Everything

I want a world where everyone can voice his honest, raw opinion -- can create -- without being forced into submission. And, it would be nice to abolish the notion that murder and force are valid dialogs. That's all I want. That's the only thing I want. There, I said it.

Hard rain

"A hard rain's gonna fall means: something's gonna happen."

"Hard Rain is a desperate kind of song. ... Every line in it is actually the start of a whole song. But when I wrote it, I thought I wouldn't have enough time alive to write all those songs so I put all I could into this one." -- Bob Dylan.

It was written during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962. Bob was 21.

I see it as a traveling song, a song of weathered youth on the cusp of action, a reminder that what we reap is what we sow and what happens next is up to you and I. If I had to pick a favorite song, this is it.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Background noise

I feel as if I've written this one hundred times. I am at unease. I haven't laughed in weeks. I check my email; the universe gives me nothing new. Distract me, I say; keep me from answering these questions. There is silence, and there is no answer, that is what we know. This is revolting, and yet we are all here, alive. Show me inspiration, show me honesty, show me progress. Where is it? What do you see? Give me the answer, I'm done trying to figure it out. There is no answer, we say.

I can't think on Wednesdays. It's my favorite day; on the floor, there's only room for smiling, for small bouts of courage, and for saying yes, at least we're still here, tonight. I always come home. No messages. No answer.

I write by incandescent light. I wait. Challenge me. No, not that much. Entice me. Oh. Fine. Let's talk about the game again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Again, I wait. Where do we want to go? We're on the sea; at least the sun is out. You don't need your book, you know how it goes, you've read it before.

No messages. Tell me a joke that involves the president, our leader, our beacon, our representative, our selves. At what point do we give up. This isn't our country. These aren't our lives. Some day we'll learn. Some day I'll learn. Some day I'll be honest. I'll write. I'll share. Some day. Eight hours at work. Eight hours of a life. Not my life, I say. What a lie, what an easy path. Yet, I wait.

Unfinished.

Everything I write here has been said before. Even that. Even that. Imagine our plight 2,000 years from now; not only will everything have been written, but it will have been written eight times over; it will be searchable, hyper-linked to the others, and tagged by thousands of strangers with meanings you never intended. Let’s take a moment to be thankful for the arcane times we live in.

Now is when we can pretend to be unique from time to time, as we hide our flashes of brilliance from the world for fear of being too honest, too insane, as we balance upon the dull edge of what we call the brink, as the gods note the standard refrain. Now.