05 NOV 12
dear cathoreen,
woke up this AM not feeling too hot... brain cells lost in the urban jungle -- flushed away with the attempts at getting-with. it's a real put-the-milk-away-in-the-microwave-and-the-coffee-away-in-the-dishwasher kind of morning. cloudiness -- as cloudy as outside today; grey and deafening silence. clouds wiping the blue away like big windshield wipers.
me too, scraping for every last bit of socialistic tap-in, i managed to clamber on over to my work cell. it was there that i managed to hook in for the 9+ hour gauntlet.
eyes heavy, vision wavy, face expressionless, even catatonic at times. no way to pass the time, even for a time passer. my brain decided to grow forks-for-arms and start scoring the insides of my head in raking motions; etching phrases like, "you'll learn someday" and "you dropped the needle on the wrong record". society is one hell of a ride, woman. can you pick up some used notepads from the thrift store while yr out? i might try my luck with them.
-walter greenchild
21 November 2012
10 November 2012
The Man Who Thinks He Can (Thinking)
If you think you are beaten, you are;
Anderson, a man of about the age of 50 or so, is a man that truly grasps the concept of life; a veteran, a chaplain, and now a social engineer. He is a true father-figure.
Anderson was traveling back home from Scranton, PA after attempting to pull his son out of a whirlpool of crime and ill-decision. He took a one-day round-trip flight to help his son in Scranton, being tried for a serious undisclosed crime to talk to him and try to put some sense into his head. Anderson was able to recite this straight from memory after learning it many years before, while in a fraternity. He said it helped him to get through any tough time he ever encountered. Now he was trying to instill the same values into his son before it was too late.
It's never too late to turn it around. I share this story with all who read this. This poem has extraordinary value and you should read it when you're feeling weak, underpowered, or in distress.
If you think you dare not, you don't.
If you'd like to win, but think you can't
It's almost a cinch you won't.
If you think you'll lose, you've lost.
If you think you'll lose, you've lost.
For out in the world we find
Success begins with a fellow's will:
It's all in his state of mind.
If you think you're outclassed, you are:
If you think you're outclassed, you are:
You've got to think high to rise,
You've got to be sure of yourself before
You'll ever win that prize.
Life's battles don't always go
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster man,
But sooner or later the man who wins
Is the one who thinks he can.
-Walter D. Wintle
Thanks to Mr. Anderson Wallace [Detroit] - August 16, 2012
A flight from Pennsylvania -> Detroit
Anderson, a man of about the age of 50 or so, is a man that truly grasps the concept of life; a veteran, a chaplain, and now a social engineer. He is a true father-figure.
Anderson was traveling back home from Scranton, PA after attempting to pull his son out of a whirlpool of crime and ill-decision. He took a one-day round-trip flight to help his son in Scranton, being tried for a serious undisclosed crime to talk to him and try to put some sense into his head. Anderson was able to recite this straight from memory after learning it many years before, while in a fraternity. He said it helped him to get through any tough time he ever encountered. Now he was trying to instill the same values into his son before it was too late.
It's never too late to turn it around. I share this story with all who read this. This poem has extraordinary value and you should read it when you're feeling weak, underpowered, or in distress.
09 November 2012
Airport Terminal Drunkard
August 20, 2012
It figures that the one bar next to Terminal C48 is a Sam Adams exclusive bar. I had to walk, once more, past all the suits, shit-heels, and eye-lookers to get to the next closest bar. [I'm weird because my luggage isn't rolling behind me?]
The best part about all of this: At the destination bar, I still managed to get my beer served in a Sam Adams glass! I ordered a real beer, not a Halloween costume. The only good thing about this is that the glass is bigger and therefore holds more beer than a standard pint glass. Touché, you Sam Adams bastards. I'll be wishing tonight as I drift into sleep that this glass breaks in the dishwasher.
This airport bar is typical:
Wax paper rustling, a baseball game, french fries begging for ketchup come as a side for every dish, oh, and the circus folk. Gnashing away at their food like savages; couples aren't speaking; Facebook eyes; sweat pants and big asses. People who think they are owed a drink because they came from "X" state and they're rooting for the right team. Get rid of your persona, blondie. I bet yr an English teacher or better yet, a ticket-ripper at the local cinema.
From my high-top table window seat, I watched a bag fall off one of the luggage carts in transit from concourse X to it's connection. It sat there on the pavement as 2, no 3, other maintenance and transport vehicles drove right past it and even around it. Suspicious package protocol? Got any?
"No one sees the bag? It's right there!" Instant bad day for someone.
Oh, here comes a luggage cart. What is it, 10 minutes later? [Looking at watch and rolling eyes]
This is who, and what, is handling your luggage. These people don't work together. Rather, they work for the all mighty $. Mere credits -- no intrinsic value. The only thing intrinsic is their drive for more credits. It's a dangerous loop of lifestyle day-to and day-from.
This is our airport security, or lack thereof.
It figures that the one bar next to Terminal C48 is a Sam Adams exclusive bar. I had to walk, once more, past all the suits, shit-heels, and eye-lookers to get to the next closest bar. [I'm weird because my luggage isn't rolling behind me?]
The best part about all of this: At the destination bar, I still managed to get my beer served in a Sam Adams glass! I ordered a real beer, not a Halloween costume. The only good thing about this is that the glass is bigger and therefore holds more beer than a standard pint glass. Touché, you Sam Adams bastards. I'll be wishing tonight as I drift into sleep that this glass breaks in the dishwasher.
This airport bar is typical:
Wax paper rustling, a baseball game, french fries begging for ketchup come as a side for every dish, oh, and the circus folk. Gnashing away at their food like savages; couples aren't speaking; Facebook eyes; sweat pants and big asses. People who think they are owed a drink because they came from "X" state and they're rooting for the right team. Get rid of your persona, blondie. I bet yr an English teacher or better yet, a ticket-ripper at the local cinema.
From my high-top table window seat, I watched a bag fall off one of the luggage carts in transit from concourse X to it's connection. It sat there on the pavement as 2, no 3, other maintenance and transport vehicles drove right past it and even around it. Suspicious package protocol? Got any?
"No one sees the bag? It's right there!" Instant bad day for someone.
Oh, here comes a luggage cart. What is it, 10 minutes later? [Looking at watch and rolling eyes]
This is who, and what, is handling your luggage. These people don't work together. Rather, they work for the all mighty $. Mere credits -- no intrinsic value. The only thing intrinsic is their drive for more credits. It's a dangerous loop of lifestyle day-to and day-from.
This is our airport security, or lack thereof.
Incident on September 21st
This ride is the loudest 4 wheels to ever roll across the Earth. She's got more shakes, squeaks, creaks, and rattles than an old wood-splintered roller coaster. The wind is screaming in through her vent holes and she's huffing and puffing with each stop, trying to catch her breath. There's a turmoil inside her belly and me and the others are wondering where we're all headed. She's just hissing on down the track -- everyone's giving dirty looks right back to this single-segment insect representative. Cut 'er open and she'll surely bleed cheap whiskey and foul language -- real "no-parking-either-side-between-now-and-then" shit. All we know is that she's swallowing down and spitting up all these people -- tossing them back onto the streets; some with cigarettes still in mouth! Some lady's things got left behind back there, along with her stench; something like wet and dirty plastic bags, yellowing from the outside, in.
Forget that "Watch Your Step" sign, chances are when you read it, it'll be too late and you'll be reading it from the upside-down perspective.
She just keeps on keepin' on and so do these people; falling for her same old tricks -- gluttons for punishment, obviously. Her disintegrating chassis of blood and sweat, flexes and twists with every score in the pavement, throwing sparks and barrels of gasoline. People driving by watch the explosions, staring. They're all crashing their Toyotas into telephone poles. No one can call for help now. Say goodbye to Mama, Papa, and Aunt Lou-Anne. The last thing you read will be the first thing they'll see when they discover your eyeballs laying 40 feet from the incident scene.
Forget that "Watch Your Step" sign, chances are when you read it, it'll be too late and you'll be reading it from the upside-down perspective.
She just keeps on keepin' on and so do these people; falling for her same old tricks -- gluttons for punishment, obviously. Her disintegrating chassis of blood and sweat, flexes and twists with every score in the pavement, throwing sparks and barrels of gasoline. People driving by watch the explosions, staring. They're all crashing their Toyotas into telephone poles. No one can call for help now. Say goodbye to Mama, Papa, and Aunt Lou-Anne. The last thing you read will be the first thing they'll see when they discover your eyeballs laying 40 feet from the incident scene.
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