There weren’t many to follow.
At the first, anyway.
There were the rapists and the sadists and even a whore or two.
Following, following, following.
Sheep in a more literal sense,
most travel was done on foot in those days.
They followed and followed and followed,
until he died.
And when he was dead they followed his followers,
and then they died so they followed the other followers.
So it went for thousands of years,
on and on and on.
So it still goes,
but there are a few.
There are a few who realize that there is no leader.
There are a few who recognize that the followers
are engaged in an endless chain,
broken only sporadically,
by certain folk.
Some of them decided to retain their lifestyle of following.
Some of them believe that the following is the answer.
Others decide to stay away from the chain.
Others think that the search is pointless.
Others don’t want to follow.

But it’s not really relevant,
not relevant in the least.
What’s important,
is that Some respect Others.
And Others respect Some.

But what’s most important of all,

Is that the followers find the choice.

I really don’t feel like writing or being creative at the moment. It’s 9 AM where I am and I haven’t slept since yesterday morning. Woo summer.  I guess I’ll write about politics. Rant incoming.

In this post, I’m not going to argue that I am tired of listening to George W. Bush’s diabolic, lackluster bilge. Nor am I going to argue that he is a vulture living on the labor and the good nature of the rest of the world. I’m not going to argue those factors because they’re irrelevant. Instead, I will say only that his retinue controls illegal drugs and prostitution as well as banking, oil, defense, and the media. One of my objectives is to fight for what is right.

Bush has two imperatives. The first is to do the devil’s work. The second imperative is to welsh on all kinds of agreements. His only motivation is a surly attachment to wealth and power. There’s really no other conclusion you can reach. All the same, there are some simple truths in this world. First, he is offended by the truth. Second, his vituperations are attributable to an ignorance born of fear. And finally, most people don’t realize that he has already revealed his plans to glorify the things that everyone else execrates. He revealed these plans in a manifesto bearing all of the hallmarks of having been written by an insincere wisenheimer. Not only is his manifesto entirely lacking in logic, relentlessly subjective, and absolutely anecdotal, but those of us who are too lazy or disinterested to appeal for comity between us and Bush have no right to complain when he and his supporters transmogrify society’s petty gripes and irrational fears into “issues” to be catered to.

On a television program last night, I heard one of this country’s top scientists conclude that, “Bush is greatly increasing the size of his loathsome den of thieves by needling and wheedling cruel, inhumane pinheads into it.” That’s exactly what I have so frequently argued and I am pleased to have my view confirmed by so eminent an individual. To bring the matter closer to home, let me remind you that he likes to cite poll results that “prove” that he is a master of precognition, psychokinesis, remote viewing, and other undeveloped human capabilities. Really? Have you ever been contacted by one of his pollsters? Chances are good that you never have been contacted and never will be. Otherwise, the polls would show that Bush’s lackadaisical dream is starting to come true. Liberties are being killed by attrition. Libertinism is being installed by accretion. The only way that we can reverse these inconsiderate trends is to break the spell of great expectations that now binds repugnant extremists to Bush. To be precise, if he would abandon his name-calling and false dichotomies it would be much easier for me to focus on the major economic, social, and political forces that provide the setting for the expression of a lewd agenda. So you see, conversations with George W. Bush are no more intellectual than a game of darts at the local pub.

And that, readers, is why you don’t elect a fucking retard. Twice. Honestly, America. What the fuck.

Even God needs a day off, right?

As you all know, it is my responsibility to post here every Saturday. (Almost) every Saturday I do this. The reason this blog is late is that one of my dearest friends needed to discuss some troubling things with me. The first moral of the evening is this: Friends in need> blogging.

Phase two: There comes a time in every young religious figure’s life where you must question things you had learned to count on. Constants. I realized a long time ago that you should never fully invest yourself in something, no matter how stable you like to think it is.

There is always room for disappointment.

This past Thursday our very own Mary Magdalene disregarded his obligations to the religion. He didn’t post at all. Didn’t say a word to anyone. How could this happen? Are we no longer important to him? Shall we punish him, or does he have a good reason for his absence?  MM, Please explain yourself in the comments. I still love you a lot.

Moral two: Ignoring obligation does not make it go away.

(In a way, i’m starting to feel like I’m copping out in all areas of my life. I’m sorry.)

No one to laugh and no one to cry,
at my simple jokes and ample tunes.
Christ himself could glisten on his bloody crucifix,
and not shed a single tear,
or smile in beautiful grimace.
There’s not much to separate myself and him.
Where he ends and I begin is lost in human boundaries.
I would cackle and I would grin,
spilling my guts at his feet in bowls of hideous laughter.
My cries would ring cross the world,
blessing simple ears on the far shores.
I’d sob and I’d heckle at passerby.
Cry to them I would,
“Have you any thought?
Have you any pain?
Do you feel at all?”
I’d bleed myself red for naught but their attention.
But their attention I cannot get.
I’d pull at them,
drag at them,
claw them into the Earth,
with none but myself for company.
They would struggle and they would flail.
But soon it would be dark.
And it would be me
and it would be them.
And I would have their rapt attention.
They would have no choice but to listen
to the dying wails of an empty man.
They would have no choice but to see
the knives and the red of an empty man.
They would have no choice but to feel
the gory salvation of an empty man.
And then there would be nothing.
Nothing but darkness.
It would be me
and it would be them.
And we would take cynical comfort in the darkness.
We would take comfort in the knowledge
that there is no more light.
Comfort in the dark.
It would be me
and it would be them.
In the black nothing.
In the cold silence.
In the dark abyss.
And it would be me
and it would be them.
And we would rot
as empty men.

And that, dear readers? That is why we seek shelter in the dark.

As I sat here, wondering what gems of wisdom to impart to you, a very strange occurance happened. I felt annoyed and frustrated. That is common. What isn’t is that, as my stress built up, the clouds darkened. Suddenly, rain shot from the sky, drenching the world with my troubles. It beat against my screen, sprayed in through the open window and lightly misted my feet. On a ninety degree day, that is a fine feeling indeed. Such a fortunate circumstance it was that my emotions led to this cooling and quenching of the earth around me.  Helping people and the environment sure is fun. Then again, it comes with the job.

And that, my children, is why God is making it so hot lately. So that she (I) can have the pleasure of cooling it down again and basking in the climate change.

Twelve long years ago I embarked on a journey called the first grade.  This turned out to be one of the worst years of my life because I suffered greatly from a disease known as “Momma’s Boy Syndrome”.  Every day during lunch I would cry because I wasn’t at home baking cookies or pretending I had won Miss America with my mother.  To add to my daily depression, I also suffered from another common disease:  ”No One Wants To Be Your Friend Syndrome”.  I was an outcast because as soon as I became close friends with someone, I would tell them “I want to be a girl!”.

One wintery Minnesota day during recess, my “friends” (I am pretty sure they called me “It”) and I decided to make a snow fort.  They each took turns crawling through the frigid snow sculpture as I watched in admiration.  Finally I gained the courage to ask the most popular girl, Susie Quinlan (yes we called her Susie Q), if I could take part in their seemingly lighthearted and safe game.  It should be noted that I was wearing an enormous, red, winter jacket.  Thanks, Mom.

I nervously made my way through the snow fort until disaster struck.  I was stuck.  As the gathered children giggled, I cried.  Soon after, the school bell rang signifying the end of recess.  Everyone else ran inside, leaving me in the snow.  Alone.  Thirty minutes passed before teachers noticed I was not present in class.  I remained outside, frozen in solitude, until adults came and rescued me from my predicament.

And that my children, is why you should always be wary of snow forts.  Especially if your mother makes you wear puffy jackets.

He was so beautiful. Soft skin. Beauty mole. Toned muscles. I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead as he charged down the field. Chasing butterflies, it looked like. Or maybe he was just running around like an idiot. It didn’t really matter to me. Didn’t take much to get me wet between the legs.

“Do you think he’s good in bed?” I asked Jeremy.

“I’m going to be straight with you here, Mar. Assuming he can even get an erection… no. Not at all.”

“I bet he’s good in bed.”

“This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done. You know that, right?”

“Mmm.”

“Right. I’ll get the candy.”

Jeremy left me standing at the edge of the trees and, presumably, went to get the candy. I sat down and eyed the creature of perfection some more. He was talking with someone else now. A girl. He looked like such a charismatic talker.

After a minute Jeremy had returned with a bag of Jolly Ranchers. He sat down next to me and unwrapped one.

“You know,” he said, popping it into his mouth, “We could get into some serious shit for this.”

“Jeremy, baby, can you honestly tell me that his tight little body doesn’t tweak your knobs a bit?”

“Besides the fact that “tweak your knobs” doesn’t make sense as a sexual innuendo, yes. I can honestly tell you that he tweaks no knobs.”

“But he’s so cute.”

“But he’s so underage.”

“I think you’re threatened.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” I replied, popping a Jolly Rancher into my mouth, “I think you’re worried that he’ll replace you as my consistant lover.”

“He’s seven.”

“And you’re thirty two. It would be quite an embarrassment.”

“Sucking on Jolly Ranchers on a children’s playground is an embarrassment.”

“Then leave.”

“…”

“Told you. You want him just as badly.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“I know.”

“What’s he doing?” I looked on in horror as he clutched his groin and sped over to the public bathroom. But not before there was a clear stain spreading across his front.

“Still wet between the legs?” Jeremy asked me.

“Ehem. Not exactly.”

“Well, that makes one of you.”

“Shut up. Get in the car.”

And that is why, dear readers, sometimes you need to not rape children and instead sit back with an old friend and eat jolly ranchers.

               Every week there was one thing I yearned for. It was a beautiful, mysterious box. Once the honor of taking it home was bestowed on me, I felt sure that I would never want for any joy in life. This box, you see, was the Surprise Box. The more modern…I mean, biblical, version of show and tell that my teacher invented. A student put something in the box, then provided hints as to what the item was while others tried to guess it. The student that guessed won both the item and the privilege of being the next to fill the box.

           One week, that honor was mine. I got a stuffed animal. Although I cannot remember much about it, trust me; it was perfect. Being the clever little kiddie I was, I put a balloon in the box. I was certain that nary a child would guess, and I would triumph as the ultimate mystery.

        My moment arrived. I was so excited. So anxious. So proud. So nervous. So terrified.

        I began to explain the balloon using the loosest language my five-year-old-self possessed. No one understood! I was awesome! I would surely win!

But what if I didn’t?

What if they figured it out easily with my next hint?

What if they thought balloons were silly?

What if? What if? What if?

           The pressure was rising. Was it in my head? No, even worse. It was in my bladder! I was going to pee! I couldn’t stop it! I talked faster, wishing someone would get it so I could run to the bathroom.

                Come on…Come on…I thought. Finally, I heard it. “A balloon!” It was my teacher, who’d grown weary of the game and wary of the puddle around me. Desperate, I escaped to the bathroom. While I was there, the recess bell rang. I was grateful for the diversion, slipping smoothly out and trying to follow my peers.

“Marlena?”

           Oh Fuck. (Only I didn’t think that because I was five.) Oh Golly. I was caught.

“I’m not angry. When you’re nervous that can happen. Just…go to the bathroom more often.”

I slunk away, chastened.

And that, my dear children who better fucking appreciate this story and not make fun of me because it was NOT MY IDEA TO WRITE THIS, is why a mysterious balloon is not worth a puddle of pee.

Since the start of M.E.

your new favorite holiday

I’ve been thinking in haiku

If you don’t love them

you will need to learn quickly

for I run this show

After some musing

I’ve come to this conclusion

Haikus win my soul

They’re hard to resist

So holy, so well contained

like a tornado

through writing haikus 

one can learn many lessons

like with the bible(?)

I need to go sleep

but not before the moral

which you may have guessed

the haikus above

are the reason you need to 

find my brain’s on switch.

yikes.