a portrait of my recession:
as reenacted through the history of the American typewriter

Since I have been unemployed, I have been trying to stay busy in other ways. I have been reading a lot, playing and recording music (again), but I also have been writing a lot more. Over the last couple of years I have kept a written journal that I carry with me almost everywhere. I have nearly filled all of the pages in it, so I decided that it was time to get a new journal. Instead, I have been writing in a couple of small Moleskin notebooks I picked up while I was in Amsterdam. Although these have been great for noting little ideas and thoughts while I'm on the train or elsewhere, it was not quite the replacement I had wanting to use for writing longer passages.

I have been using my computer as my main mode of thought processing since I've owned it. Although it is a perfectly fine machine, I have had a couple of bad encounters with saving important documents electronically. A couple of years ago, my computer completely crashed leaving me with what I thought was a dead hard drive. I took my computer to the Genius Bar, where miraculously, most of my documents, photos and music were salvaged. I then promised to never let this happen again so I backed everything up on my external drive. A few weeks ago, I wanted to go back and review some of my papers and other writings from my college days so I plugged in my external drive and went through the index of various electronic documents. Although my photos and music are all on my drive, for some reason I could not access my written documents! And to think, I have almost everything I have ever created saved on this single hard drive is a bit frightening. I went to the Apple store yet again with a second hard drive issue and this time the diagnosis was not curable. I had lost all of my little thoughts, written dreams, research papers, etc. Five years worth of expression - poof. Needless to say I was pretty crushed at never being able to view these things again as I had years of my personal, academic and professional writings saved up on this stupid thing. I kept a journal on my computer while I was in Alaska, and it is now all gone. Very sad.

This frustration led me to a disbelief in the computer's hard drive as a secure place for very valuable items. Although I have dozens of "photo albums" saved up on my computer and elsewhere (facebook, photobucket, etc) I had nowhere else that I was keeping my documents. I remembered that we had an old IBM Selectric III typewriter at my parents house and thought about using the typewriter instead of a computer as a tool for my creative writing. It turns out that my dad had donated the typewriter to Salvation Army just weeks before I asked for it. I actually remember banging around on it as a little kid. It was heavy, brown, boring looking but very well made.

I had remembered seeing typewriters at the various thrift stores I go to and decided that I should check them out again to see if I could find something. I remember one time last summer going to The Ark thrift store on Lincoln Ave and seeing several typewriters at any given time. So that was the first place I checked. There I found a couple of earlier Smith-Corona electric models that were pretty well beat up and busted and also saw a newer Smith-Corona electric model which I did purchase for $10. It is a Smith-Corona XL 1800 which to me is completely indistinguishable from all of the other XL and SE models they produced in the 80's and early 90's. Having gone to half a dozen resale shops and thrift stores since I have seen a model like mine everytime. Because these models are so common, it is easy to snag the ink "ribbon" from them. I now have a supply of ink cartridges for this typewriter to last me quite a while. Also, what makes these models fairly unique is that the script wheels (or daisy wheels) are easily interchangable. For instance, you can go from a standard courier print to a cursive print by changing out this plastic print wheel - and it take just a few seconds to do.


I used this typewriter every night for the first couple of weeks I owned it. Mine was pretty much in mint condition and looked like it had barely ever been used. One night when using it, the machine began to spasm uncontrollably. So I unplugged it and plugged it back in. Still, it didn't know what to do. In a fit of frustration I began banging on the casing and mashing buttons hoping that it would somehow jolt the life back into the dying typewriter. Oh the humanity! Eventually, the machine returned to normal but I had completely forgotten what I was going to even write. This little incident further led to my frustration with electronic-mechanical devices. I then decided that a manual typewriter would be the end-all to my desires for a stable and reliable tool for documentation.

I remembered seeing a couple of older Remingtons at the Village Discount over on Milwaukee Ave. but decided to pass on them at first. One was very clean looking but non-functioning and the other was a bit rusty and beat up but did function properly. After checking a few other stores with no luck I decided I'd go back for the one typewriter that did work. When I went back just a day or two later both machines were gone.

A couple of weeks ago I bought my first manual typewriter at the Logan Square Salvation Army on Fullerton Ave for $10. It is a cold war era Royal HH model. At first, it did not appear to work. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, I was able to get it to work. So I decided to buy it and I carried the ~15-20 pound typewriter home with me. When I did get home, I gave it a cleaning and lubricated as much of the moving pieces as I could reach. After this, the typewriter worked beautifully. I like it for its almost symbolic purposes. Although it looks rather boring and bland, it is built extremely solid. It is very representative of American industry at the time as it was clearly made to last a long time.


Writing on it takes a little bit more work than the other typewriters I've used, as it seems you almost need to mash the keys to get it to print. I did some research and this seems to be one of the first models Royal produced after the war. Civilians were not allowed to purchase typewriters during the war as restrictions on raw materials were very tight at the time. So, nearly all of the typewriters made during the 1940's were for military use only. This model is one of the first mass produced, consumer oriented post war models and it certainly has that no-nonsense, tough cold war 1950's feel to it. It features Royal's "Magic Margin" function which I found confusing at first. Eventually, I got the hang of it and I began typing away with ease.


After buying this first Royal, I began doing all kinds of research on manual typewriters and started reading up on the various makes, models, history and mechanics of the machine. Although I do enjoy the big Royal, I decided that I also wanted a portable manual that I could take with me if I decided to go anywhere for the holidays. I kept my eyes peeled on craigslist and also at the local thrift stores. I had also just sold a very valuable guitar that I used when I was playing professionally and decided that I would get a really nice portable - perhaps something collectable. I had seen and appreciated the design of the Olivetti Valentine and thought it was really cool, however I wasn't ready to throw down the $300 that they have been selling for on eBay. So one day I made a visit to Ravenswood Antique Mart as I had heard they had a couple of really nice typewriters there. I had my heart set on an orange typewriter since I wanted it to go along with the theme I've got going on in my room. And while I was there I saw the one I really wanted - an orange Smith-Corona Super G. The only thing was that their asking price was $350. I thought that this was the most absurd thing I have seen and clearly decided to pass on it. I found that this particular "antique mart" was more of a glorified resale shop aimed at selling Mid-Century Modern furniture and items to the people living in the neighborhood who generally had disposible income. I strongly prefer to buy locally, and searched around quite a bit but gave in and decided that I would go the internet route for this particular model since it was a bit more rare. So I started watching a few of the same typewriters online and thought I would pick one up. They were selling in a range from $40 to $100 and some where even going for more. I kept getting outbidded or would back down when they started getting a little too pricey. So then one day, a Super G popped up on eBay without pictures attached to the listing. Generally, this is sketchy as an online auction without pictures can be a bad bet. However, I contacted the seller and asked if he could email me pictures and he did. I was the only one to bid and I got it for $20. The seller was an older man who didn't know how to navigate online resale. This is a theme that continued to reappear and my attitude towards impersonal online purchases began to change throughout this time.


This typewriter is very light and easy to carry around as it is mostly plastic. Generally, most people don't think very highly on the 70's era plastic typewriters but I thought I'd give one a shot. There is definitely a noticeable difference between the Super G and the Royal. Although this one is much easier to write on, it does feel kind of flimsy and not as solid while writing. But there's a reason why there are so many different models of typewriters. It's kind of like a bicycle, no single machine can do it all. I used this typewriter a few times and then put it away. The print is a bit bigger than the Royal and a little more "bubbly" I guess. I feel like this typewriter was Smith-Corona's shot at making a stab at the Valentine. The Olivettis were Italian designed and made in Spain. This is an Italian designed but made in Great Britain typewriter from an American company. Smith Corona hired the Ghia design firm who also created the famed Volkswagen Karmen Ghia. The case to this typewriter hints at the firm's heritage in auto design as it has racing stripes down the front. Although the design is cool, its function is the same as almost every other Smith-Corona of its day. This particular model almost represents an identity crisis of the typewriter industry in the 70's. It seems that you had to make the machine really fun to look at for people to be excited about writing.


Alright, so my little recession/unemployment hobby was turning into a bit of a consuming obsession. At this point I had spent more time learning about all of the different aspects of the typewriter than actually writing. That's not good. I liked all the typewriters I had acquired, but I still felt that none of them fit that happy medium I was looking for. I just wanted something fairly light weight and portable, but also wanted it to feel sturdy enough and solid while writing. I also wanted something that I wouldn't worry about if I scratched it or even broke it. I had done some research and found that most "writers" almost unanimously swear by the Olympia SM series. So I was doing a local zip code search and found one in the city and watched it for a few days. It got away from me at the last minute. However, shortly after, I found a portable plastic 70's typewriter, the Royal Sprite (which is only a Royal in name) that was also in the city and contacted the seller about it. The starting bid was $10 so I figured it was at least that much and I would just see what happened. I didn't watch it for a couple of days thinking that I would have been outbidded. However, low and behold I was the winner at a whopping $10. When I got it, I was happy to find that everything worked fine and it even had a fairly new ribbon in it. So I started plugging away on it and it felt surprisingly solid. Although it isn't necessarily a "real" Royal per se, it seemed to fit every criteria I had. I also think it looks pretty cool too for how cheesy and cheap it is.



Ok, so now I had acquired quite a few typewriters - the ones I have mentioned and then a couple of other electric models that I bought at thrift stores for $5 each (including one I gave to my roommate as a gift). The electric typewriters use almost a cartridge style nylon tape spool as where the manuals use an older fashioned nylon ribbon that connects two seperate round spools. The big Royal's print was starting to fade pretty quickly and so I decided that I should focus more on getting these things in better working condition instead of attaining more typewriters. After doing a quick search on eBay, I saw that you can purchase a ribbon for $9 (including shipping). Before buying these, I thought I'd search to see if anybody was still selling typewriter supplies locally. I would not really have expected to see anyone selling typewriter supplies much less typewriters themselves! After the first minute of searching I came across Independence Business Machines up north in Ravenswood. I called the shop and asked if they had the right ribbons I was looking for, the man on the other line assured me that he did and said that they were $15 each. I decided that I'd much rather just spend the extra $5 and support a local business, especially one that represents a dying industry. I remember reading an article about how the digital camera has nearly caused the complete demise of the old film photo shops just like how the word processor has made the typewriter and the industry that surrounds it obsolete. I checked out the website, and was excited to see that the owner, Mr. Kazmier seems to have enough work repairing and restoring these "antiques". There's actually a pretty cool video of the store and of Mr. Kazmier out there. It seems that the typewriter store attracts a particular person. So I made it to the shop today to pay Mr. Kazmier a visit.


When I first stepped inside, Mr. Kazmier was working on an adding machine. He didn't even look up to see me there. So I approached him and nodded and he told me to give him a couple of minutes so he could finish what he was doing. The store was filled with old typewriters and parts. Most of them were customer repairs and restorations but he did have a few for sale in a display by the front window. He had typewriters from all eras in there for repair but was only selling classic portable manuals.

Mr. Kazmier is an older man and told me that he has been doing this kind of work for decades. He finally finished up with the calculator and as he did, the customer who owned it had just come back. I stepped away so that he could get settled with this customer. A short dialogue went back and forth between the two. Mr. Kazmier had shown the man that the adding machine again functions properly and prints. It needed a new ink ribbon, and he had went ahead and installed it for the customer. The charge for $20 for the ribbon, the install, and fixing the printing mechanism. The customer was unhappy at the price and mentioned that he could buy another one at a thrift store for $20. Mr. Kazmier became upset at this argument and showed the man that he had made the machine work perfectly again as where one from a thrift store may not function as good or at all. The customer looked at it and said that he only wanted to pay $10, then quickly said that all he had was $10.

Mr. Kazmier quickly retorted, "I fixed your machine for you! If you didn't want me to, why would you bring it in and ask me to fix it? Why do you think I'm here? I'm not here for my health!" The customer said that the calculator was city property, and then Kazmier replied back, "If that's the case I should charge triple the amount then!". Finally, the customer pulled out a small wad of cash and said that it was ten dollars. Totally frustrated and offended Kazmier said, "For you - no charge! Don't insult me, keep your money and get out of my store!"

After the customer left, I was unsure whether or not my presence during the fiasco had been a bother to him or not. I looked at him and he looked back and said, "You know, people bring in these old machines and think that I will fix them for free!" I said that I had no intentions of hassling him and that all I came for was a couple of ribbons. He seemed relieved that I had such a simple request. I had brought my portable Royal with me so he could see it. He had the correct replacement and installed it right there in less than a minute.


I've certainly gone through a lot of motions throughout this whole job search process. I certainly realize that these are not the easiest of times to be a small business owner - especially of a business that is based off of a dying platform. And I have definitely become quite familiar with rejection over this last year with job searches, family ordeals and other relationships. And for some reason I feel like this simple ink ribbon may be the cure for setting me at ease in these tough times. As Mr. Kazmier installed my ribbon, he was still upset at the last encounter. He was saying something to the affect of, "I work on typewriters. Nobody makes them anymore. Everyone else was smart and got out of this business and started selling computers." There was once a time where American industry set the standard throughout the world in terms of quanity produced and build quality. Mr. Kazmier is proud of this heritage and clearly holds on to the notion that there was once a time where someone could make a respectable living doing this work. I even have witnessed a similar effect but in the bicycle world. All people want anymore is cheap, disposable items - and it's gotten to be very wasteful. We also had people bringing in old busted up bicycles and expected us to fix everything for free. There was once a time where you had to save up to buy something, and when it broke you either fixed it yourself or took it to a repairman. I have always admired the idea of being a small business owner, but because of how competitive retail and resale has gotten, it almost seems impossible. Today, big business is bigger than ever and consumers have to actively seek out the small man to keep the neighborhood business alive. It is difficult to compete against ebay, online retailers and big box stores that can under cut any mom and pop shop. I had brought up this notion to Mr. Kazmier. I told him that I had no idea that there was a typewriter shop in Chicago until a friend had told me and that I was ready to purchase these obsolete parts online only because it seemed as though there were no other route. Mr. Kazmier had mentioned that people bring in ribbons that they've boughten off of ebay and generally the quality is quite poor. "They buy these ribbons off of ebay and find that they're already dried out! They don't work. I sell good ribbons and I get a shipment in every couple of weeks". He dug up the other ribbon for me and I gave him the $30 I owed and said thank you. I was glad to have made this trip.

So now I am at home, wondering what this machine will pull out of me. I wonder why I've become so disillusioned with the way things are today, why I keep finding myself attracted to those who are working against the tides of superficial change and who hold on to the reliable things from the past. I call people and knock on doors to talk about politics. No one really seems interested. They seem to be more interested in television shows than talking about what issues concern them and what they would like to see fixed. And then I think about who I will become ultimately. Ideology is cheap these days. You can buy any kind of street cred or affiliation you want. Community is an abstraction and this economic recession is only a visible by product of our cultural recession. And so I've built a room for myself in the basement to sit in and think and to read about the things that all the great people in the world have done. And I don't think about what I'm missing out on anymore. I've finally become content again with letting the universe work its mysterious ways. Everyday I wake up with the attitude that I cannot predict what will happen, and if I just keep my eyes and ears open, I generally see something that I would have missed out on had I kept my head down. Once upon a time I loved my guitars. I loved playing music, and I still do. It's just no longer my one and only. Playing music used to be my dream. However, recently I have come to terms with selling that old dream for a new one. And I love to ride my bicycle, and I will continue doing that. Things are replaceable But for now, I am ok with hanging out in this room and riding out this recession. It was nearly a year ago that I went to Washington DC to see the inauguration of the president who offered the hope of change. The year has really flown by... But I imagine that I'll be saying the same thing decades from now about how youth and young manhood seemed like only days ago. It takes time to gain hindsight. So for now, I'll keep my eyes open and hope that I can catch a glimpse.

November 16, 2009

So I'm watching the news and screaming at my TV, what's new? The same old question: Industry or environment?

Industry or environment?
Money or sustainability?
War or Peace?

Ok well, let's go back just a little bit. Today was a typical day in Chicago. What is a typical day in Chicago you ask? Ah, great question indeed! Well to start off, generally, one wakes up in a cold room. The next thing is that one takes a lukewarm shower and then maybe drinks some day old cold coffee. If you're lucky, you'll catch the train right on time! But that typically doesn't happen. But if you're even luckier than usual, you have a good job to go to on a day to day basis.

So anyways, the first thing I heard about in the headlines is "Chicago Public School Board President Found Dead in the Chicago River". Can you believe it?! A gun shot to the head,. and the police have labeled it a suicide. I'm listening to the news and the major developments of the day are apparently still about censorship in China. I figured that we were over that by now. Sigh,. What's this? Eagle Town, Colorado?! Sounds like the perfect American city! Or perhaps, Liberty, Missouri. Hm, sounds intising.

So today all I could think about was posterity. It's really quite curious if you ask me, that before I even apply for a job, I have visions of myself after a year, after two years, perhaps after a decade from working a job that I am unsure that I will even get! But isn't that why we hold imagination to such great esteem? No? At this point, I have come to terms that the whole conception of "the home" is an imaginary one - and no, not one that is a fun delusion. Well, actually there are some things to look forward to.

For example, when I come "home" from work, I am very excited at the prospects of:

1. Petting my cat
2. Taking a nap
3. Eating an avocado
4. Screaming at the news

I've come to terms with my reality at this point.

And I'm sitting here in this room I've made for myself. It's actually quite nice and my cat finally smells good. I gave him a bath (which he protested the whole way through) and he smells like shampoo. Also, I have every guitar I've ever owned in my direct presence. I always felt a connection with songwriters because it's such a difficult thing to really write something honest for yourself. But of course, whenever when you do, people want to know what it's about, or who it's about. And sometimes it can be hard to give people the answer to certain questions you can't even answer for yourself.

Well I have pretty vivid dreams almost every night. And when I do finally wake up, it's always the same. At first I am so awestruck with what has happened in my other life (you ever have dreams that feel so real?) We spend half of our existence asleep and the other half in front of a monitor of some sort. Then I realize that I need to get up and wash my body so that I'm presentable for the rest of the world to see. Hell,. who am I to complain? Really. I mean, I've had such a cushy, cozy life for the most part. It's one my grandfather probably would have killed a few Nazis to have himself! Honest! He thinks it's pretty ironic that I have a college degree. I was helping him fix a fence one time, and when I took the hammer and gave it a swing to pound this staple into the fence post, the thing went flying (the staple that is). He had a pretty good chuckle and said, "Now what we got here is a boy that has a college degree but don't know much about how to use a hammer!". I thought it was pretty funny too but also pitiful. I realized that the "city boy" just refers to an overly domesticated breed of person.

_____________

Last week I had a very interesting experience almost every day. But the week before that, I had even more interesting experiences. I went to the Chicago Cultural Center and saw some Euro-jazz bands. But for me, the more exciting part was the building itself. It was great to be somewhere that made you feel a part of society. I felt like I was in a movie at some points, the doors were that absurdly large. But this place made it feel like, "Wow, so this is what my culture looks like on paper". And so that night I treated myself to a Portillo's Polish Sausage, and it was good.

I had lunch the other week with a dear friend who enlisted himself into the Navy with a college degree and has made it through basic training. He looked very different. We have been good friends for a long time. However, it was one of those moments where I saw a different person immediately. It was good. I'm glad we're all realizing that it's time to move on.

I created an adage the other day that I'm kind of proud of. It goes like this. "The ones who loved you are always the ones who are ready to twist the knife once you've placed it in your own back". It's true because, how could you blame them? It seems like such a worthwhile thing to get retribution.

A pretty good way to avoid all confrontation is to find a new hobby that consumes you - like collecting junky stuff. But people can still get mad at you for doing this. Yes, it's true. But they're missing the point. Because it's not really all about "you". Quite the contrary.

But sometimes I can also get too caught up escaping to better times. Sometimes I think about living in Aiken, South Carolina at a ripe age surrounded by woods in a nice house and a dog named Cocoa. She was a Boykin Spaniel, the state dog of South Carolina actually. It was pretty easy to be happy in those days. I had a really simple interest in life, and it was to learn about the things I loved: dinosaurs, cowboys, squirrels, etc. Interests do change over time. That's definitely true, but it's also nice to return to simpler things.

I also find myself wondering - what kind of love is worth fighting for? You shouldn't have to fight something that you love right? Unfortunately, it is easier to just tune out and give up on things. I think it's something that Darwin understood. He clearly understood the paradoxal things in this world. Complacency with contempt.

There are still a few mysteries left in the universe. I say, let the universe be mysterious but allow yourself to be open with others. Why the hell not? What are you going to lose? When you have nothing left to gain, you finally come to terms with yourself as a small piece of the whole of all organic existence (until the Large Hedron Collider discovers dark matter and then there will be nothing left to discover). So in the meanwhile, I think we should all try to sleep well. It's the only time that you have to really be free.

Or as I.G. Good once stated,

"The first ultra-intelligent machine is the last invention that man need ever make."

Good night.

Diary

By feeling a light sensation of goosebumps on my elbows and neck, I would assume that it is about 61 degrees in this room. Yup. Well, it's a good room with lime growing on the walls. It's only lime not mold. So that makes it ok, right? I feel bad for this sad sap of a radio host. He keeps apologizing for cutting off the songs too early! Well it is a Sunday night/Monday morning and this isn't the kind of station that has an automated-computerized-remote control programming. No sir, this is like being in the golden age of real human successes and fuck ups, the kind that we had before smart bombs. One fumble of the turntable's needle and it's all over.

On Thanksgiving, I watched a documentary about the Mumbai terrorist attacks that occurred last year. And in this story, a woman who survived gave an account of her interaction with one of the gunmen. The poor fucker didn't know how to use a water facet! Can you believe how easy it is to point a gun at someone and kill them? It's easier than using the tap! But this was in the era of smart bombs. Definitely in the era of the Peacekeeper missile that Reagan said we needed. But that was in the era where first ladies were drugged up and tuned out. They did nothing but support the state. Ronald had his "Star Wars" but Nancy believed in spacey things too. It's hard to say how many first ladies the party system has actually helped out. Well, at least Michelle Obama got to make a guest appearance on Sesame Street. I think it'd be pretty entertaining to see Lynn Cheney hold a dialogued with Oscar the Grouch. It ain't easy being green. So they say.

I found a man on the ground the other day. I thought he fell off the back of a truck. No, he was just wasted. He was also bleeding from his head pretty good. I asked him if he was ok and he replied back to me in a very slurred Spanish. I again asked if he was ok, and then he proceeded to put up his dukes and say "Am I ok? Am I ok?" while coming at me. He was definitely bleeding from his head. That poor fuck.

I also ran into another man the other day who was sitting in a car. He waved me over. He had a mustache and really thick glasses on. He called me "young man". Any decent young man knows that he should help the elderly. This man was very quick to point out to me that he was disabled. He had the handicap tag hanging from his rear view mirror and a cane on the floor of the passenger seat. I was more asphyxiated on his familiar face, he vaguely looked like one of my high school English teachers. He was disabled, I understood this much. He was also from the suburbs. Ok, got it. And finally, he needed money for gas to get back out to the burbs. This was at a point where I literally had about $30 to my name. I never did catch his name.

Money. It can get you a lot of fuel. You could get to any suburb with enough money.

I went to a wake for the first time in my life the other day. It was really quite a beautiful evening. And of course the people who didn't go are all asking, "What happened? Did she die from ____?" How the hell else is someone my age supposed to die? Unless it's obvious, (ie. Wayne Gacy) how the hell is anyone supposed to assume how anyone else dies? You are the only person who will really know the ending to your own narative. Well there really are quite a few ways to go. I think it'd be fun if "Singing in the Rain" were played at my funeral and everyone participated in a coordinated dance.

Actually, no. I take it back. I just want my corpse freeze dried and launched out into deep space. I want my body to float through the universe until it either crash lands into a meteor or until it burns up in the atmosphere of that fake planet Pluto. Anyone remember it? It's kind of the underdog of planets,. so yeah. I think that'd be a good destination.

I have come to the determination that we should all be happy when our time comes. I think death should be a beautiful thing. People who have accounted their near death experiences mention how peaceful they felt while slipping into the afterlife. I think that these experiences were/are true. I mean to be bombed by Israeli artillery would not be a very happy or peaceful way to go, but say you get hit by a Cadillac while crossing the street. It could be ok, right? Or if a pool table fell out of a tree? Bah, it's useless.

In the creed of Don Piano,

"Why I eyes ya, all the live long day"

The end.

The Architect's Dream (a children's story)

"The last few months have been very trying on my soul", said the architect. "And as summer passes and autumn approaches, there is nothing left of my foundation but a shell of brick and mortar". The architect was a very famous person. He lived in a time where no one studied math, or science, or history or politics – just art. He designed and made buildings, cities, machines and monuments. In fact, he was so popular and had such a reputation for his creations that he forgot his own name! He was simply referred to as “The Architect”, and everyone knew who he was. He was a lofty person, always losing himself in his sleep with grand visions of building the most magnificent machines. He had a vision -

"To build a monument to time is my dream", he said. "And it will be shaped like an hour glass with nothing in it but dead leaves. A slowly burning match will be thrown in and the glass will contain a fire - a flame that proves that there is no time left to gain. The ashes of the past will float and fall through the glass, collecting at the bottom into one soft blanket of nothingness".

He became very satisfied with the idea, as he realized that to waste time was the harshest penalty one could endure. So he locked himself up in the basement of his own home to design this grand memorial to time. No light could enter. There was no difference between night and day. So he drifted, unaware of his surroundings; delusional and numb to the chilly weather.

The architect became distracted by his work. What was there to share with others besides lofty dreams that had long ago been thrown away? To him, the answer always was to construct monuments that no other man could ever make, to attach his own legacy to things greater than himself.

He built his hourglass and everyone loved him for it. The people loved him so much for his monuments and they wanted him to build an even more spectacular one.

He decided that he would build a ship - one that would set sail on its maiden voyage and never return. Of all the places in the world he could be, none of them made sense but the landscape of the deep ominous sea. He wondered what it would be like to build a cathedral on water, one where people can come to worship but never leave.

"I will build a monument to Mother Nature, the cruelest architect of them all!", he said. "Because my love for God will only be realized when I am…", and he never finished his sentence. But he designed the magnificent ship and it took over 10,000 people to build it. He felt satisfied. “As long as this ship remains, my legacy will endure”, he thought over and over to himself. The cathedral-ship was called Aldine.

That night, in his sleep, he had a vision. The architect saw a double headed lion laying next to a beautiful woman playing a piano. The sound was a bit eerie, but it was also quite beautiful. The melody was vaguely familiar to him, he could only think about his past. He felt content just to listen. And as she played her song, the angel's hands turned blue. The architect became unsure of what was happening or what he was seeing. Then the song took a turn for the worse. The lion let out a long pitiful roar and the angel's hands began crumbling on the piano keys. First her fingers, then her palms, then her forearms, and dear God how horrible a sight it was! Once her body fell to the ground and shattered into pieces, there was nothing left but dust. The lion picked himself up, almost as if he was just waking up from a slumber and then lazily walked away. The top of the piano flew open as several large gold colored gears began rising out of it. And as the gears started to wind, a dreadful grinding sound and smoke filled the air. The architect began to choke.

The architect woke up to find himself in a small bed. It was unfamiliar to him. It was actually his own bed! And next to him was a phantom of the woman he once loved. She would always lay there, and never left him alone. The phantom always seemed to follow the architect, haunting him while he slept. He rarely ever felt rested. He hated her and screamed loudly, only to quickly return to his sleep. The air was stale and his bed was damp from sweat.

The architect was back on the Aldine. Everyone was preoccupied with various tasks, running about the deck with no order. Well, there was an order – but too much order! So much order that it was chaos! And in the center of the ship was a hill with the monument. Soldiers and sailors and workers and helpers moved about like ants in a maze of underground tunnels. Except, there were no tunnels, just the large deck of the ship. The ship's Captain appeared out of the cluster of people and approached the architect about his next task. The Captain was an ordinary looking person, soft spoken, with honest eyes. The architect’s next mission was an important one, as it involved the prolonged success, sake and overall glory for freedom loving peoples across the world - or so he was told. The Captain had chosen the architect for the mission because the people loved his monuments so much. It only made sense that the future of the ship lay in the hands of the creator the Captain thought. They put him in a metal underwater suit with a glass window for his face. It was orange and at the top of his head was a large hose, connected to,. well nothing actually. It was just there to make sure he would be able to breath.

The crew lowered the architect in the ocean very slowly. He had never been fully submerged in water before, but it seemed to him that it would be similar to falling out of the sky. So down they lowered him, into the darkness of the deep waters. Finally, after two minutes and nineteen seconds, he made it to the ocean floor. He pulled out his special underwater flashlight and it lit up everything around him, and to his surprise a house was right in front of him. It was very plain looking, almost like something he had seen in a movie. Just simple white with a couple of windows. He approached the house and opened the door. As he stepped inside, the architect noticed that there was no water anywhere! His feet were walking on a surface as dry as a desert. Everything was in black and white - the architect could find no color anywhere. The house was completely empty. It was not as easy to walk around in the suit, but he did not take it off for fear that he would not be able to get back to the ship. There was a large chandelier hanging from the center of the atrium and the floors featured black and white checkered tiles. Directly across from him was a long staircase that winded along the wall up to the next floor. He began climbing up the staircase. The first step was the hardest one to master, and the last one was not even there.

As the architect reached the top of the winding staircase, he faced a narrow hall. A doorway appeared on the right side. The door itself was slightly cracked, letting out just a little bit of light. So he approached it with caution, tip toeing in his big heavy iron suit. The walls had striped wallpaper and the floors were wooden planks, but still everything was black and white. He pushed open the door and in the middle of the empty room was an oval rug with a large chest on it. It was a fairly ordinary looking chest; similar to ones he had seen in many people’s homes. Perhaps a buried treasure he thought? Or maybe an artifact that would explain some unsolved mystery. He felt proud that he had made it this far and in front of him was his goal. To have his future posterity in plain sight was a feeling unimaginable until this point. So he unlocked the hinges of the chest and slowly opened it… Immediately, hundreds of waves of light came crashing out! Bright colors began filling the room. The waves spilled out and painted the walls, the floors and ceiling. The architect leaned over to look inside of the wooden box. What he saw inside, only the architect knows… But it must have been something truly moving because he began a hysteric laughing. It was a melancholy feeling. His manic laughter quickly turned into a deep sadness and he began weeping. As he turned to leave the room, the house began to fill with water. He had trouble seeing out of his underwater suit but made it down the staircase. A cat sat at the base of the steps, and it continued to sit as the water filled the building.

The architect woke up on the deck of the gigantic ship. Time had ceased for a moment for the architect. Even after making it back to the cathedral-ship, he still felt that he was under water, in the house, in the room, staring into the chest. The crew of the ship was still scurrying about, tending to their orders like they were trained to. Most didn’t even notice that the architect made it back alive, much less remembered the mission he was assigned to do! He saw the underwater suit, but he wasn’t in it anymore.

Some birds flew overhead and made funny noises. The sky was open, there were no clouds to cast any shadows on the ship. He watched the birds swoop in and out of the air in amazement. Although birds had always flown around in the sky, the architect never really paid much attention to them. The way the birds could pitch their wings forward and back to lift themselves higher or lower in the sky, or how the birds could dive like a missile into the water to catch fish, and how the birds fly in a neatly formed shape was miraculous to the architect. He studied the design of the birds, how every part of their body had a purpose. Nothing more, nothing less. But what if the birds were in outer space or underwater? Would they be able to fly as gracefully? He wondered if the birds had ever wanted to fly to outer space…

A lot of the birds would land on the deck of the ship and peck at the ground, picking up the little specks of food that the workers, and the sailors and the soldiers would drop. The birds that lived on the ship were grey in color. This was from flying through the smoke from the engines and from walking around in the dirt on the ship’s floor. These birds would just walk around, bobbing their heads back and forth and then start pecking at the ground. The architect noticed that these birds were not nearly as graceful as the big beautiful ones that flew far overhead in the sky. He got hungry from watching all the birds and found a bench to sit down on and he began to eat his lunch.

In front of him was a row of grey birds pecking away at the ground. They were very mechanical in rhythm, like the arms of typewriter keys pecking away at a blank piece of paper. Sometimes they would flap their wings a little bit and rearrange the order, but then they would just return to pecking away at the ground. Another bird came into view. It looked like the others, but it was white instead of grey. It walked around a little bit and watched the other birds pecking away. It stood there gracefully. This bird caught the attention of the architect. He watched it and thought it was beautiful. Some workers shuffled by, disturbing the birds for a moment and then they went back to what they were doing. Then a big group of sailors came walking by and the white bird got mixed up in them. It looked like it didn’t know which way to go, as it was completely surrounded by people. The grey birds were not mixed up because they were still standing in the same place, pecking at the ground. Suddenly, a gap in the sailors opened up and the white bird walked quickly in that direction. The gap opened because a big vehicle was coming through. The white bird did not see this coming and its wing was run over. It tried to fly away but could not. Then, more vehicles started moving by much faster than the first. The white bird frantically moved about, and avoided the first two. Suddenly, a big cloud of white feathers filled the air and the white bird lay motionless on the ground. The other birds looked over for a moment then continued back to their ceaseless pecking. Some workers came by to clean up the feathers. They scooped up the white bird and tossed it over the ship.

The architect knew what was coming his way. He saw what he had created for himself as a monument to greater things. He could no longer think of any more things to create. There was nothing left to create. There was nothing left to discover or invent. The architect lived in an era where every song that could be written had already been so and every invention had already been made. The only real thing left was time. He realized that he could not waste it, for time was the only mystery left in the world. He realized that all the triumphant monuments in the world could never make up for his unhappiness. He realized that he never had a home. So he decided to abandon the great ship that he had designed and built for Mother Nature. He dove back into the water without his underwater suit on. With only a big gulp of air, he swam with all of his might to the ocean floor. It was really a huge effort for him! But for the first time in his life, he knew where he was meant to be. He swam all the way back down to the house and reached the front door. The doorknob was locked and he pushed on it as hard as he possibly could when all of a sudden – it opened… The angel from his dream opened the door and he fell to the floor gasping for air. He got up and looked around. The angel looked at him and said, "Welcome Home". The house was full of color this time, and in it was the double headed lion, the cat and the white bird (which had a cast on its broken wing). The architect was so happy to have made it! The angel sat down at the piano and began playing a song. It was a good song, and made the architect forget about his past. He had endured through the worst of it, and now realized that the time he had was the most valuable treasure in the whole world. The architect was content and started feeling sleepy. He laid down next to the lion and closed his eyes. The phantoms were not there to bother him in his sleep, as the double headed lion was there to watch over him. As his mind began to relax, and slumber ensued he remembered his name. It was…

The Desert Fox

I've come to realize that my main priority right now
is to reclaim the concept of the tourist.
See, lately I've been spending all of my free time
with Teddy Roosevelt, Chuck Yeagar and General Patton.
I've met Stonewall Jackson, but we haven't gotten close yet.

When you live in the desert, there is no way out but forward.
Directions lose their purpose
and stars become only a tantalizing hope of salvation.
There is no salvation in the desert,
so the tanks have to carry on,
pushing through the sand until the treads fall off.
Only then can you learn how to use your feet.

See, the thing is, if you destroy enough lives
people will learn to love you unconditionally.
Endurance is found through the destruction of living tissue.
Muscles regenerate, but the heart fails.
And when it does fail, there is no salvation.

I am an inventor.
I did not create the human experience,
but I invented my own.

So go ahead and protect yourself woman,
your brand of salvation is the kind that
forsakes the ones that loved you the most.
Little do you understand, we're destined to have the same fate-
we're all going to return to the ground one day.
Some will do so sooner than others.

Except your heart pumps oil.
The thick black kind that lubricates
the pistons of legacy.
A sick kind of churning happens inside.

I can push my legs far past failure
and then my inner nature comes out.
When I'm climbing a hill,
it's like I'm a mountain lion looking for shelter.
But there is no such thing.
It's just men with rifles that go home
to women who go about their business
of saving the children.
Except it's not about the children.
No, in fact is has nothing to do with discovering yourself
and everything to do with consuming.

She was handed a life that was not her own
and became convinced that she was saving the world.
And although she may seem as steady and stiff as a tree,
one day she will fall like the rest.
Nature is a destructive creature,
and only through death can there be new life.

When you look into your child's eyes for the first time,
think about me and those that you've forsaken
and know that this child is not as pure as you think you may be.
The only pure thing is gold and silver,
so you wear it on your finger
to remind yourself of a love that you may easily forget.
If you haven't forgotten it by now,
you surely will when you're ten feet under ground.

The best thing to do is to chop down all the trees
so that your baby has nothing left to breathe.
You'll set them all on fire,
convincing yourself that you're making room
for your next new love.
There will be nothing left but ash and smoke,
there always is.
And we'll give you a name that's fitting,
for where there is fire, there is Ash.

It's people like you who are destroying the earth,
for your love is a poisonous secretion.
And the acid your body produces
will cause your lover's heart to fail.
It's ok, because at the end of the day
we're just a bag of bones who have fallen asleep
dreaming of better things...

So instead, I call to tell you that I am trying
to create and construct, yet
your agenda is only to destruct.

And I hope I never see you again,
because I'll be on tour in the mountains and desert
discovering why I could never belong on your earth.

conclusions, grand finales, illusions of love and the ultimate distraction

She told me that I shouldn't swear so much at women.

I feel that it's my obligation to be an equal opportunity

supplier of great conversation.

I used to love my instrument,

I spent every day with it honing my skill.

It let me down over time and I decided

to try and love a girl.

She pulled something out of me

that my guitar never could.

It was something so hopeless and desperate,

there's not really a way of explaining it

without a smile on your face.

But I ride my bike to work

and show up like nothing ever happened.

One week, two weeks, three, four, five and so forth.

Slowly but surely slipping into a real insanity.

The kind that only living dead men know.

So instead, I hope for a car crash.

She's a business woman, like her father.

If the deal goes bad, she knows how to handle it.

One bad transaction after another.

She is also a master of natural selection.

Constantly becoming involved.

So she "protects herself" by killing the only love I knew.

She always said suicide was selfish,

that you'd only be hurting those around you.

The mourning I know is of a love
that has been permanently terminated

but the only one who is hurting around her is me.

There's a reason why women in general do not commit such an act.

They're in the business of selecting.

One cigarette left, it's my lucky day.

She said her love was never ending.

It was a hoax and I bought it.

One bad transaction after another.

So what's in it for me she would probably ask?

The ultimate distraction, the grand finale.

I clearly have many illusions about love.

She had a plan for me before we met.

She knew she was going to catch me in her web.

She's not afraid to admit that she's a great catch.

So she returns to previous lovers,

constantly planning something that she only knows,

in hopes that maybe one day her planning pays off.

Transaction after transaction.

There's no time to hesitate, she's got people to see.

She's got never ending love to spread around to others.

Except myself.

There is no conclusion but distractions.

One bad distraction after another,

until you find the ultimate distraction.

What is it you may ask?

Is it closing down the business?

Tearing down the shop?

She's a business woman,

always with a plan.

If the deal goes bad, she's always prepared for the next.

One bad transaction after another.

If there are images in this attachment, they will not be displayed.

Sometimes I wonder what the beaches of Rio are like. Or maybe the forests of Haiti,. The smell of fresh molasses and rum flowing through the trees like hot ash in a winter’s camp fire.. So how am I suppose to imagine such a thing, or place, or feeling or smell? I guess listening to Hawaiian music found in the $1 record bin in the local thrift store is a start. Or maybe, looking through old issues of National Geographic. Exploring the globe through the lens of a piece of glossy paper. I see wildlife occasionally, but I get my drama through television programs about the plight of the young forest elk.

What was in like in the swinging lounges of post war America? Spending an afternoon with the Rat Pack in lovely Los Vegas. Sunglasses on, useless tanning oils and a cerveza with lime. Perhaps a few palms in the background. Swingin.

But instead, I wait and wait for something to come my way. Or maybe I'll be on my way to something other than a ringing in my ears and a sharp pain in my head.

I can dream all day sometimes, but when I wake up it's gone. It's always as if nothing ever happened. The landscapes can be so surreal and the feeling of exuberance more than an unconscious manifestation. But always, the end is the same. I awake in a place that is supposed to be called home. Walls, streets, lights, sounds, a soul killing exercise occurs every morning when getting out of bed. Step out of the unconscious world and out of imagination as you feel it should be.

Dead birds lay everywhere as a reminder that we were not all chosen to fly. Instead of flying home, we stand around pecking the streets for some sort of nourishment. It becomes more than habit, but a way of life - this ceaseless pecking order.

General Rommel's great vacation to the free world

The age of never ending conquest

where we conquer one another

if we can't ourselves.

Infiltrating the carefully constructed spheres of influence

one cannot destroy the other's plans - 

only hamper them

sweet, sweet jazz organ

my name is Jimmy

and there is only one love in my life,

her name is Leslie.

Orange and green lights,

flowers fall from the sky like rain.

Isn't that "free love"?

Suburban folk redefining the definition of free love

then carefully constructing a wall

after they've been there done that

Your feelings are poisonous,

with only the intentions of mass destruction.

That's what we learn how to put our

energy to use in the free world.

What is it you really understand Mr. Psychologist?

Is there something you know that I don't?

Why do you live to encounter

the worst of others?

Diagnosis bipolar bear - extinct.

Middle ages slaughter.

Capture the flag and burn it.

That way the king knows we mean business.

Jerky, jerk bus

jerking my pen across the paper

in a flustered manner.

Pick yourself up boy!

You know who you belong to!

That shirt doesn't say "Property of" for no reason. 

Shitty grin

shoveling shit in Louisiana,

if only I was in Patton's Army

slaughtering my brothers and their sisters

and mothers.

Travel in a circle to say

you've seen it all.

Repetition, recycled 

mile after shitty mile

but keep on your smile

Hit the deck!

Get your ass on the floor boy

and give me ten.

Get that shitty grin off your face

and give me twenty!

Do you want to die,

because this isn't funny.

Do you want to make it home

one more night to kiss your mommy?

Funny how dreams can die

There's something in the air

Something that turns our skin dry

and kills our sense of smell.

I cannot even taste my lips

There are no lips left to taste

Even if they were mine,

how should I know how to feel them?

I've had lovers in the night

and I've had a childhood insight.

Only at 9 below do we truly know

what it's like to be alone at midnight.

And yet dreams of a summer breeze persist

as if anything will be different if I walk away.

But what will I truly be able to say?

I loved, I held, I did it all for myself?

See, the one who overextends themselves

has grand ambitions for only one person.

So how do I save the earth

or a mother from a complicated birth?

All I know is that love is sick, sick, sick.

Why does it have to be?

Those who give and care show us

what we can never be -

an unraveled mind content in time

for that short glimpse of a secure manhood.

Yet, all I do is take

and ultimately forsake

everything that is good.

So who is it that I truly admire?

Well, it would be myself if I ever learned

how to keep my fucking mouth shut.

So instead, we drive to DC.

Bobby Fischer was a true patriot.

I say we start parking ghost bikes in Arlington Cemetery.

What do we do with the old man in the basement?

The one with a long white beard

which is only an indicator of time spinning the old wheel,

turning the old wrench

only to go home to a television dinner-

if you make it home riding through the snow...

What about the man who drank too much coffee?

He decided to join the Navy to get healthy.

What ever became of the book he was supposed to write?

Or maybe the young idealist

who lost himself in his own fantasy?

One that is forever lost in the hills and foot beds 

of the mountains of Ukraine?

So you want to be an intelligence collector?

Well, you need to first make your girlfriend cry

almost every single night.

If you're lucky, we'll show you a man with no arm or legs -

only a pistol at his side,

a revolver with empty chambers

waiting to unload an empty sound in the empty air.

It'll be over shortly - I promise.

No more artificial light,

just the image of the back of your eyes.

The corners of your mind that has,

"Do not enter" written all across it.

Here, take these boots

you'll need them.

They once belonged to a soldier

but he won't be needing them anymore.

You're scared?

Why?

So you're afraid to be lonely?

Well one must confront Apollo before you try.

If you're lucky, you can be back before midnight.

A new year awaits you,

a different one!

What do you say?

She says your writing is weird?

Now, that's true admiration!

Well, it's closer to the whistling of firebombs

being dropped in the dawn of night.

They go floating down

so clumsily

so imperfectly

without any precision.

They float through the air

until they find the bedroom of an innocent child.

Then the real destruction begins.

To be burned alive in your sleep at night -

that is what war stands for.

Sheer chaos and control of your army.

Who has the most bodies?

100,000 men strong

or casualties gone wrong?

What if that bomb wrote a song?

Just one long whistle,

like the radiator on a cold winter night.

It just hums along

then suddenly it all goes wrong.

The crescendo ends with a burst of light

but it is quiet.

Suddenly a cloud forms

and all life is quickly unborn

and then we start again.

So you want to collect intelligence?

'return of the earth' day

For three whole months, the city is void of life.

But today, I found that happiness does survive.

And although at times I struggle to find

a place that will guarantee freedom

without complexion

I continue to find myself confined by

apartment walls that are chronically white.

So why not use the day to burn my skin?

What is the other option?

Where did all this grass come from,

disturbing this snow laden land

Maybe I'll set my wheels spinning

or wish farewell to a friend

It's only once a year that its 

truly the end.

Hey mom,

It's not even 5 o'clock and it's already dark.

Thank God for florescent light.

I've got a bible and beer in my bag

and I'm under bright lights that produce heat.

You know, when the train is late

I can stay here and wait

for a line that is going home.

I can hear the cats

and other trains pass

but I can not really decide

when the right time

or door is going to open.

I can not really decide

if I should close the chapter on the night.

You see, every night I decide

the best to do is to go home.

But tonight is different.

I feel some comfort even though

I have come to understand that everything I know

and trust is just dust.

I still have another hour until I am home

and once I get there, I'll be glad I'm all alone

And now it is raining

It's not too cold

but I'm waiting.

Undecided if I should follow

or go my own way.

But now I'm going to her place

she decided that she has the space.

We both have to get over ourselves.

Just one more night and then it's over

we'll be thankful that we gave up on each other.

untitled

Snow days in Chicago

back of the bus

Beach Boys

Oh wouldn't it be nice?

Two more weeks

a liberation will occur

skiing to class

the snow won't pass

until we fix the earth.

HOME

When you feel you feel it

what you felt was not it.

It was something that felt like it

but actually wasn't.

You say it and say it

but you realize what you felt

was not it.

You know now that

you won't know when when you do feel it.

Headache

What is it that causes that obnoxious tingle?

Are there creatures drilling holes in your brain?

I know a drink would be a cure.

Maybe two, or eventually a few.

Don't worry head

I'll be going to sleep soon.

Goodnight Bus Driver

Good night bus driver

You may not realize it

but you changed my life.

I was walking down the street

trying to make it home.

But then you stopped

and picked me up.

Your bus' florescent lights have that familiar feel.

Choosing a seat is often as fickle as picking the right apple,

so I tend to just stand up.

But when I first get on board

I nod and say hello

I don't know if you realize that I am glad you found me tonight.

When it is my turn to get off

I walk out the back door.

I waved but I am not sure if you saw me.

Though I never got your name

and you never got mine

we both hold a piece of each other forever

because of that one ride.

And I know when the same time tomorrow comes

I will forever be in debt

to another bus driver just like you.

Motion Sickness

The boy sits in front of the machine so much

that he begins to feel sick when he's not.

He is the pinnacle of progress.

A domestic species of the highest sort.

Years

If it feels like a dream, it's because it is.

The real battle is not on earth, but in heaven.

Legions of fallen angels leave their flesh bodies

to struggle against hope for all eternity.

There is no end.

Pain has no cure.

Your fate has already been decided once you open your eyes for the first time.

You're frightened by the signs you don't understand.

You try to relate them to  previous life.

The soul does grow old.

Whether it becomes more wise in time is not easy to answer.

Some spiral further into evil.

So many rebirths have taken place

that the life you currently associate existence to

is merely a grain of sand of all the earth's beaches.

So do you choose redemption?

Do you become a lost wonderer 

who has given up on the search for hope and desire?

It is only your passion that you maintain

and civilization will most certainly see an end to it.

When the earth ceases to exist,

does the mind then as well? 

The opposite of the son of God is still an angel.

The battle continues as we cycle through the pages that make up our lives.

Only angels can destroy angels and

only men can destroy men.

Animal Dreams

When the beast is asleep has he discovered peace?

Does he hide in the Earth

or dream about rebirth?

He understands that in order to change God's plans

he needs the hands of a man.

Is he frightened of the darkness as he is of the day?

Dead in a Bed

It sounds of nothing,

holding hands (that is)

in a wood cabin all day.

Your mind has long drifted

in a search for the gold

that was yesterday.

You feel the walls shake from the door slam.

You don't know who is going through,

or when you do.

Armageddon Clock

When we all get trapped in machines

the mind warps

men go mad

no second guess

you know what's at stake

There's only one solution:

close the chapter on mankind

Nairda Ecartal is going crazy.

I had the craziest night. It was so windy and on the bridge I was almost pushed off the side. We listened to great music and ate a great dinner. Then it went somewhere else. It went to the past and present and some people connected. The universe is not aligned, but it is not the universe.

We discussed art, and music more specifically and traveling. They all seemed to be related and yet I keep discussing recently complacency. The whole world is finally available to me, and what do I do? It is so strange, I mean I feel like my dream life has everything to do with everything like how we’re supposed to be living in the present always. I mean there gets to be a point where there is no return. You’ve already crossed the line and you’re in for it. Yet, it is always the same familiar walls you’ve always been surrounded by.

We all need more work. If we all really worked a lot more, I believe we’d find out what we’ve always supposed to do. For instance, you should go on a 5 day hiking trip or a bicycle trip carrying your tent and food with you. You’ll spend a lot of time with yourself for sure. The strange thing about being in the city is that you tend to have these moments everyday, but there are many people who are witness to it. It becomes at times a struggle for survival, yet it is also battle of the wits. How did David defeat Goliath?

The point is that we’ve got to look at more metaphors. See the more I tell you how you’re supposed to think, the more you realize what a shame it all becomes. Instead, what if we just had a nice hot chocolate and a fireplace near by? Well that would certainly make things a lot better.