place, and what a motley group of hard ass people who lived there. It draws you in, and you get stuck there, and by the time that town is through with you, you are drained of every good feeling you ever had. I'll go back though, that I do know. Times I feel like I have to...