complacency - or revolution?

Are we living in a time of revolution? Or are we complacently nodding off, hoping someone else will surely make a stand on our behalf? In this era of immediacy, of constantly evolving technology, of our access to the very latest, up-to-the-microsecond of events reported at that very instant, certainly we think that someone, someone highly intelligent and 'in charge' will stand up for whatever it is we care about. I mean, it takes 45 minutes to change your cell phone plan or your cable plan even when you do get to converse with an actual human being on the other end of the line. Who has the time to even care about real stuff? Who has that much time in their day to dedicate to what really matters?

Has technology robbed us of our ability to do anything? Are Facebook and Twitter just flaccid ways of blabbing about what we feel? Have we become an impotent, incompetent group of beaten downs? What happened to taking action? And why--- (when so many of us feel so tired to do what we really feel passionate about because everything else is weighing us down) ---why are people bashing the so-called 'idiot kids' at Occupy Wall Street? Some of the right wingers are saying 'go get a job you spoiled brats.' Yeah, right. What jobs? What jobs are you talking about?

Unfortunately, in my case, no action is not saying I don't care.  Because I know I do. I know most of us do. I'm not marching or calling congress or doing anything particularly dramatic. But I am talking. To my friends. To like-minded people. And asking a lot of questions. And I am wondering when things will change, if they ever will. Whatever any of us believe, we all care. Absolutely. But, the thing is, who has the inclination to think that their version of caring, their effort and their time to promote something will even make a difference?

And, seriously, like I said above, who has the fucking time?

It takes ten times as long to get anything done these days. And the time we spend procrastinating involves reading what others have posted or blogged or bitched about on some social media channel. I'm as much to blame as anyone. Yet I'm angsty.

Stressed. Scared.

Who else feels this way? 

And what can be done?

I'm upset by the way the government has handled things financially. I was raised in the 1% and now, well, not so much. We've fallen even though no one wants to admit it. I was raised Republican (little government) and now, hello religion shoved down your throat and anti-civil rights and…yeah, not so much. I am not identified with any party really. It's like dating a guy who wears skinny jeans. No way. I hate that I don’t even have healthcare. (I will do this, Mom, I promise – and soon).

We are living in strange times. I keep saying that. But it's true. I don't have a solution. But I want to be a part of the conversation. Even if I don't have enough time to take serious action, I want to be informed. I spend most of my time working and drumming up new work and paying those bills, and talking to creditors, and just living my life as best I can. It's all I can do in a day. But I do care.

Who else cares? And what are you doing about it?

catnip

I know what you smell like. How you taste. What the sound of your - slow, quiet, almost inaudible - breathing is like. I watch for the rise and fall as I wonder if you're still alive. In the early morning, a part of me wants to wake you up and grab your smooth, broad back and repeat what we did last night in the half light of my little room. But another part of me just wants you to leave. And once I wake up and these thoughts begin, I lie there, trapped and suffocated. Transfixed by desire. Paralyzed with fear.

I told you you were catnip. You are. If you’ve ever seen a cracked-out cat on catnip, there’s a love/hate with it. It gets all needy with the stuff, then it bites and claws at it, like fuck you, fuck you for making my eyes black with craziness. But I’m so out of control. I liked it at first. But I am high as hell right now and I’m just stuck with want. And need. So fuck you.

Catnip.

I know these things about you now. Like the way your mouth feels, all wet in the shower, and how the water on your lips tastes sweeter somehow. And how I’m crazy for the way you can pick me up like I’m weightless. No matter how many craft beers I’ve bad that day.

Strong arms. Soft lips. Catnip.

I can’t unknow these things, I’m stuck with them.

You reached out to me in a small, innocent way. Over a year ago. An invitation to a party. Nothing big. But months later things were said, things that you say when you’ve had too much bad whiskey or too much loneliness.

Late at night, last winter, you played the guitar for one song, at a bar with your friend. He sang the words, you were the rhythm and the emotion. Afterwards you told me, with this face that looked all honesty and all silly, yet true, that you played to impress me.

Later, at my house, you said you’d always thought about me. Even back then when you weren’t supposed to. 

You even used the word love. Bad whiskey will do that to you.

I didn’t say a thing. But you just laughed and said, “Yeah, love. But not love love. You know what I mean.’

You are the rawest person I’ve ever met. You make no promises. You apologize for nothing. 

I don’t want to miss you. Even though, I do want to miss you. Or, at least, somebody who looks like you. Smells like you. Tastes like you.  

One day you’ll wake up and be in the right place with the right person at the right time. And so will I. But maybe we won't.

In the meantime, I’ll just put my heart in that sling and let people sign my cast. It’s what I’ve done all my life. I’m nothing but an autographed and well-traveled gimpy limb. At least it hasn’t been boring.

Don’t blame me in my sleep, though. I can’t help it if sometimes the character I’m playing loves you there, in some vivid story that gets made, a story that something much bigger tells about the way it is, and I’m just letting it take me where it wants to take me.

It’s not my fault. 

Fuck you catnip. That is the only place I’m not in charge.