2005-03-18 - 9:39 a.m.

So, I'm not an innocent person. I've seen and done a lot of things. I wish sometimes that I hadn't seen and done quite so many things, but that's just the way it is.

I'm not the advice guy. People don't usually ask me my advice and I rarely give it unless asked. Sometimes I do, but I think I can keep it under my hat. Part of the reason is that I don't think people would typically like my advice. I guess it can sound kind of caustic and harsh at times and if you ask me if I could do the same things I'd tell you to do if I was in your situation, I'd probably say "Heck, no" because I'm weak, but I don't see me inability to follow my own advice as a barrier to me telling you what I think if you are silly enough to ask.

I don't know why I am prefacing what I am about to say with all this stuff about my past and my uncompromising attitude when giving advice because today's entry has nothing to do with dark secrets from my past emerging nor with my hard-hearted tough love advice. Instead it is all about the music.

It isn't really about music either. I think music is probably closer to the topic I want to write about today than anything else. Music is something I really enjoy but don't totally understand. I have no idea why a certain melody enraptures me while another makes me want to nail my boss to his desk while screaming at the top of my lungs that I am Scuppers the Sailor Dog. And I'm not named Scuppers nor am I a dog nor do I do much sailing. Is that what makes the image funny? Is it funny? I think it's funny.

So the topic isn't music, but I'm going to say it's music because I don't have a better term. I don't have a name for what I am going to write about. I suppose I could name it Alice but that always reminds me of summers I wasted with my brother watching daytime TV - reruns of old shows like Alice and One Day at a Time and other things that an American pre-adolescent shouldn't be exposed to except perhaps buried in the appendix of a text book which is full of lies, deceptions and propaganda. Oh, and half-truths. Half-truths are the best truths because they are half-lies. No one ever calls them half-lies though. That would be pretty ridiculous.

The press conference was just a twisted basket of half-lies. Politicians wont even lie to us properly anymore.
You never see a line like that in an editorial.

So what in the world am I writing about? I thought we decided that it was music or bad advice I can't even follow myself but I feel free to give out to anyone who looks like they'll listen or all the strange and vile things I've done in my life or something like that.

Oh, I give up...

Sometimes I just feel like writing and I don't have anything in particular to write about so I just say stuff as it pops into my head. Like I've added the following people to my buddy list and I think they are just super:

So, why am I pimping these fellow d-landers? I don't know. I just feel like it. Kind of like I just feel like nailing my boss to his desk while singing about being some kind of nautical canine. Sometimes things just happen, right?

I don't really believe that. I think every event has a cause. Plus I believe in a sovereign God. He's a great guy and you should get to know Him.

Anyway, if I didn't put you on the list it doesn't mean I don't love you. (I'm looking at you Oomm, Beth, E-Beth, Lux, Beckster, Dooki, Stef, Aimee, Rhi~, etc...) It just means I didn't have time to make links to every single person on my buddy list. Especially since if you look to your right you'll see a list of all the people I love so dearly that I felt that I shouldn't take the time to hand code a link to them. That is how much you are worth to me, people. I love so much I think I'll explode.

Anyway, go click on some of the links. One of these people probably has something cooler to say than me right now. Me, I've got nothing. Nothing!. We're talking you are Jean-Paul Sartre and I'm the subject of you magnum opus: Being and Nothingness. We're talking I'm the sense of resolution you get after watching a performance of Waiting for Godot. We're talking I'm the connection between William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch and Aristotelian categories. We're talking like I'm what Augustine thinks is the nature of evil. It's like I'm a method in some weird apophatic theology. I'm the relation between the ineffable and a fallen world before the introduction of a mediator. I'm the chances of justification by works. I'm the space between notes. I put the "uh" in nothing and the "nay" in negation and the twenty emails that never arrived sent by the one who doesn't know I exist and can't remember never having met me. I'm despair and my meds just ran out. I'm the thing without substance and the substance without form and the potential without the actual and the passive when the active has taken leave of its senses and the conjunction between sentences said between two psychics when no one is around and they can get their ESP on in some magnificent way. I'm the unspoken word and the word left unsaid and the two wrongs that make a right and the way out of the trap you never fell in and the trip you wanted to take to a place you've never heard of and may not exist on the continent in the fable never told which may have sunken beneath a sea which no man sailed and ended up being a myth told by mythological creatures to explain the unexplainable to the unlistening masses who sought no explanation who were just happy as they were until they started reading Camus and asking questions no one has asked with answers yet to be formulated. I'm the pause before you say something you'll regret about something someone you never liked did even though it was a wonderful gesture and you should have said thank you.

Yeah, that was pointless.

Was that my point? No. My point was Jolie Holland kicks ass. Long way to go for a music recommendation, huh?

Also, I left the following comment in itineration's diary

I have, without permission, used the following text from your entry in my diary:
"i have without your permission taken your template"

I love you all berry, berry much.

Reading The Master and Margarita by by Mikhail Bulgakov
Wishing It was 6PM EST so I could go home. Or maybe lunch time. Lunch time is nice, too.
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