Tesla's Secret

Amidst the applause she lifted her eyes from the podium. She saw him there at the back of the room. He stood just inside the edge of the doorway. His face bore a grim expression.
'I am sorry', she whispered in the ear of the moderator, 'I am sorry, I need to leave. Please excuse me.'
She smiled one last time at the crowd, issued a polite 'Thank You' into the microphone and made an abrupt exit toward the wings of the stage.

Out back, the rental car was waiting for her. He was in the driver's seat. 'They  know we are in Munich.' he stated without looking over. 'But I've made the arrangements. We are leaving now.'
                                                                       
                                                                          *******
Nicola Tesla  lived from 1856-1943. Born in what is now modern day Croatia, he eventually relocated to New York City to work for Thomas Edison and later, J.P. Morgan. Of his many accomplishments in the field of electrical engineering, none were as bold as his plans to build the Wardenclyffe Tower. Wardenclyffe was a revolutionary idea....a way to harness the constant cosmic energy of the Sun and to wirelessly transfer unlimited communication and electricity freely from one point to another across the globe, thus eliminating the monopoly of the oil, gas and utility companies of the early 1900's.  He applied for a patent for his Apparatus for the Utilization of Radiant Energy in 1901. However, his project was never completed and his research papers were confiscated by the United States Government upon his death.

                                                                       *******
Mae was the daughter of an electrician and an accountant.  It was her father who first introduced Tesla's inventions to her on a visit to the Leonardo Museum of Art and Science in downtown Salt Lake City. Mae felt a shiver of excitement and utter obsession enter her body the first time she heard the crackle of the Tesla Coil. She was 10 years old.

Mae entered MIT a year early with the intention of becoming an electrical engineer. Her undergraduate work gave her access to state of the art laboratories and an overwhelming number of opportunities to network with  preeminent engineers from around the world. The coursework was challenging but Mae found it only opened her curiosity to learning. She applied to graduate school at Cal Tech and was accepted into the study of Circuits and Very Large Scale Integration or VLSI for short. She had never forgotten about Tesla's lost work and it was during this period of her life that  her interest in re-discovering Tesla's inventions was re-kindled.
Unbeknownst to her graduate adviser and fellow grad students, Mae began to spend evenings in the lab recreating excerpts of Tesla's experiments.
                                                       
                                                                     *******
It happened by accident, as is the case with most brilliant discoveries. Playing with equations was Mae's version of Sudoku. In the margins of her notes were written the unfinished equations of large scale electrical capacitors and energy sinks. She would visit these equations daily as a way to rest her mind from her more pressing work.  One wintry afternoon, a fellow grad student took notice of her notes. His name was Lewis. Mae allowed him to make suggestions about her scribbled notes and eventually they found themselves spending long hours deep in conversation about the intricacies of modern engineering theoretics. During one such discussion a miracle produced itself in the form of a complex and beautiful equation. They stared at each other in disbelief and then stared back at the proof that was sitting on the table before them. 'Tesla' was all Mae could manage to say.

                                                                    *******

The rest followed quickly. Mae and Lewis discreetly passed the proof along to several of their closest colleagues, most of whom were fellow grad students or friends who had entered the uneasy designation of 'post-doc'. All of them concurred....the proof appeared plausible. Fearing that their proof would be confiscated if allowed to reach the attention of the general 'powers that be' in the oil and gas industry, Mae and Lewis pooled their meager graduate stipends and made arrangements to leave the country. Through their international colleagues they created a hurried itinerary of guerrilla lectures, mainly over-seas. These lectures were based in coffee houses and basement apartments and were advertised by word-of-mouth and speculative rumor. Upon arriving at one of the prearranged lectures they were met by their friend Miguel. He handed them a small square of green vinyl. On it was written their proof in large black block lettering. A sticker. 'These are for you' he said. 'Where ever you go,  your work will follow you and it will never be lost and it can never be stolen.' His face was solemn. Already, one of the small squares lay affixed to his coffee mug.

                                                                 ********
It was as if a tidal wave swept before them. At each lecture, they were met by an ever-growing surge of supporters. The guerrilla lectures that were once held in private households and secret locations had quickly been replaced by libraries and university lecture halls. Although not yet published, the proof, known as Tesla's Secret became a sensation that rocked the foundations of applied electronics. It could no longer be kept private and Mae became increasingly nervous about the duo's safety.
                                               
The friends found themselves at TU Munich. The crowd was standing-room only. Mae was in shock. Obviously, it was becoming impossible to keep their project a close-guarded secret. Since discovering the proof, she and Lewis had been avoiding confrontation with both private industry and government officials interested in commandeering the couple's work for their own benefit. The very notion of Free Energy was frightening to Industry in their home country and there were many individuals interested in seeing its failure. Although they had received subtle hints to cease and desist with their work, there had not yet been a personal confrontation. It seemed that they had reached the inevitability of this possibility as of today....unless Lewis's plan of evasion worked.

Lewis had befriended an inventor, professor and entrepreneur in the socialist democracy of Denmark. This small nation was keen on seeing free and renewable energy available on a populous level and so after making initial contact through the correct channels, the duo was welcomed and offered intellectual asylum....if they could get to the border without problems.

                                                                            *******
They found themselves in Lyngby, outside the Technical University of Denmark's Electrical Engineering building. This was where they were to find Professor Chrisiansen, their Danish host.
Lewis had decided that it was time to publish. 'We have to go public, Mae or all of this will have been for nothing'. He was right, of course and Mae found no reason to argue with him. They secreted themselves away along with their notes in the country home of the sympathetic DTU professor and began the process of writing. It was a quick but rigorous procedure and within a few weeks, the project was completed. They submitted their paper to the journal of Science for publication. It was accepted.

The paper was published in June. Lewis found Mae outside on the grass of the lawn looking out at the sunset. 'The world will never be the same.' She sighed a long sigh. 'This is the last day of old energy. Tomorrow the race to bring unlimited clean energy into existence will begin. Lewis, I don't know what this means!'
Lewis looked at her and smiled. He sat down next to her and stared into the setting sun. 'Mae, it means we will all be free at last.' They sat in silence as the last sliver of sun sank below the horizon.

A Cog; Defined

a cog defined: a cog engages with another cog and the motion in one will result in motion of the other. Gearwheels that engage with chains are sprockets, not cogs.

So my friend, you say you are a cog, a small insignificant cog?  I know you are more than this. I have seen what you can do.

As your world turns, it engages with countless others. You are energy transferred.
Cogs drive all machines; those of war and those of peace.

But do not forget your talents and do not doubt who you are. Mathematically speaking, you are 1/7 Billionth of the machine of man; 1/319,404,381st of the machine of your nation; 1/2000th the machine of your community and 1/3rd of the machine of your home.....and you are significant.

In a watch, it is the smallest of cogs that moves the hours. Without it, time stands still.
Keep your teeth sharp and your action quick and you will move the world.

Ghanima

Preface: This was the essay I wrote for the Write On The River state-wide writer's competition in the spring of 2014. I feel honored to have been recognized with the prize of 2nd Place for a Non-Fiction essay. It is very personal and has taken me a long time to feel comfortable enough to share it openly. It is my heart laid bare.

I became an adult the day my dog Ghanima died.  

Ghanima had been a 3 month old stray when I found her on the Rez. She was the starving runt of a mixed litter. She had fleas, was covered in mange and had the most beautiful emotional eyes I had ever seen in a dog. I knew she was meant to be with me.

Ghanima was a fierce and loyal friend who preferred life out under the stars to the warmth of our home. She gracefully made the transition to over six different houses, as my husband and I struggled to find our place in the world, and she learned the property lines of each.  Her self-assigned position was border patrol, which she excelled at.

The day she died was the same as the day before. We met our neighbors at the bus stop. Ghanima smiled and wagged her tail, greeting each one of us in turn with a lick and a quick rumble of hello from her soft black and white throat.  She crossed the road to run up the hill, chasing a scent that eluded her. I let her go; my first child....the child you have before you have children. The one who teaches young couples how to care for themselves, how to care for another, how to be reliable and trustworthy. The one who teaches you how to be a parent. I let her go, remaining innocent to danger, tragedy, circumstance.

I heard the truck approaching. There was a deep rumbling that bounced off of the valley walls and traveled on ahead; around the blind corners. This was not a regular day.  The schedule was wrong. Maybe the driver was running late? Maybe he was ahead of schedule and humming happily.

I became aware of my children; analyzed their patterns of play, wanting to keep them away from the road. I looked across the pavement to see where Ghanima may be, hoping she was still on her wild goose chase through the forest high above. However, during my visual search Ghanima and I locked eyes which only drew her closer to me.

I began to yell...what could I do? I could not leave my children; I could not reach my dog ahead of the approaching truck. As she edged her way down the hill toward us, I yelled for my sweet girl to stay there, to sit, to stay. The panic in my throat convinced her that she must be in trouble and she began to come to my side to make amends. We locked eyes again, mine pleading with her to wait. Please wait, please wait. I knew there was not enough time for her to make it across the road. I was paralyzed....helpless and afraid.

The distance between life and death was minute. She made no sound. She looked at me, confused, and then was gone. Her body lay still. Silent, alone on the cold, black ground. I ran to her wailing, maybe moaning, but I could barely hear myself.  The soft brown eyes that I had known for nine years did not move. Her body was warm. When I lifted her, I felt the ribs shift under her skin. Her blood on my black jacket ran hot and red. It stained my jeans and covered my hands as I carried her body over to the shoulder and gently lay her on the gravel, safe from further assault. I had never in my life experienced this sensation....the bitter loss of love right before my eyes. I lay my head on her chest to be closer to her and began to sob. I buried my nose briefly in her fur and inhaled her sweet dog scent.

In the distance, my children were screaming. I drowsily came to my senses and made my way back to them...my hands still stained and sticky, my jacket dripping, the puddles on my jeans spreading into a coppery, dry stain. I grabbed hold of my children and pulled them in tight. We held each other and I calmed them the best I could. The three of us distractedly made our way down the driveway to our house. I barely remember saying goodbye to my neighbor and her child as they continued to wait for the school bus. I barely remember putting my children in the car and explaining that we needed to go rescue the body of their beloved pet.  I ran up to my room looking for anything I could use to cover the body, to gather it up and transport it to....where? I found a clean white sheet in the bottom of the pine chest next to the bed.

On the way out to the road, we passed another neighbor. He must have heard my screams from earlier because his eyes were crinkled with concern and mild curiosity. We passed by with barely a wave of the hand.

I drove the wrong way down the highway to the place where Ghanima’s body lay and jumped out with the sheet. I wrestled with her limp body and for the first time in all of her life truly felt her weight on my arms. My small frame could barely manage to move her sturdy, muscular body into the car.......

                                                                                                              

She is buried in our yard now, amidst the fruit trees and berry bushes. From where she lay, there is a view both to the north and south along the length of the canyon. It’s the place where the sky is large and where she can still see the boundaries of our property. We still talk about her in present tense. In the mornings my son and husband often walk down to visit her and wish her good morning.

The day Ghanima died was the day I realized that there was no safety net between myself and the violence of the world. I became that net for my children. I hope my love is strong enough to catch them when they fall.

While you were out...

Hi Mom,
Just wanted to let you know
That while you were shopping,
Your Democracy was stolen

my eyes

the wait is over, the wrinkles are here
youth retreats, each glance in the mirror
:-)

The Wars No One Believes In

I am staring down the barrel of turning 38 this coming March.With this comes the absolute understanding that middle-age is here and that the clock is only moving forward. I will never be 27 again. So, this has lead me to reflect a little on life over the last 30 years and how things are not getting better even though I hold on to the Utopian vision that this situation is only temporary. Like a voodoo doll, I have been probing and poking at the sore spots in my mind.  Here is a brief list of items that have led me to conclude that a war is indeed being waged against my/your/our adulthood. Some of it is a matter of circumstance, some is cultivated, and all of it is societal. And, unfortunately, unless we begin to recognize its reality, it will spill over into a war against our children as well. So without further ado.....the proof is in the diatribe.....

When I was in 7th grade, the 1st Gulf War started. War was a new concept for us as students. Although abstract concepts such as the Iran-Contra affair had made small dents on our impressionable minds, the open commitment of troops to an over-seas conflict was foreign and frightening. My 7th grade history teacher Mr. Nimic tasked us with keeping a war diary as part of our winter quarter. We were to watch the news and report on what we were learning about the engagement. I still remember quotes on the walls of our room such as 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' It took me at least another 15 or 20 years to really grasp the reality of this statement.
It has now been almost 25 years since I was asked to keep this journal. Our engagement in the Middle East has been more or less a constant in my life during this entire quarter century. An engagement sold to the American people as 'temporary' has begun to drag out for a lifetime of conflict and has reached a status quo in our society that is barely even acknowledged any more (It has been years since I have even SEEN a yellow ribbon bumper magnet). We don't even take the time to vote for funding to care for our beloved 'troops' who are now legions of veterans struggling from the strangle hold of PTSD. Government graft and corruption in the form of large military contracts has reached the culturally accepted status of 'business as usual' much to the dismay of our underfunded domestic laundry list of  'to-do' items.
As I slowly and steadily climb toward middle-age I realize that those of my friends who are barely much younger than me (and by all rights are considered full-fledged adults, legally speaking) have had an entire lifetime filled with images of warfare and have lived with the definition of Democracy as defined by the constant restriction in their personal rights sold under the premise that our nation's safety comes first and their freedoms come second. I have realized that they do not know a life before this became the standard sacrifice we have all been asked to make as our way of showing our allegiance to a nation committed to defending the freedoms of others. I say this only half seriously as at this point in my life, it is hard for me to choke this statement out with a straight face. People will not protest a war if they do not know life without it.

Not long after the the war diaries I recall several other events that changed the course of our future...the first being a newscast documenting the rising wages of both doctors and lawyers in the United States (I remember telling my mother that I was going to become a lawyer so that I could make a lot of money). Healthcare and litigation marched on, hand in hand and everyone was getting rich....except for the blue collar worker. These poor saps were labeled 'unpatriotic' and made into targets on national TV as unions were busted and jobs were confiscated, effectively bankrupting whole cities.Vasts portions of our nation could no longer afford to purchase goods 'made in America' due to the undercutting of working class salaries. It made it even easier to sell our nation to the lowest bidder (China, anyone?) and brought in the age of designed obsolescence.  Salary inflation became an accepted part of life as well....but only for those whose jobs held the correct title; doctor, lawyer, insurance agent, stock broker, middle man. What  I have come to understand; wage inflation is accepted when its inception is linked to careers with a tradition of higher earning potential and when the under educated are targeted as 'undeserving' of a higher wage and are labelled as 'unskilled' or even 'unpatriotic'. If this message is reinforced by mass media on a regular basis, the general public begins to believe it as truth....especially if this message is repeated throughout years of adolescence into young adulthood. Why would we argue for anything but this model when this is all we have known since the tender age of 12 (or for an entire lifetime as is the case of my younger adult friends).

Then, a lawsuit involving a hot cup of coffee changed our world forever. Suddenly, willful ignorance to the obvious became a cash cow and self determination was no longer a family value. The people demanded retribution for their stupidity and many a trial lawyer was happy to oblige. We entered the age of litigation, law suits, and general mis-trust of one another. This was in 1994. Enrollment in law schools swelled and the generation raised on 'The Breakfast Club' and 'St. Elmo's Fire' were being groomed for adulthood in the age of 'me first' economics. Ironically, it is largely this generation, a step above my own, who continues to propagate our current economic model. And why shouldn't they? This is what they were trained to do.
 It also became very 'uncool' to be intelligent. We as a society accepted the idea that the lowest common denominator was as high a bar as we wanted to set for ourselves....anything above the LCD put you in the bracket of 'over-achiever'...a cultural fopaux that still exists today including in public education. Intelligence and critical thinking have taken a backseat to NASCAR, country music songs about the 'drinking class', and the us vs. them mentality encouraged by one of our nations greatest presidents.

The war on women and families has been a treacherous one. The profits from this war are HUGE which makes it a hard one to put an end to. Until kids my husband and I were operating our household under the DINKY  model. Yes, we had student loans and a car payment and a mortgage, but no kids. This model has become a norm in our society and most households can no longer support themselves in general day to day living without the double income.Once kids enter the picture, the little bit of extra cushion accumulated in young adulthood evaporates leaving parents in the desperate struggle to financially continue to make ends meet while raising children without depending on government assistance. Although Women's Liberation was founded on the basis of equality for both sexes, it has failed us as modern-day men, women and families. It has caused a skyrocketing rate of price inflation during our short lifetime (the ever-growing economy is due in part to a doubling of the workforce and the diminishment of the the value of the dollar. As a result a larger per- household income has not led to more savings or a higher standard of living.). Rather than offering women the choice of participating in a career outside the home, it has made it necessary. We now All (men and women alike) share the right to be behind on the laundry, stay home with sick children, cook a hurried dinner, sub-contract out domestic duties such as housekeeping and in general bear the burden of the stress that comes along with never having enough time or monetary resources to actually get ahead.  In fact, we are falling farther and farther behind all the time. A recent study concluded that the middle class can no longer afford items that were once considered the hallmarks of middle class living; a new car, vacations, higher quality food etc...
Also, children themselves have become devalued in favor of large profits. During the years of my childhood, programming on TV was based on the idea that the hours before 9 PM were family viewing time and the hours after 9 PM were for content geared towards adults. The upsurge in Cable Television blurred this line and the internet killed it all-together.And then, pornography became a thriving business during the age of the internet. It suddenly became the responsibility of the parent rather than the society to try and safeguard children against this insidious invader.  Instead of a society that has a general outlook that is conservative toward the preservation of childhood, we live in the modern day equivalent of a base and degrading culture that children are forced to co-exist with. The general encouragement of pornography in our society is disturbing to me as a parent. Raising both a boy and a girl I see a conflicting message being sent to both sexes. My daughter is expected to be both a motherly virgin and a submissive whore. My son is to be both a loving father and a warmongering rapist. WTF people, WTF.

So what have we been given that eases the strain of these societal burdens and allows us to forestall dealing with all of this terrible news? Well, that would be the war on adulthood. We live in the age of instant gratification and are treated about the same as a child trapped in an adult's body. Want to stay up and play video games all night? No problem! That is your right as an adult. Want to buy that new pair of shoes but don't feel like paying for them right now? Use your credit card....its your right. Want to sit in front of the TV drinking all day this weekend...you earned that right by showing up to work this week. Want to eat nothing but potato chips and drink soda with every meal...congratulations, this is your right too. But you don't have the right to change the way politics runs or the way Wall Street handles money or the right to protest our 60% military spending budget, our crumbling East German-esque infrastructure (yes, this is the direction our nation is headed....don't be fooled), failing schools, diminishing quality of life, and toxic environment. Those jobs are better left to the real adults.

 And I keep thinking, exactly when do we become adults? It seems to me that this is a right that not many people my age (or younger) are looking for or forward to....it just isn't very fun. It seems like  the right to be an adult will come sometime just before we begin suffering from dementia and are committed to a raisin ranch. And our inability to handle adulthood, what will that mean for our children? This is something to ponder....

So the first adult-like task is to remember history. Begin to love it. Read it...from many sources. We are Rome unless we choose another path. Our future awaits but first we must take responsibility for our present by understanding our past. And then, we have to start acting like adults which means taking action, of some kind, in some way to improve this shit-hole of an existence that we have allowed to be created for us. We are entering the middle of our lives. We have the right to become adults. On behalf of my children, it is a war I am willing to fight.

The Fall of Rome in song and words......

a eulogy

and what was the price paid for your children as slaves?
new shoes and a purse.....
they will love you and hate you all the same.
this was your choice they will scream in their cage

when, my friend, did your castration begin?
your rage re-directioned toward women and ghosts.
lesser men have we hardly known,
when never were they needed most

A love letter to my husband

We are farmers. We are young; the future, the changing tide. We believe in the natural world, the magic it contains. We are not afraid to work, to dirty our hands, to break our backs. Our days are long. The sun, our luminary. It streaks our hair gold and platinum. It bleaches our clothes, freckles our arms, burns our shoulders.  So consumed are we by our work, that we often forget to feed ourselves, relieve ourselves or rest. The soil is calling; people are hungry. We must work.

We are farmers. Our labors are tangible, rewarding, and transcendent. The perfect row of broccoli straight and tall, healthy children, toned muscles, a full plate. Nesting swallows, speckled eggs, bean pods plump and thick.

We are farmers. The people we serve are our friends, our neighbors, strangers, children, pets. They all come. They come with baskets, bags, barehanded and unprepared. They leave with a meal, a snack, a smile, a miracle. And they are grateful.

We are farmers. Our faces are many. Our skills are countless. Bookkeeper, businessman, mechanic, mathematician.  Plumber, engineer, parent and spouse.  Master of all, regarded for none. We are written off, unappreciated, under respected.  Yet we remain, brilliant and constant in our earth-bound orbit. Our love is our gravity.

We are farmers. We rejoice in the harvest, pray to the clouds, beat our chests and pull at our hair. We cry with exhaustion, cry in confusion, disappointment and sorrow. There are not enough hours for the work that must be done. And it all must be done.

The summer is coming. It never really ends. The seeds wait and we wait with them. For the sunshine, the rain, the soft light of springtime and the fading edges of fall.

An Essay on Reality

Holy Hell, what kind of world am I living in? I feel like I am living in a dream. For a long time now, reality has become less obvious and the lines between fact and fiction have become blurred.

Farming for me has always been a joyful act. Actually, a joyful accident. Spending time in the dirt has helped to calm the panic that rages inside me. It has grounded me and given me a distraction from the overwhelming noise of the world...a tune that is out of tune; a rhythm that I cannot follow without falling out of step; a song that I know the words to but refuse to sing.
The more blogs I read by other farmers the more conviction I feel towards the methods that Willy and I have chosen to use on our own farm. Although it is beautiful and effective, it is far from the norm.

I just finished reading a blog that was recommended as one of the best farm blogs in the nation....I am going to repeat this....one of the best farm blogs in the nation. This blog went on and on for pages about the virtues of large scale Ag. It showed endless images of massive semi-sized combines, argued the shortsightedness of scientists in blaming GMOs and insecticides for the demise of the honeybee, discussed farming futures and commodity markets. This is virtuous farming in the eyes of our nation? You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Thanks but no thanks fellas. Keep your GPS driven combines and your armies of migrant quasi-illegal slave labor.

On our family vacation, we spent some time in and around Pismo, CA. Every November we close up the farm and head out of town for a few weeks to show our kiddos the world. We rent a minivan and drive through Washington, Oregon, over to Utah, across Nevada and finally to California. During the entire drive, Willy and I scan the fields and look at the agriculture endemic to a particular area. We point out different crops to the kids (Uugh-huh...More grapes...is the typical response from the back seat).The stretch between Salinas and Pismo CA. is the 'salad belt' of the United States. Of all the ground we cover, this is the only place where there are crops resembling the ones we grow at home on our own farm. Namely broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, salad mix, kale, head lettuce, strawberries and cabbage.

There is a little corner of the Oceano Dunes SVRA (think 4 wheeling heaven with 2 story high sand dunes) where you can walk out on a boardwalk to see a variety of migratory waterfowl in their winter habitat; the small Oso Flaco lake which is stuck between the berms of the surrounding Oceano Dunes SVRA and the Guadalupe-Nipmo Dunes National Wildlife Refuge. We went to check it out since part of our trip involves the identification and cataloging of bird species that are new to us.
 Butting up to the parking lot for this boardwalk trail are the farm fields of the southern edge of the Coastal Range...the western flank of the San Joaquin Valley. Broccoli and strawberries stretch out as far as the eye can see....until your eye is broadsided by the sight of the Phillips 66 Santa Maria oil refinery that sits about a mile in-land and smack dab in the middle of the aforementioned fields (Images of oil covered sea-birds filled my thoughts during the entire walk).
The fields are full of farm workers; it is almost Thanksgiving. Not a single worker is Caucasian. A Mexican flag waves proudly from one of the multiple harvest vehicles.
So, this is agriculture of the future? Fields so large you cannot see the other side, an oil refinery in the middle, workers who do not consider this country their home?
I immediately became homesick.

What am I getting at here? I guess what I am saying is that I am proud of the way we farm. And I think we are doing a good job. Since my reality is looking at a forest full of wildlife when I am out working, it is hard to see farms set up any other way. I don't like to be belittled by my nation because I believe that small organic farms are advantageous to both the people they serve and the life that interacts with them. I believe that the alternative is a crime on so many levels that formulating it into words is close to impossible. It is a crime of the spirit.

So Viva la Tierra Madre. Because I know that when I die, you will be the one to set my soul free.

The Phillips 66 Oil Refinery near Oso Flaco Lake

A restless mind

A rebellious mind is a lonely mind...
a solitary place where the conspirator takes solace from the world.
The treachery of idealistic thoughts; of peace, prosperity and equality;
ideas without a home in a harsh and unrelenting landscape; our reality.
Tear down the walls and plant the seeds.
Change is growing
one corpse at a time.

How did I get here and why are my hands so dirty?

Oooh, just look at your shoes and how you float above the floor like an Aveda angel. You must spend a lot of time on flat surfaces. I have a pair of heels too...I got them for a wedding, not for work.
You look at me and I see your eyes move over my body. You noticed my unkempt hair. I am sorry about that. I should have taken a moment to brush through the tangles before I came inside. It was a windy morning.
Just look at you! Your skirt is so cute. It's pretty short. You must not have to lean over much. I saw your eyes pause when they reached the stains on my jeans. I wish I could tell you that I am not embarrassed, because I know we are friends.....but I am.
Oh, looks like my hands have come to your attention. Dang it, I know you didn't mean to but you just made the face that says you find them disturbing. I find them disturbing too....I didn't know that I would have hands like these. I washed them as hard as I could before I came here today but the dirt is deep and refuses to fade. I like your finger nails though....especially the color you painted them. I see that you don't seem to have a problem with hangnails. I wish I didn't.
But I brought you a present and I know you are going to like it. Your smile says you are starting to forgive me even though my pantscuffs are dusty and I am leaving a little bit of dirt on the floor from my work boots. I am bringing this to you because I love you. I thought I would be you....but I am me.

I can't believe I am starting a Damn blog. I swore I would never blog...never ever would I share my thoughts out loud. And now, here I sit, writing. Let's hope this is for the best.