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March 23rd, 2018 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 327,537 comments.
Analysis and comments on The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

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Comment 372 of 1192, added on March 10th, 2006 at 8:02 PM.

When people read this poem they have in their minds careers,opportunities
and advancement of oneself. In my opinion my best example is Jesus Christ ,
He can choose one road which is to live and be the most powerful king to
rule the world, but He choosed the one less travelled by which is to die
on the cross to save us lowly sinners.And now it is unto us, are we going
to take the road that will lead us to worldly glory and riches or the one
that will give us eternal life...Simple to say it but dfficult doing
it...aah the wit of Robert Frost

than from United Kingdom
Comment 371 of 1192, added on March 9th, 2006 at 4:24 PM.

this poem is about the choices each person makes in their life. whatever
they choose they can't go back and change it after they have done it. they
have live with their choice, so choose carefully

Rachel from United States
Comment 370 of 1192, added on March 7th, 2006 at 8:16 PM.

I first read this poem my freshman year in high school and ever since it
has stuck to me. This year, as I'm entering my sophmore year in college, I
did a presentation on Robert Frost for my literary class. I read this poem
aloud and gave my interpretation on what it means to me. I was so surprised
to find out how many students have never heard of Robert Frost or of this
poem. This poem has really helped me to not be afraid to try new things and
to be open-minded about living in this world. It helps to have a sort of
guide line for when you get to a certain point in life where you aren't
really sure or are afraid of a potential outcome. You never know, unless
you try!

Ali from United States
Comment 369 of 1192, added on March 7th, 2006 at 6:46 PM.

This poem is saying to pick your own life; don't follow the crowd if that's
not what you want to do. I love it

Kyra from United States
Comment 368 of 1192, added on March 3rd, 2006 at 3:03 AM.

Many people in the world are doing their jobs without their interest and
dislike and they may not do creative and innovative things.The poem
describing the importance
of choice and challenging mind that we must readt to face any curcumstance
without compramising

Comment 367 of 1192, added on February 28th, 2006 at 4:30 PM.

Great poem...very true

Megan from Canada
Comment 366 of 1192, added on February 28th, 2006 at 6:44 AM.

Does anyone else think that the roads stand for death and life and he chose
the life to death becasue he was insane?

Joodie from Bulgaria
Comment 365 of 1192, added on February 27th, 2006 at 5:24 PM.

This poem is actually quite true if interpreted correctly. this poem is
basically speaking of the choices of whether to follow your dreams on the
"path less taken" or to simply take the easy way out and take the other
path, which basically has your entire life planned out right in front of
you. For example, a person enters and graduates from college with a degree
in.....theatre. they have 2 choices: 1. take the easy way and become an
instructor, garanteeed to make money. or 2. go out to L.A. or New York and
work to become a famous actor. that would be the tougher road, but if it is
the persons dream, then by all means take the risk.

Olivia from United States
Comment 364 of 1192, added on February 27th, 2006 at 5:01 AM.

In his coat pocket, the Daily Racing Form....Small Change had Bluebird
circled in the third, but Small Change got rained on with his own
38.......a ritualistic sacrifice...in this season.......to every thing,
there is a season.......o'er the door to the joint, The Box Of Rain, hung
One Lynched Loser, and alongside OLL, a sign, in big block letters
said...."ABANDON ALL LOGIC, YE WHO ENTER"Half-time Super Bowl shows are
super great, like Super 8! They generate lots of traffic, lots of eyeballs!
Artists and intellectuals like Britney and Justin and an Internet Website
Reporter and his Editor, they're ALL always there, or someone else! And
they're ALL always playing 80's or another number's screech music! It's ALL
always popular, and, therefore, is the very best that music could ever
possibly be! Yea! Lots of earballs! Conventions are just half of a
half-time show for any Super Bowl, as far as being super great goes, ya
know?"We will not lie to the American people!" In an endless sea of years
of lies, this has got to be my favorite. It really is super great! I'll ALL
always remember it, said by Bluebird in the third. I circled it. Show. Just
show.Time did steal the place.Spoils to the Victor. Not show lies from the
Spoiled and Bluebird at a half of a half-time Super Bowl super great show.
There's a time and a place, but Time stole place.Q: ____________? A: His
mouth's moving.You wouldn't take hamburger to a barbecue...."ABANDON ALL
LOGIC, YE WHO ENTER"It would take a complete denial of who I am to do such,
abandon all logic. All those tests-for-years perhaps reinforced what I
really already knew about myself. 16 on one side, 16 on the other...not
bad. But 649 on one and its mirrored self on the other, well, the higher
the number, the higher the probability of at least some incremental
variance. I would always get up for tests, could do the inductive /
deductive reasoning balance thing to the satisfaction of interested
parties, including myself. I had been born to gorge on as many exposed
litanies of educational matters as I could randomly assemble or disectedly
cross-reference, from earth, air and water to Shakespeare, Einstein and
Jefferson. I had a good mother and father. I have a good family. I have
good friends. Even when things weren't going my way, I loved life all the
same. I'm blessed. I've been given a gift. It's only logical.As a person,
other than how I'm different, I'm just the same as everybody else.Through
my life's sufferings and achievements, but mostly through the lives' lives
of all the others who came before me, through those who came with me, and
through those who left before me, and for, for those who will remain when I
am gone, I have to say that I find myself in a pretty good place, for now,
in overall's mighty scope and scheme.I'm at my best when I'm me, free to be
me. But I'm no better than anyone else, as a person.I just try to stay true
to my gifts. That's my work. That's my play. That's me.What do I want to be
when I grow up?What? Who? Me? Me. Just me.I'm artsy fartsy. I'm a brainiac
nerd.I'm an old-fashioned researcher and bookwormish watcher. I'm a
(perhaps once) cutting-edge out-there-gettin'-it-done athletic lover.I'm
liberal. I'm conservative.I'm creative. I'm scientific.I'm thoughtful. I'm
a man of action.I can take a wait and see approach until the time is right
to be deliberate, and then I do, respectfully, except when I don't..I'm a
kiss. I'm a rock.I'm a plant. I'm an animal.I have a farm in the heart of
Texas, out by the lake, ten miles from the town where I grew up, where the
big family's from going back to the 1870's. It has cattle on it, pasture, a
field where milo or sudan looks pretty in the green of the year, a stock
tank with catfish in there big enough to be named, and one is named
Hercules. I don't wear hats. I don't wear boots. I park my Lexus SC at my
aunt's farmhouse a dummy-locked gate away and drive the old F-150 farmtruck
across the rocky brushy road to where I'll be constructing a cabin within a
few years for my retirement homestead return. I'll visit other places from
there. I'll still be young, God and health willing.I can play any number of
musical instruments instinctively, by ear, as we say, a conduit for
universal sounds true to me when I'm true to me, delivering my angels'
noise through me as a form of rhythm, melody and harmony, spatially. I can
plan, organize, coordinate, execute and follow-up by customer demand in the
coded game of business intelligence system design, data analysis and report
writing tool delivery, like clockwork, temporally.I hate hate.I'm not a
very good liar.I think the northeastern US and the west coast both have
pretty countryside and I've always liked visiting both.Fear was a good
band, but it's a wasted emotion.I try not to argue with ignorance.Bigots
suck. Any bigot.Any how, I can come and or go any where, any time, with any
one. I can do any thing. Well, if I can do....I've got a good head for
numbers and I'm good with money. And that's good, because I like to not
worry about money when I'm in a spending place with and for my family and
friends and loved ones....Perchance, I've built an honorable career,
capitalized on honest opportunities. In a recent all-day once-ignored,
twice-refused, protestedly-but-nudgedly-by-my-friend / colleague / doubles
partner / agency director / person who signs my contract every year with
benefits intact-attended work-training-but mostly, a test, the results
revealed that I was the same person at home that I am at work, with excess
energy expended to meet the satisfaction of interested parties quantifiably
registering as exactly 0, apparently rare, since I am, according to these
folks who've developed this navel-gazer, a "classic observer / reformer",
wherever I happen to be, in my own skin, comfortable, as the results say
(Insights is the name of this "fun thing to think about", like if I was in
an institution, and I guess I am, since, even though I'm contracted to the
bureaucratic machinery, as anyone who's given the slightest study to this
siphoning complex, without regard to social or political or economic arena,
discovers, there is no such thing as a revolving door...there's no door at
all...there's not even a wall...anymore than there's any accountability to
results, beyond, ahem, "performance standards", uh, yeah...but if there
really is some work that needs to be done, that no one else has been or is
willing or is capable enough to take on, then the contract can be
honorable, and, rest assured, if negotiated with good faith, in all
honesty, and for the honest-intentioned systematic reasons we've all come
to know and love as our "tax dollars at work", yes, oh, it can be and is an
opportunity to be capitalized upon, if one is the one in place and time, at
the ready to fill the need. Insights, the training I was cajoled into
attending, the test I took...it's based on Carl Jung's "Perception is
reality" psychobabble, fun to think about, to diddle with, but far from
proven scientific notation, is this. It's what Einstein wanted to prove,
mathematically, without those plaguing and nagging invalid assumptions, all
givens formulaically and logically bound, source data controlled, according
to the physical laws of the universe, to which, as us, as humans, well, uh,
let me say, as me, for now, as a human being, I am bound...Einstein wanted
to prove quantum mechanics, he spent decades working on it, to say that 2+2
sometimes = 5, that perception is reality, that all things are relative to
the perceiver, all things, mind you, that there is no universal truth, that
there is no God, that everything's just volo nolo, hither thither, all
reason but a random walk, and on and on, illusory matters, trying to prove
negatives, a longshot magic trick gamed up for today's media and
politicians and their believers...just doesn't seem fit for Einstein to
pour over as he did, struggling, ultimately failing...he did though...and
we'd be wise to listen to him. Although he nailed the Theory of Relativity,
as recently re-tested over about a ten-year period of study by some smart
and dedicated folks [I think they differed in results by point-a hundred
0's or so here-then-a-1, way less than 1%, give or take a bit, way
statistically insignificant, done, nailed], he eventually had to admit that
he could not find the full logical formulation which would bear out such an
illogical viewpoint, the "perception is reality" coda which demands a
nowhere-near-religious (c'mon...it's much worse, much) faith, that any, any
viewpoint, is valid, with or without depending on whether or not the
viewpoint is gifted with a moral clarity based on a faith in that which is
greater than us, or, is possessed with an immoral relativistic brand of
secularly humanistic frail and fallible stance of belief that we are as
good as its gets here, and even if that oft-spirally-repeated historical
failure of a stance, by anyone in power who perceives a reality that
certain people are just better people than other people, no matter who,
well, it always does seem to require, in those rare take-over situations by
that particular brand of illogical emotional fervor, a lot of bending over
by the sadly, yet generally, only temporarily, disaffected logically
inclined individuals, or, as is more often the good life's, the good
lives', the good struggle's, the good fight's, also-as-always the good
eventual victory, a typically respectful yet firm disregard for that which
just don't make no good common sense 't'all, and sometimes one can perform
just a simple walk-away from them, leaving behind the blindly aped false
premises and the naturally ensuing, person-damaging, pitifully angry lying
chatter, leaving all that bottled-up hate to the pure dreamers, the wishers
and hopers, the one-sided, lop-sided test takers, wasted energy expenders,
the half-educated, the fearful, the ignorant, the bigoted, the f.i.b.bers,
those who threw their gifts away, over a wall, onto a field, into the
ocean, not knowing they were throwing away the purest love they could ever
know...to those who, at one time, may have actually been good at math, at
logic, at broadly intelligent analytical matters...to those who once
might've had use of some common sense, who perhaps once didn't deny a
portion of who they truly are, who didn't let that portion become
untruly-were, who didn't abandon their devine gift, would've never even
considered such a foul slap in the faces of all those who came before, of
all those who came with, of all those who will remain long after they're
gone, a foul slap in the faces of their mothers and fathers, their
families, their friends, their loved ones, a foul constant slap, as long as
they choose to insult their own selves, a forever-slap in their own faces,
a foul slap. It's as shameful as denying unconditional Love, to cast aside
the hard code of our own physical laws, deep inside of us all, the hard
code of humanity, that which all babies grasp quickly, all children come to
know, as we are never so wise as we were as a child...and the shame of our
own humanity, our nakedness in our true wise selves, as boys and girls, as
children, and the shame of our own sin, our beings as humans, the shame of
life, of the dawning of the knowledge of our faults, our failures, our
fallibilities, as social individuals, begins each of our unique lessons in
each of our unique lives, and cause many of the weakest, those who allow
themselves to become the most deficient in accepting truly who they are,
and instead opt for being that which someone else tells them that they
(un)truly are...o the shame, the true shame of such denial of that which
they have been given in love...the slope is so elastically in decline and
the great Truths are so far behind them, many, far too many, never return.
Those who struggle must catch up with the sun before it finally descends,
must work, work extra hard, to find their place and time in what light is
there for them. Some struggle, but are led back down by false comforts, by
invalid assumptions, by someone else's dream...so lost to not know their
own dream, their unique dream, their own life. Some never even try to find
their right way, far above and ahead of where they finally end up. All are
different, but as we are all ourselves, we're not that different at all.
And even if one is, or more are, as is often the case in the lowered
standards of a groupthink or mob mentality, without fault, without the
ability to conduct the simplest reasonable task based upon nothing more
challenging than, say, 2+2 always being = to 4, due to their naturally
malformed brains, or their unnaturally intentionally and sadly purposefully
malformed brains, well, wouldn't those infirm and / or handicapped
individuals, those who join the other fallen to struggle with logical
matters, well, wouldn't they be better served to rely on those who strive,
and have long-strived, to sense, employing all God's gifts endowed to them,
the differece between "perception" and "reality", when the need is needed?
Like now? Or at least listen with respect and thoughtfulness? Give a
smidgen of consideration? Or look in the mirror? Look around them? Is it so
good to be so lost, so unreasonable, so barren of skills in logic and
understanding? When, in essence, they're just the same as everybody
else...except for how they're different? They do know they're certainly not
better than anyone else, right? Right? Uh...correct? Hm. I guess that's why
many of 'em are just so damn mean! Oh...and my Insights' "energy" color?
I'm the bluest of the blue, to the top. Plus, half red. An equal amount of
green. Almost no yellow, just a sliver. No wonder I used to throw up before
playing onstage all those years....).I'm playing music again. I've been
drawn in that direction. I love the gift. I love my angels. I need the
outlet. Except for scattered parties and with friends and by myself, it's
been almost fifteen years since I've really played, for real
played...stagework, recording, getting the sound I hear in my head down.
Musical things are different now...tech, specs, feel, think, tools.... Back
in the day, o, I once watched the waves and moved the faders. Analog. Tape.
Knobs o' plenty, some digi, some midi creepin' in then, but.... The
total-digital's different, except for how it's the same.... It is a new
approach for me, with how I've played before, and how I've been finding the
0-1-way, more cerebral it seems at this stage in my approach, where before
it was more soulful, or so it seemed. The trick is to keep breathing. And
keep at it. Open and free. It's taking much of my creative energy to get to
where I need to go. Maybe I'll even know when I get there...that's
'when'...it's all work and play.... About half and half, I'd say.... But
that's just me.......just a-livin' my life...no moss a-growin' on these
rocks...o I do hope I find the kisses...I hope I hope...just a-me
a-livin'...me the love the love that loves the love the love...no mo'...no
moss...no mas...I hope I find the kisses...I hope I never lose my soul...I
hope I hope.Of course, hope does not = results.Yet, of course, hope does
spring eternal. It's not a bad thing, hope. Me? I really like Faith. ...and
Love.Me. Now you know I can't abandon all logic to enter (was I ever really
there? yes. thanks to many of you on the other side of the mirror, to flesh
and blood and more, it should be forthcoming, if i properly remember my
upbringing, my mother and father, my friends, my loved ones, those who came
before, those who came with, those who left before, those who will remain
when i am gone). Logic and me. It's too much me...all those tests say
exactly half. But, aw phashaw, tests like that are fun for school. Now....
Something to think about, while diddlin' or fiddlin' or pickin' or
strummin' or.... Something to play with. Songs about calculus just don't
cut it, ya know? Even though Rimbaud's "...mad calculus...", from
Illuminations' War, no no no, but that is a fave. O. Yo. Do. Ra. Me. Me? O,
this and that. I won't get it all, don't want it all, definitely don't need
it all. I'll get what I need. For me. And that's who I am when I'm my best.
Me. Free to be me. That's all. As human as anybody....I'm a little bit
country. I'm a little bit rock and roll. I got some of that hot funky 'n'
bluesy deep down soul. I'm one,Yeah, tryin' to be at my best. Just me bein'
me. That's all,And more: I wish the best for every one. The best, each and
every one.That may be....us, a place where we could go....You've got a lot
of good too, you know...as human as me, as me...if so, just as we truly
are, at our best, we could all go.......I gotta go.......a little more to
go....with love, Ed.

Hey, this is like quantum mechanics, or moral relativism, unproved yet
interesting, false but fun to think about, like contemplating my navel
until a hiatal hernia makes me laugh like a hyena, like the unclothed
emporer fight, the nekkid rasslin' match, between Einstein, who wished to
prove that 2+2 sometimes = 5, but finally admitted he couldn't, the same
way he said he couldn't prove there was no God, and Jung, who said what the
hell, if it feels good, do it, even though he said there was no good, and
no evil, that perception is reality, and here's who you are: ______. There.
Next!Am I right? Am I wrong?My God! What have I done?Same as it ever was,
same as it ever was....Nekkid or not, man, Einstein'd take Jung in the
first round. Shoot. No way, you say? Way, I say! No doubt Al would utilize
the famed and proven hold known as the equal and opposite reaction flying
grip of I Am Become Death, The Destroyer Of Worlds, calculated with
undebatable precision, and pin Carl down until he admitted that 2+2 never =
5.So 7's not really 8. 8's not really 9. There was an error in 5. I had
sent 2 5's. That's all. I guess it would have been easier to have admitted
that. But now I have...and you didn't even have to use that flying grip on
me.Rock! ...and Roll!Now we can move on to more important matters, just
like what happened at WrestleMania III, back in '87, probably the pinnacle
of midget rasslin' in the United States. In a mixed, six-man tag team
contest, Hillbilly Jim teamed with midget legend Little Beaver and rising
sensation The Haiti Kid to take on his long time rival King Kong Bundy, who
was accompanied by Little Beaver's arch nemesis Lord Littlebrook and Little
Tokyo. Yes, important matters. Things that matter. Things we remember.
Things like a kiss is still a kiss. The fundamental things. Not a bunch of
Carl Jung "perception is reality" crap. I pity the fool. Fluff. We may not
remember, at WrestleMania III, in '87, that, in the headliner, Hulk Hogan
pile-drove Andre the Giant to victory, with a tumultuous sound that had the
Pontiac Silverdome crowd, not contemplating their navels, but in an action
blast of mat-pounding boom, they were so totally like understanding the
full scope of J Robert Oppenheimer's quote from the Bhagavad-Gita, upon
seeing the magic mushroom of the first test of an atomic bomb, "I am become
death, the destroyer of worlds," an equal and opposite reaction, for the
crowd, fer sure. We may not remember when E and MC Square, accompanied by
the lovable yet gruff Willie Merle Cash, recorded their magnum opus Theory
of Relativity. Well, I mean, I remember and all, but that's not my point,
see? Hold on. This may be it...we do remember that Hillbilly Jim and his
team won the six-man midget rasslin' match to end all six-man midget
rasslin' matches. On a disqualification based on, yes, this time, a
debatable technicality, sure, but why quibble now? Like the guys at NASA
always say, "It ain't rocket science." Amen guys! Then we'd get in my
monster truck and go home, poppin' a coupla brewskies along the way...yes
way....What was the question?Oh, here's the correct order (thanks Al...Al's
my MAN, man!):1 Sweet Loaf - Butthole Surfers2 Kodachrome - Paul Simon3
Moon River - Audrey Hepburn4 Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Judy Garland5
Lady in the Radiator Song - Eraserhead Soundtrack6 Don't Let Me Be
Misunderstood - Nina Simone7 Put a Straw Under Baby - Brian Eno8 Frank's
Final Guitar Solo - Frank Zappa9 Happy Trails - Roy Rogers and Dale
EvansPut 'em in a 1 thru 9 playlist in Media Player, name it No Regrets,
and then, like a Rock, let 'em Roll....Letting the days go by....2+2 does =
4.Carl Jung was a fuckin' dumbass.Frank Zappa was never a dumbass. Well,
probably not much, you know, give or take a time or two. Well, okay,
probably more than that...but at least not like Carl Jung was...anyway.
Attached is his, Frank's, not Carl's, Carl couldn't play for shit, kept
drinkin' 5th's instead of playin' 'em, and mumblin' on and on about 2 of
this and 2 of that, always seemed to be 1 note off, but damn, who brought
that pitied fool up...attached is the 1 and only Frank's last recorded
guitar solo, for his hometown crowd and for all of us. I find his bending
of the stringed effected electric powered notes all about and then on the
absolute mathematically calculated notes to be fun to think about, like
contemplating my navel, until....Have I ever told you this story?There is
water at the bottom of the ocean....Ah...well then....No regrets.[Wish7
attachment: Frank Zappa, Frank's Final Guitar Solo, from Adieu CA Live,

This time, Guitar Bob placed the onus of GW (not that GW) tix purchase on
my account and I handled the task expeditiously and efficiently, before I
posted the show's notice to you. That's the brief history. I can't recall
any show at Stubbs being a reserved seating event. There's no seating at
all. But I could be wrong. The website didn't really say. It just said
non-smoking, which is strange because it's outdoors...unless they're only
selling tix for the inside room, which is max cap of one hundred fifty or
so. I talked to a guy who's a dj at the geezer station that puts a lot of
these type shows on and he said that he didn't know what was up with the
show, other than he knew he was going. Too much stuff happnin' in the town
now...spring is around the corner.Bob may very well be on his way to
Indiana as I write. It slips from me when he said he was driving up there
to perform the nonenviable task of cleaning his and his sisters' and his
recently deceased parents' home of lifetimes of material, all with mixed
links of memories and emotions. ...And apparently he's not gone yet, since
I just received an email from him. He should be back by the 9th or 10th,
however, and we'll be at Stubbs that Thursday evening.The beauty of
scientific notation, numbers, the universe's one true absolute. I was
wondering why I would have said "possibility" in that vein instead of
"probability"...and I figured I just goofed, not being a number like Secret
Agent Man or a character in a country western prison song, but I did use
the cypherin' term after all. Probably.Of course, it's possible that
anything could happen. And that thing is open to possibilities. As free as
it can be. To go with the evening's current, to flow naturally, fluid. That
anything could happen.Defining the probabilities, the science, the tix, the
doors, the branches, the smooth flow, the cars, the street, the
destination, allowing the freedom of possibilities of destiny's anatomy,
the time and space continuum of the metaphysical swirling about, free in
Austin, unfettered and alive, the physical.Forget about it, ___, it's
Austintown. Anything goes. No obligations. Be free. Be you.Everything's
easy...when you're a natural.Take your time. I don't see the show selling
out, unless they do just perform in the little room...I'll try to get mo'
info. But one thing, SXSW is the following week and many many folks'll be
saving their musical mojo for that.As above so below...cool casual. The
fabric of our lives....I really would like to meet you. This may have good
chance.Hello ,I am new to the forum and this is my first posting..hope you
all like it?Enigma thy name is woman..Enigma thy name is womanMystery thy
name is womanUnresolved , still resolvedUnknown, still knownAdmit knowing
herAnd you areDead with her mysterious waysAdmit not knowing herYou are
lifelessWithout her enigmatic auraResolved, unresolvedMystery, enigmaAfter
all you know her!--Sur.though i am from Gujarat/Kutch, i am in mumbai -
well, u can meet me and my son, of course in photo section -. and can get
to know from the story i have posted in short story. Bharuch and Ankleshwar
- i have heared about it but not seen yet for that matter i am yet to see
whole of gujarat. born and brought up in mumbai so obviously more of
'mumbaikar' then 'gujju'. love sur

__, since I'm writing you, I'll touch this one too. It's easy to get into
the words said in that referenced thread of exchanges, primarily between __
and __, and be affected by them. Something beyond sports scores were shared
there.__ has a trademark objectivist philosophy (albeit spliced with a good
share of homespun or life-earned vision that doesn't strictly adhere him to
said viewpoint), which may very well fit him, and I see much worth in
listening to the objectivist view as it's applied to the now (in that it's
a logical extension of philosophical thought branching from a trail of
historical worldview from the Greeks of course, but, through the
Enlightened, and grabbing the industrial and scientific and technological
theists' more humanist views and taking a sharp turn away from the
communist, socialist, authoritarian and totalitarian and fascist political,
cultural and primarily economic disasters, while adding a big dose of
existential modern and post-modern pop, hence the angst and hand-wringing
and self-doubt and they turn into what works for them, and we'd better take
note...you know, in other words, like Iggy), and I even share some more and
/ or less of its self-reliance, selfishness, individuality, free market,
libertarian, responsibility notions. But objectivists can get pretty
uptight and sans-love intolerant, and that doesn't really fit for me. They
should be listened to, however, because most "real" power in this world,
not babyish by comparison political or cultural power, lives according to
much of the credo. Not __, he's just a regular guy, but the unseen powers
that be, the money, they have an complete uncaring for people who can't
perform, dumb peasants like most of us, and will behave in a manner which
will keep them, well, that which keeps them in that position of power, the
money, in the best spot regardless of consequences to anyone else closely
or remotely concerned. They always have. They always will. Only for every
baby step we gain, as a people generally, which sometimes is going
backwards, they are leagues in advance. They be da big boys. And it's not
who we're told it is either. Not that I know who it is. But it's not like
"the rich" as defined by politics (this could be a fireman and his
schoolteacher wife, according to the numbers, who don't need their money
and we should hate them for their hard work and success because we know
exactly all about them as a result of knowing their income last year, no,
we don't care about grandma, they're rich, and people who spend all day
posting to an internet message board deserve the money that he risks his
life for, that she juggles the weight of the world for, remember, they're
rich) is controlling the world's 30 some odd trillion bucks in wealth. Even
if there are 3 million politically defined "rich" families, the wealth of
the world is still 100 million times "richer" than all of them combined.
And it's not like even the most brilliant political team, made up of
coke-snortin' and whorin' good ol' boyz n girlz from Austin or Boston or
Las Vegas or Los Angeles is any match to the history of civilization's
wealth armed with a plan to maintain and grow it. I've got my eye on the
religious institutions as run by man though. The big one, that was / is
your church? Nothing against 'em, it's just the way things are. Other
institutions are involved, including moving-toward-socialist ones like our
government bureaucracies and property appropriation system (all taxing
mechanisms, including the wire I'll be sending this to you on), educational
system and institutional media. From left to right at the very top. As it
is. As it shall be.Meanwhile that person over there? He was told to have a
belief system that convinces him that he doesn't like me because I have
shoulders, in fact, that person hates me for that, and therefore he has
proof that I am responsible for all 53 million deaths worldwide in 2003,
yes, that's right, proof is in a website that he has a link to, something
somebody wrote about somewhere when who saw, evidence, only idiots would
deny it, that I am an unelected murderer of everyone who has ever died on
the planet earth since way back before, uh, before, before that last
president, and before him too!You mean my love for people like that? Yeah,
I'm a sweetheart. Actually, while I wish they would just shut the fuck up
and get off the damn stage (this is where I say: and take that drum solo
with them), I have to wonder just who's laughing the loudest at, not
necessarily all the goobers at Fray and Slate and CNN and Washington Post
and on the campaign trail, because nobody with a brain pays half attention
to anything they say, but at a sensitively gathered composite of their
dreamy neverland rhetoric, the
backlash-run-away-from-those-fools-as-fast-as-possible crowd or the folks
on the hill holding those marionette strings? That answer's not even worth
questioning. The backlash crowd was run away from last time. They, like
everyone, deep down, know that they'll be next again. Stuck in
independence, mired in freedom, shackled to liberty as I am, I have no
choice but to try to help in the way I do, by telling one person, who tells
one person, who tells one person, with love, Be free. Be you.

As soon as you're born they make you feel smallBy giving you no time
instead of it allTill the pain is so big you feel nothing at allA working
class hero is something to beThey hurt you at home and they hit you at
schoolThey hate you if you're clever and they despise a foolTill you're so
fucking crazy you can't follow their rulesA working class hero is something
to beWhen they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd yearsThen they
expect you to pick a careerWhen you can't really function you're so full of
fearA working class hero is something to beKeep you doped with religion and
sex and TVAnd you think you're so clever and classless and freeBut you're
still fucking peasants as far as I can seeA working class hero is something
to beThere's room at the top they're telling you stillBut first you must
learn how to smile as you killIf you want to be like the folks on the hillA
working class hero is something to beIf you want to be a hero well just
follow me.--John Lennon, Working Class Hero, from John Lennon / Plastic Ono
Band.I started writing again a couple of years ago, after a decade or more
hiatus. I hadn't so much as written a song during that period. I didn't
pick up a guitar for about four years, and when I finally did, I played
only other people's songs, which I've done, play others' songs, since I
started playing at five, but never had I exclusively played songs which
were not my own, did not come from inside me, through me. As a child, when
I began to write, I wrote poetry, stories, word constructs and even a novel
(using Batman, some of the characters from the TV show and the setting, but
mostly creating a new world altogether---written on several Big Chief
tablets with a thick red pencil), the novel at age seven, the other
creations, some starting earlier than seven, some later, and I wrote
through my life, as I needed, without demand from anything anyone anywhere,
including the external me, as I must, playing with journals and journalism,
essays and esoterica, form and function, toward mutliple media fusion,
fragmentarily whole, simultaneously self-reflexive and -reflective, of my
vision, from me, my time and my place.I either came to it naturally or
learned it early, that any structure, any outside influence of control or
power or mere want, exerted or allowed to be exerted into my creative
process, would shut the apparatus down. I could turn off the process, or
more accurately, the process could turn itself off, for indefinite periods
of time, dependent on the nature and the source of interference, for days,
weeks, months, but generally no more than a year or two. The more than ten
years of creative inactivity just prior to a rebirth two years ago has been
the longest of my forty five years on this planet.The sensitive artist? You
should feel my hands, my skin all over. Except for the dings, crusts,
wrinkles, scars of age, my skin is as soft as a baby's, I have a sensitive
touch, so much so that the blisters I endured as a young man working with
the older men embarrassed me, until I received the support from wiser
family members, that it was okay, that they loved me the way I was (and I
always wear gloves, even when mowing the grass or sweeping the sidewalk).
My sense of smell and also taste, keen. Hearing, well, rock n roll bands
couldn't damage the blessing of knowing the sounds of love and peace that
music can be. Hearing words and meanings, seeing words and meanings and the
spheres, the spirals, the mathematical perfections, the metaphysical and
spiritual questions, unknowns, mysteries, sight, observation, is the
special gift I've been granted. All senses, sensitive, yes, and combined
with the shielded, naturally and learnedly protected, artistically
innovative inner workings of heart, mind, soul, in the vehicle known as me,
able and perhaps truly only able to perform the role given, to give in
turn, to shine, the small glimmers of light, to light a way, when needed,
perhaps, others' ways, my way, perhaps just one, perhaps it's been done.
Without knowing the Truth, all I can do is remain open, and who, me, to do
what I do when I do and where and how...before the Great Light reveals All,
reveals the Why, and I'll be set free...of course, vastly similar options
are available to everyone on earth, if they would just accept themselves
for who they are and not who outside influence and interference falsely
senses who they're supposed to be. It's the easiest thing on earth to do,
to be your self...and the hardest. We are so small, after all. Faith in
something greater than mere clay and ashes is essential. For freedom.What
happened? My senses were wracked, splayed, grated by 9/11 and the images,
thought, action, emotion, which followed, relentlessly, and by my prior
sleep, during all those years of warning, leading up to a wake-up call, to
clarion calls, signs in the air. I was alive with the time and place and
myself again. The outside interference, the influence which was telling me
who I should be, what I should be doing, when, where, how and why, the
little why, once so controlling my being in what seemed like comfort and
ease, got crushed by the universal power and knowledge of Love, pure,
unconditional Love, but I could not sense the light toward it. Instead, the
darkness enveloped me, taunting me with the devil's bargain of hate, fear,
prejudice, ignorance, clawing at my wounds still bleeding, pleading with me
to come into its bed of shallow shared graves, with so many others, fellow
men, women, children. But those pleas fortunately rang hollow, empty echoes
effecting distorted sounds, lies and lies of words. And I was crushed by
man's fate. I fell into what could probably be called clinical depression,
feeling the pain and grief of thousands of years of humankind, crying at a
start, crying at a stop, happiness, sadness, joy, sorrow...I sensed the
deadliest of life's sins overpowering me. Three months, four, five, six
months.... But. lo, then an angel appeared, in the form of my beautiful
friend, and then in another, and another, and I voiced my words, sang my
song, and they comforted me, and in very short time I became me, was me,
again.Row row row your boatGently down the streamMerrily merrily merrily
merrilyLife is but a dream.--Traditional, Row Row Row Your Boat.Write?
Here? According to this that and the other, outside interference and
influence? I just don't write here. I did find here, sent by a friend at
the end of this last summer, through a link, to an article on Slate by
Sasha Freer Jones, about popular music and culture. I saw a tab called
Discuss, clicked it, and came to one of those message boards that I'd seen
but never really participated in. In the board, a few people had written
about the article, others about other things. I wrote a piece called Just a
Mirror and posted it. I went back a couple of days later to read it again
and noticed it had a checkmark beside it, which meant Fray Editor's Pick,
according to the legend above the board. I wrote another one in reply to my
own post, and went around the site to see what I could see. I came to a
column written by Kevin Arnovitz called Fraywatch. A few paragraphs down,
he mentioned my post, Just a Mirror, and used a descriptive term, cryptic,
in its mention. I shrugged, I guess. Here is a place I can do what I must
do, battling slings and arrows from elitist armies of darkness, from those
who I've nested with, built with, lived with, ate, drank and was merry
with, who almost pulled me in to the group sinking into the shallow cold
grave, huddled and falsely comforted by their numbers, universally
infantescimal numbers, easily insignificant in the calculus of forever,
empty in the fullness of space and time, and I can easily spy outside
interference and influence, dominant yet cold elitist viewpoints, all over
elitism all over, gangs of intelligent yet not very smart people, writing
in varied forms and functions, on the whole playing a part for me, and
they're not what I would call bad. Many may very well be as lost as I once
was. Of course, with grace, they can be found. It's up to each one to
separate from their assigned roles in their elitist groups, and be
themselves instead. With no negative impact on me, they've, the elitist
groups (whether or not a yellow six sided asterisk is perched two spaces to
the left of their fake names when shown, or whether or not an invitation to
Club Fray and its Microsoft subsidiaries has been proferred---elitism is
rampant, weak elitism, based on the usual: fear, ignorance, hate,
prejudice...deeply fallen man, those who believe in nothing more than mere
clay and dust, those who cling to each others' lies to themselves...those
who fail to hear the clarion calls, to see the signs in the sky...and, in
my hope, only temporarily, only for but a while longer, till they too
accept the help of light, accept their path to themselves, to their
freedom), the elitist groups, they've provided an image for me, a two
dimensional one, but an image nonetheless.There are individuals here who
mean something of which I'm not sure, to me. Perhaps I to them as well. I
will not venture a guess. I'm especially thankful for them. They may have
something to do with the Why.All things are transitory. Movements. Digital
connections. Life. My writing. And yours. And this place at its core....If
I'm supposed to be telling all people on the far ends of the wire, through
the finely ground sand of zeroes and ones, on the other side of the looking
glass, just a mirror after all, that shines like beads and trinkets in
front of me, in front of all, if I'm supposed to be telling them the whos,
whats, wheres, whens, hows and the little whys of their purpose for being
here, if that's the debate, discussion, deliberation, rumination, if that's
the orders from elitists throughout this whole Fray, well, please
graciously allow me to decline.Thanks for your hospitality during my visit.
I wish for everyone the very best.--Ed from Texas.APRIL is the cruellest
month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire,
stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in
forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.Summer surprised us,
coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the
colonnade,And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,And drank coffee, and
talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt
deutsch.And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,My cousin's,
he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie,Marie, hold
on tight. And down we went.In the mountains, there you feel free.I read,
much of the night, and go south in the winter.What are the roots that
clutch, what branches growOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man,You cannot
say, or guess, for you know onlyA heap of broken images, where the sun
beats,And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,And the dry
stone no sound of water. OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock,(Come in
under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different
from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at
evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust.Frisch
weht der WindDer Heimat zu.Mein Irisch Kind,Wo weilest du?'You gave me
hyacinths first a year ago;'They called me the hyacinth girl.'—Yet when we
came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,Your arms full, and your hair
wet, I could notSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead,
and I knew nothing,Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Od' und
leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold,
neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe,With a wicked pack of
cards. Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those
are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the
Rocks,The lady of situations.Here is the man with three staves, and here
the Wheel,And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,Which is blank,
is something he carries on his back,Which I am forbidden to see. I do not
findThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water.I see crowds of people, walking
round in a ring.Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,Tell her I bring
the horoscope myself:One must be so careful these days.Unreal City,Under
the brown fog of a winter dawn,A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,I
had not thought death had undone so many.Sighs, short and infrequent, were
exhaled,And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.Flowed up the hill and
down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hoursWith a
dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew, and stopped
him, crying 'Stetson!'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!'That
corpse you planted last year in your garden,'Has it begun to sprout? Will
it bloom this year?'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?'Oh keep the
Dog far hence, that's friend to men,'Or with his nails he'll dig it up
again!'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'--TS Eliot, The
Burial of the Dead, from The Waste Land.

___, mucho thanxo for the article. I still couldn't get to it through the
link. It wanted my access code. I take it that was all of the piece? That's
all? Man, my story was better than that! Actually, Greene's book is very
good. I was fascinated by it when I read it years ago, but I may be biased.
I like Texas and I guess I like my family.One thing about my grandmother.
She is only mentioned as an aside in Greene's book. As are Pat and Mike.
And none are mentioned by name. She refused to cooperate with him or anyone
else in the matter, including, as is my understanding, with Marshall, after
the deal went down. She was three or four years older than him and all I
ever remember her saying about him was that "he was young and got mixed up
with the wrong crowd." I loved my grandma dearly and hung out over at her
house from the time we moved back to Brownwood from our two or three year
stint in Columbus / Fort Benning, GA, when I was in the second grade, until
I moved down here when I was seventeen. She died in Feb '84 and I remember
taking it quite hard. Niki and I had been split for a good six months and
were not what you'd call friends at that time, but I remember going to her
house to tell her and she was very comforting, considering, because she
loved my grandmother too. Seems like everybody did who came to know her.
Remember how I said that I recently got interested in women's college
basketball because of a working friendship with one of the longtime UT Jody
fans here at work? I got to reminesce with my friend this year about my a
picture of my grandmother and stories told by her when she was a thirteen
yr old girl growing up in Blanket...let's see...1911...and she had on one
the greatest "uniforms" anyone could ever wear, even better than those
figure skating "uniforms" the girls wear now! My sister (whose daughter
just graduated and who I just got back from visiting) and her husband are
now worth a mint from his work of the past twenty years, but back in the
day they were poor like the rest of us, no, let me make that, they were
PO', but I'll always respect the job they had then: they were living in a
little country community just south of Dallas and they used to take care of
underprivileged kids, not necessarily that type of underprivileged, but
definitely some sad cases...ten year old blonde girls who'd been raped by
the dad, well, that child sticks out in my memory, but there were busloads
of these kids, oh sorry, all girls, with some pretty awful baggage, and
they'd take these little girls out to some nowhere mountainous area in New
Mexico, seems like it was close to Ruidoso, and they'd do a survival six
weeks out there, with just them and the girls, and they had some great
success stories from that. So one time, under the guise of "historic Texas
education", they maneuvered their trip back through Brownwood, which is
where I got to meet them all, and especially the one beautiful little
blonde who still stays in my mind, all to hang out with my grandmother for
a day. I think she put them all to work and then fed them all, maybe twenty
kids, but I suppose she was used to it, with thirty years of her own
children, two from Marshall, seven from Cecil, one from John, her last
husband, who died in the mid-seventies...finally one who just died a
natural death, working in his and her yard (oh, that's where I learned to
play dominoes, from Pa John, and, should we ever play, I'm warnin' ya, the
guy taught me all the "old man from Texas" tricks...you don't stand a
chance!), plus because ten is never enough when it came to children and my
grandmother, they adopted another uncle, so that made eleven. I think I
have sixty four first cousins, and it's not even worth trying to count
beyond that. But a whole bunch of the whole gang will be at the reunion,
that I can count on. ___, you should come with me, meet some cowboys, we'll
tell 'em all you're my wife, that'll put to rest some suspicions (nah, not
really, they know me pretty well...I'm supposed to be the "smart" one, the
one who was told to write all this down years ago...by my grandmother). I
do hope ______'s there too.There was something else I wanted to say,
another subject, but I can't think of it now...I think that's going
around...let me get this off. Thanks again for the article _______.

Tastes like chicken!Yeah, how 'bout that shining beacon? For what it's
worth, I reckon. One love at a time. One reader. Maybe they're trying to
put on those sans-a-box clothes. But it ain't me. It ain't me who's gonna
be reading that o'er n o'er again. It's enough I had to write it...below my
very own fake name! Hmmph! I'm not Sluggo bein' mean to Mr Bill again, am
I? I mean, I try to remember that it sure does seem that that li'l waterin'
hole called Fray is all the home, all the friends that many of the
visitors, customers, occupants, residents there may have. And a disease is
a disease, whether it's pickling a liver or whether it's pickling a brain.
That's addiction. That's choice. Without regard to.... And I try to
remember how to love them. And how to love the one. And how to love me too,
he who gets me closer to me, closer to God, the Truth. But instead of
writing that, or what I wrote in a couple of replies, I wrote "Like FDR,
you're a cripple." Perhaps some people, so far gone from Life, only learn
the Truth from being on the wrong end of a gun, or worse. Maybe the FDR
piece is not that bad.... I still don't see me reading it any more than I
have to. Others? Who knows?One of the replies was titled "Where is the
Love?" I come to my inbox to find mention of that in one of the three saved
and sent pieces of my work. Thank you _______. Those three, I could read
again. And did. "In Memorium..." made me well up, as my dad might say. And
I expect, but can't recall quite, that I wrote many of the same stories of
my life and those around in different contexts of the verbiage.
Fortunately, although I tell the stories in any number of different ways,
the honesty of my vision stays roughly in the same path of recollection, as
far as nagging facts and remembrances go. God, I'm so lucky I do that.
Otherwise, I'd read like a damn fool, saying spec as I do, saying, "It's
all so damn much bigger'n that." Saying "You're beautiful _______!" Saying
"Let me get outa here before all this self-reflection puts me in a coma."
Saying....HelloI'm the guy who sits next to youAnd reads the newspaper over
your shoulderWaitDon't turn the pageI'm not finishedLife is so
uncertainHere I amYes it's meTake my handAnd you'll seeHere I amYes it's
trueAll I wantGirl is youGiven that true intellectual and emotional
compatabilityAre at the very least difficultIf not impossible to come byWe
could always opt for the more temporal gratificationOf sheer physical
attractionThat wouldn't make you a shallow personWould itHere I amYes it's
meTake my handAnd you'll seeHere I amYes it's trueAll I wantGirl is youIf
Ford is to ChevroletWhat Dodge is to ChryslerWhat Corn Flakes are to Post
ToastiesWhat the clear blue sky is to the deep blue seaWhat Hank Williams
is to Neil ArmstrongCan you doubt we were made for each otherHere I amYes
it's meTake my handAnd you'll seeHere I amYes it's trueAll I wantGirl is
youLookI understand too little too lateI realize there are things you say
and doYou can never take backBut what would you be if you didn't even
tryYou have to trySo after a lot of thoughtI'd like to reconsiderPleaseIf
it's not too lateMake it a cheeseburgerHere I amYes it's meTake my handAnd
you'll seeHere I amYes it's trueAll I wantGirl is you.--Lyle Lovett, Here I

Those files were good. I just opened them in yahoo and when I replied, I
just replied from there and it weirded the open file out and then truncated
it like a rabbi email app. I've gotten six. You're the best __!____ is on
board for the drive fix, but he's not in the 100% category yet. He's no
dummy. We were roommates during the halcyon druggie days and he was always
taking things apart then, including that new two thousand dollar
contraption that we, yes, acquired from the University called a VCR, about
the size of a Volkswagen, playing only twenty dollar two hour three quarter
inch Beta tape. ____'s the little brother good lookin' athlete of _____,
pharmacist and Austin druggie, duh, roomie, original member of the
Brownwood Gang of Seven, us boys who grew up together as friends and remain
friends today, and _____, storyteller extraordinaire, except all flagrant
lies, way over, in the finest TX tradition of Billy Sol Estes and those
other three name white collar crooks. _____'s never worked a day in his
life, but he introduced me to the sex party scene almost twenty five years
ago that happened, waned and officially shut down by the mid-eighties.
_____'s been in Hawaii, on the big island, rainy non tourist side, on the
volcano, for fifteen years, working pharmacy in town, married into the
island, with _____ and daughter ______, a nine yr old half Cauc half Asian
precocious beauty who loves me without bridles...and that's the story of
it.____ is a little _______ ____ back in Brownwood, with a payroll ranging
from three to six, depending. He opened the store when I was travelling
back and forth from here to there when my mom was ill and then died and
then to visit dad and then he died and I, as a zombie, for thirty three
weekends in that year, stayed mostly with ____ and his wife ___ and
daughter ________. I'll never be able to repay monetarily what Lane and
family gave to me during that very lost time in my life. If I didn't
before, but I did, I'll pass that sincere kindness, that respectful gift,
that was given to me, I'll pass that along in ways. That was 92-93. Lane's
a good guy. Knows what he's doing.He's going to visit _____ in Hawaii in a
month or so. He hasn't been there since he moved back to Brownwood twelve
years ago, after a three year stint in the rainforest, running a silkscreen
t shirt shop, riding Harleys round the island. ________ was born there. She
started walking when I visited around Labor Day of 90, my first trip over,
when I was on the only Honda at the big Labor Day bike run, hosted by the
Big Island, with all the other island clubs shipping their bikes over, new
outfit for the old ladies, colors blazing, chrome polished, all Harleys.
_____ was sec / treas of the Koa Punas, and the president, when he gave me
my honorary colors to wear on the run and at the all night party, looked at
me with the kind eyes of a man who had just gotten out of prison for time
for killing two guys with his bare hands, and said, if you have a problem
with anybody, just yell my name, ______!, and they should leave you alone.
I had no problems, even riding the Honda the two hundred miles round the
island to the park where the party was held. It's what I've usually found
to be the case when a stranger in a strange land is present...I find the
good things, I give the thanks, I find the enjoyment, and everyone sees
that and is happy for and with you. A shield of life's grace moves and I
move. I ate their food. I was starved! What's that? Unintelligible pidgin.
Huh? It grows on rocks. It was great! That worm stuff, great! It had been a
long day. I was eatin' like them and they were diggin' it too. Then I was
matchin' on their libations, liquid, I stayed away from that stinky Puna
bud that night, trying it finally in 96 and not remembering an entire
evening except that I stayed in an easy chair watching the Cowboys play
Monday Night Football. Anyway, in the middle of the night, I had a group of
friends, the men insisting that I dance with their wives, which I did, with
extra dance distance between me and the partners. But everything was easy.
It was a natural.I wrote ____ back but he hasn't responded yet. This is the
heavy artillery. I'm going in....Now, you can't tell me that that wasn't
political....It wasn't what it's supposed to be, but then, neither am I. Am
I I?I'm too close to the bone, where the meat is sweeter, downtown. I
really am two degrees of separation from the big house, just because, as a
stranger in a strangeland, I look for the good, I find it, and I bring
myself and my offerings, and I enjoy that. I was the same way with Ann when
she was at the pink dome, two degrees, always respectful, even though her
long overdue mission twisted and put me in the crosshairs because of how I
was born, with long years of legal economic discrimination heaped upon me
and others like me. I knew the history. I disagreed personally with her
decision to make me a second class citizen through no fault of my own, but
I accepted my role and worked without rancor, with all due respect, until
matters could and should be changed. I remember that I allowed Ann twice to
enter the elevator before me when we occasioned one another there, and came
to honestly appreciate her for some of her societal savvy. But we knew she
was gone. Her time was through. She cashed out in a land steal snuck
through by her protege appointed to just the right job. Hot damn and Ann
was flush. The GW thing happened and it happened indeed. Ann holed up,
strung out was it or was it the teenage girls again. She gave it to the new
team, it seemed. And the team was on its way early on to bigger houses,
first things first. The powers that be, _______. Beyond these folks who
walked the same steps I do, well beyond. The powers that be. But the roles,
the machinery, the systems, the seriousness. Their heads are turned to the
side on the Licenses because they're provisional permits they've been
granted. They borrow the reigns. They don't own them and this team knows
it. They can only use them to go to school and work and back. I respect
that. I'm a stranger but in a strangeland. I can shriek in horror and slap
my own face, but why? This is the time. And this is the record of the time.
There's something a helluva lot bigger than this. This is the big push, the
big fight. To understand the problem, just follow the money.I'm offering my
kindest gifts. I'm bringing that to the table. With respect accordingly
due. The metaphor is the kiss that Michael Corleone lovingly gives his
brother before he is taken out in the boat on the lake and summarily
executed. It's love, human as can be. Politics is an animal that lives
below the belly of a snake. I'm separated from it, by degrees. I'm now my
own form of protected class, risen from the ashes of yesteryear's searched
and destroyed forced failures. This is just the time. And the record of the
time is still playing. I'm lucky. I'm a natural. Everything is easy. I've
seen a lot.Anyone who knows knows that they don't know. Someone today asked
me for an answer. An answer? They also wanted to know if what I said was
negative or positive. Maybe that was someone else. They all roll into one
for the most part. The educated. Oh don't they know. They don't
know.Someone was quoted in the papers. Maybe. Maybe not.Will we win?
Wouldn't that be a good one to answer.It's that time.Freedom is where it's
at baby! Personally, what is to be gained from taking another man's freedom
away? Anywhere. So long as it's freedom with responsibility...and ain't
that it....?Big money's on that natural side, where everything is easy.
Freedom. Economic freedom. Personal freedom. Political freedom.The Parties?
Political Parties? Right now, it's not even close, with economic and
political freedom belonging to whatever the powers that be are called. Even
personal freedom is a tug of war with the powers that be gaining the slight
edge.Drugs, Sex, Party? Freedom.Worship, Weapons, Privacy, Intellect,
Family and the swing of the new, the record of the time, the fallout
dynamic issues incorporating the tools of the time, the methods, a new way
of looking at the world in the light of day's time. Freedom.We've been fat
and happy. We can still be fat and happy. But in this time, that's on our
own time. Things have gone along counter to freedom for far too
long...seventy five years, Worship, under attack, the supremes grabbing the
hammering phrase right out of their ass: the separation of church and
state, saying they knew what Jefferson knew when he did not include such
words in the first amendment, they knew and they still know that oh yes he
did so mean that...that's a good start for Intellect but it really
fireballs in the seventies instititutional takeover of education, dumbing
down, goals 2000, they made it, they made it with years to spare,
endoctrinating k-12 and post-adolescent daycare, or what they know is
college, minds, molding, shaping, controlling them, forcing them to love
their categorical labels as assigned by the authorities, I've given this a
lot of thought, your delta name is Flounder, and he is Flounder because
that's what they know, prison, it's okay to live in a box, feel good about
your box, here, take this, that's good.... The world? They know, don't
they?Be free. Be you. That's my way of eating that which grows on rocks and
honestly enjoying it. Be one with God. Eeeewwww...Goooodddd! I never cussed
around my mom, I never flashed a boob in church, much less the Super Bowl.
This is the time. And this is the record of the time."I think that I know
that I think that I just don't know"--Lou Reed, Heroin.I would risk the
serpent's biteI would dance around with sevenI would kiss the diamondbackIf
I knew it would get me to heaven'Cause I want to get right with GodYes, you
know you got to get right with GodI would burn soles of my feetBurn the
palms of both my handsIf I could learn and be completeIf I could walk
righteously again'Cause I want to get right with GodYes, you know you got
to get right with GodI would sleep on a bed of nailsTill my back was torn
and bleedingIn the deep darkness of hellThe damascus of my meeting'Cause I
want to get right with GodYes, you know you got to get right with GodI
asked God about his planTo save us all from Satan's slaughterIf I give up
one of my lambsWill you take me as one of your daughters'Cause I want to
get right with GodYes, you know you got to get right with God.--Lucinda
Williams, Get Right With God.What is to be gained by stripping another man
of his freedoms? Priorities of issues. Weighted scales. There goes the sun.
Another day. The young. The world. The time. This is the time. Politics is
an animal that lives below the belly of a snake. This is the record of the
time. Politics? What do I know? Dissolve...fade...zoom zoom....The
answer?God so Loves me. Just as I am. Am I I?

Hi __, thanx for the continued files. I really appreciate it. _____ did
reply, without much help for what I asked, but he was certainly gracious
enough. Slate is run so slipshod that I figured they probably didn't have
backup in automation. I'm sure they backup sys files, but not the trash
written in fray. It was worth a shot though.Like their political stance,
since we're on that, I'm sure that Slate simply hides their head in the
sand and wishes and hopes that things will work out for their servers,
kinda like I did for the majority of my stuff on my 'puter at the house.
Then 911 happens, or crashes, or the long buildup of terrorism's war on
freedom-loving people in the world, like a lot of shit does, and it's
oopsies all around. For my crash, like all the things that go wrong with
these folks I work with, or for anything else, or the world, I just blame
Bush. Because, you know, it's not my fault, surely....Sure I elected this
judge that judge that guy that gal or because I was so wacko that others
said I'm voting against whoever that wacko is voting for and....The left
today is its own worst enemy. I asked one person who actually gave a
somewhat thoughtful reply to that FDR piece if he was Pogo...."I have met
the enemy and it is us." That's what was underlying and does underlie the
whole mirror commentary...and more, of course.There's another great line
from the late great Johnny Thunders of the New York Dolls', from
Personality Crisis, "your mirror's gettin' jammed up with all your
friends." Not many folks I meet on the left anymore have many thoughts of
their own. It really has become Pogo's or Johnny's dictum. And it's a damn
shame. But it's the natural progression...or digression...or devolution, if
you will. So it is. All the names, the leaders of the left, are shams of
valid thought. There's no reasoning, there's pure fallacy in most every
argument, assumptions based on "believed" "givens", or what freedom-loving
people term "lies", with their belief being in mere man and man's
institutions, their secular (lie) humanist (lie) socialist (lie)
authoritarianism (lie) which borders on extremist fascism (lie), but what
they term "liberal" (lie and the biggest damn joke of 'em all...nothing
about the left these days is "liberal", meaning "for freedom" to
freedom-loving people, and their whole philosophical makeup and
endoctrination process through their controlled authorities, is a sure
setup for failure, or crash, or oops. Will Bush & Co "lead" us into WWIII?
the rapture? the endtimes? force "his" "God" on the world or kill them? Bah
_______! That's the storyline though. I read it all the time. Do I
"believe" them? Balderdash! Phooey! That's so damn boring, it's so
intellectually stale, and unbecoming of you...but I understand, I do. I
came to find it unbecoming in me...and so damn difficult to justify or
rationalize in any intellectually based community, which is my circle. You
know, I understand because I used to "believe" the same thing...in another
time and place. I really did. And I know that it's very difficult to
abandon what we've been "led" to "believe". I had to give it up, the lie. I
had to free myself intellectually, spiritually, physically. It took years.
It took me questioning the enemy...myself. And years of abandoning the
"old" way. It was around the time of mom getting sick and both parents
dying. It got me in touch with my own mortality and what it was I was doing
here, the latter a process lasting a decade or more.Or...you may be right.
I don't know.What's the line from the Bible, isn't it Phillipians 2, 911,
of all things? "Wherefore God also hath highly exalted him, and given him a
name which is above every name: That at the name of Jesus every knee should
bow, of [things] in heaven, and [things] in earth, and under the earth; And
[that] every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ [is] Lord, to the
glory of God the Father." Accepta

E is for Ed from United States
Comment 363 of 1192, added on February 26th, 2006 at 8:47 AM.

we all try to take the road less traveled
to be different
but when so many people have gone that way
we are all the same

Susie from United States

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Information about The Road Not Taken

Poet: Robert Frost
Poem: 1. The Road Not Taken
Volume: Mountain Interval
Year: 1916
Added: Feb 1 2004
Viewed: 598 times
Poem of the Day: Dec 4 2017

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