One of these days…

I’m gonna…

and that’s all I remember of what I think is a Pink Floyd song. I am still not sure where my voter’s handbook is. I know there is something in there about a bond by the state of California. I know I care about two things, the water rules and the stop putting drug offenders in jail, it’s really not helping. As far as the people who choose to run for office, I am kind of re-thinking that whole mess. Someone called the Commander in Chief a traitor today and it made me think, well, hasn’t that always been a given. I mean, in someone’s mind, somewhere, you are betraying what they hold dear, they don’t care your motives and as we are, as a culture and collective mindset, very impatient with our outcomes and long-term effects of our short-term highs, it would be very easy to tee up the violations by anyone who is the head of an Executive Branch of any country other than maybe that place where they supposedly instituted (and enforced by martial law) a National Happiness Policy, it’s like Bali on ecstasy with a little Thai weed mixed in, everybody’s happy because their lives are relatively simple and everyone’s forgotten they’re there. Plus, if you’re not happy, you get taken out back and shot pretty quick, so the data collected on its success rate is pretty consistent. Everybody’s happy.

So, if I were 20 years younger and placed in this particular time and space, I would run for some rabble rousing office because fuck that, I’m pretty sure it needs to be shaken up. But I am not silly enough to think that an uprising would solve much, other than a brief euphoria which people seem to consume like oxygen, whether thru blood or alliance. It’s a breathable drug, this feeling that we got rid of all the bad and now everything’s gonna be alright, Reagan’s back, Kennedy didn’t get shot, George W and Bill Clinton were merged into one semi-palatable combination, cleansed of all their horrendous sides, so everyone felt a sense of hope because the economy was bulging on the back of free trade and we proved we are resilient sons of bitches when it comes to being asinine

on the global stage, then having some honor among us (as much as it’s hard to remember any time when ‘my fellow Americans’ didn’t mean people, polarized by amorphous beliefs and rickety values, who look for any opportunity to hate each other.

Meanwhile, in Arabia, swords are used to self-scarrificate young men’s body’s in recognition of a holy holiday commemorating when a male relative of Mohammed died, and judging by the photo feed, was murdered and therefore martyred. Blood spilt so easily, so purely with medieval swords over white sheaths of cloth and screaming faces. Who are these people who gather together to make themselves bleed in the name of some man who they believe was a prophet of how life should be lived—-or else?

How does any of this work, again? I would ask myself if I were at the podium, young little shit up there at the podium with all the answers. That’s the one thing that prevents me from being able to fill in the job application for world leader.  I don’t believe in absolutes or in my ability to have complete comprehension. I believe in evolving consciousness, I wish I didn’t, but it’s the only thing that makes sense in terms of living this life we are handed, given, strung up by, drawn and quartered by.

I must go vote.

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