tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-110167672024-03-06T22:09:37.586-08:00My Reason WhyA heartwarming wellspring of negativity.John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-13449226825334086462023-03-29T20:07:00.000-07:002023-03-29T20:07:27.943-07:00Suicide Note<br />
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I have never been that desperate, to want to end my life. Just parts of it. Parts of my life. </div>
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Parts of my personality. </div>
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But I can't. It's all or nothing. You live with what you have. </div>
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So why devote mental space to it? Why think about it? Why WRITE about it? </div>
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Because it does not matter.</div>
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Does it matter?</div>
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Life batters you, do you strike back? </div>
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Any skateboarder will tell you, it hurts worse if you try to catch yourself when you fall. You need to roll. </div>
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Relax and roll. </div>
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But, who needs to hear this?</div>
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Why are you writing this? </div>
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Who needs to read this? </div>
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Does this question matter? </div>
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Who cares if you don't want to read this.</div>
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Don't.</div>
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I'm not demanding that you listen to me, I'm not demanding anything from you.</div>
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Anytime you raise your voice and complain, you are accused of whining.</div>
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Who is in authority here? </div>
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No one is.</div>
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The authorities long since abdicated. They are shadows. It is an illusion. They have retreated into their own bubble, behind their gates, with their own illusions of grandeur. And, safety.</div>
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What then?</div>
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There are a lot of people with the answer. </div>
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And, they will try to sell it to you.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-53836801416261677772016-06-05T20:51:00.000-07:002016-06-10T15:46:28.146-07:00When It Bites, It Bites HardK<br>
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<span style="font-family: helvetica neue, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Things that are meaningless....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's meaningless, they are meaningless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We inject the meaning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I feel bad for hazing poor Chad on Memorial Day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We worked a Hut shift together on the holiday Monday, and I was completely out of hand, complaining, conflating, making mountain ranges out of sandy molehills. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was sad about zoos, gorillas, humanity, and the stacked deck. I'm not well equipped for modern, American life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Organic discussion repercussions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">People don't make things better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">People muddy the water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They over breed and wash over the earth like overly ornate termites. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With extra hubris. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We are doomed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We have always been doomed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We are animals,shaved apes,stuck with conscious minds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unaware of our fragility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unaware of our insignificance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All important,and dumb. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We can't shut up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though we should. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But it doesn't matter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I resent thinking about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the choice is mine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You can find godhead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just forget yourself.</span></div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-35879991656213029732016-05-25T19:09:00.000-07:002016-05-27T18:59:03.079-07:00Big Wheels Keep On Turning<br>
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I loved the sound of the rock very early on. The bass drum. I felt it. My Dad felt it, too. And hated it. But, he loved the sound of a barking dog, and a chainsaw, so to each his own. I even liked the smooth, country rock on the radio in the Seventies. The music I grew up listening to. But not identifying with. I always kept it at a distance. But it's no joke. For me, it's all about the songs. I like what I like. I lurch from style to style, always have, without much consideration of how my haircut will enhance my enjoyment. So many people don the cloak before they understand the gospel. But I don't hate them for it. This life can seem like so much ephemera. Foamy. So much garbage, floating around, lying on the beach.</div>
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I'm not going to say that I'm proud that I like Eagles. I'm not going to say that they are my favorite band. But, I'm not going to bad mouth them either. They have written indelibly iconic tunes. However you feel about the hillbillies who dig this stuff, I feel closer to them than the Trustafarians who love Animal Collective, or obsessively hang on the words of the indie hero du jour. But, at the same time, I don't trust my hillbilly birthright either. I hate elitists and gutter dwellers equally. </div>
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I'm going to go my own way. I like what I like. Some stuff I've come to like, some stuff I just like. I'm susceptible to the stuff that's easy for me to fall into, to understand. It's just a way to traverse the world. To pass the time. Some stuff has no meaning. Some stuff penetrates your soul and shakes your foundations and makes you see the world in a different way. They will both serve their purpose and pass from the scene. The sun makes its trips past the earth and past your trips, and everything is moving past other things, there is no fixed point in space, there is so little we actually understand. </div>
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We are small.</div>
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Who is to say that tribe identity is worth a damn? It's hard to be out on the fringe, but one other person can make it worthwhile, that friend who stood with you when the world opposed you. Well, the world didn't care, but that's okay. Music passed the time, and made the world a better place for a few minutes. Or a night. Or a school year. Or a failed marriage. </div>
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So...Eagles. Not <b>The</b>, just <b>Eagles</b>. Not the Eagles of Death Metal, who I also like. Sitting here listening to the 71-75 Greatest Hits. My god. Every song is outstanding. You want to bad mouth them? Write 10 better songs. Use the energy that you would use to hate Eagles to write a memorable song with a key change, then sing the song night after night until you uplift someone who was feeling alone, and then I will listen to you complain. </div>
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Of course, you could just do something else. I have no problem ignoring the world when it's not to my liking, why can't you change the channel? </div>
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It's not worth my time to waste energy hating things I hate, and I do hate things. Well, I used to until I reached godhead. But godhead comes, and it goes. I surrender to my lower, baser instincts less frequently, but I still indulge myself. Making rude remarks. Denigrating the efforts of someone I never met. But that compulsion is not the frequent visitor it once was. I spend less time with that guy. I have compulsions of my own that take up increasing amounts of time. </div>
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Oh, yeah, Eagles. Even though the title of this essay is from another band I didn't appreciate at the time, but wormed its way into my consciousness just by sheer repetition. I'm amazed by Lynyrd Skynyrd, who were a band populated by real people, and visited by tragedy. The old groups seem monolithic in stature, especially if several members have died. But, what of the survivors? How do you grow old, and not feel ridiculous? </div>
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There is always room to feel ridiculous. There are always people who think you are ridiculous, no matter what age you are. Accepting your ridiculousness is the first step to godhead. </div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-42928164569041615732016-03-04T07:13:00.001-08:002016-03-04T13:52:30.363-08:00You get this thing<br>
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You didn't think of it. You didn't do anything to help bring it into fruition. You don't contribute materially to its upkeep. But you love to bask in the glory. You love to take the credit. You love to cash the check. And, it would hurt me if I thought I was the originator that didn't get his due, but I stole too. That is our species. We borrow. We steal. We appropriate. We copy.</div>
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We pay tribute. </div>
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Sometimes it's love, sometimes it's business.</div>
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Sometimes it's both. </div>
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Maybe you have the love, and your partner has the business. </div>
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Then you switch. </div>
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Are you there on the love side, or the business side?</div>
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Or can you mix it at will.</div>
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Maybe you did contribute after all. Even if you didn't do anything. You don't know what you did. You don't know what effect you had. </div>
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A lot of people live. And die. </div>
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What is the point?</div>
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You just do something.</div>
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You don't know how you are perceived, though you may have a clue, </div>
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a nagging feeling in the back of your head that</div>
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you are worthless.</div>
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That nothing matters. </div>
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Tamp it down. You know how to tamp, don't you?</div>
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You dig in deep, and you push it down and keep it down. </div>
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Until it oozes up. </div>
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And ruins things.</div>
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it's someone else fault.</div>
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Broadcast outside. Outside yourself. Make it happen. </div>
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Until someone else feels as sick as you do.</div>
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Or is as sick of you as you are of yourself.</div>
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You have no idea. You need to get one. </div>
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Go steal it.</div>
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You get this life. You don't get another life. You have this one.</div>
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You can have more than one plan,</div>
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You can have more than one idol. </div>
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You can have more than one goal..</div>
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But can you hold more than one thought in your head at one time.</div>
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I know you can steal two thoughts.</div>
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Let's don't.</div>
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Some things you do for love. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Some things you do for money. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Do you love your money, more than you love your time? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-70455433417965589852016-02-21T22:57:00.000-08:002016-02-21T22:57:55.315-08:00Portending<br />
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Don't want to go to sleep, to tired to stay up, too cranky to do anything. I itch. I'm mostly shaven. I've been thinking a lot about putting things into the world. Like ideas you had in your head manifesting itself in real time in your world. In your work. In your eyesight. </div>
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I wonder what the signs mean. What could they mean? What am I looking for? I stumble around thinking of things, and I try to remember everything. maybe that is my job. I don't want to concentrate on the same things I always have. I like interesting things. Maybe that is what I am looking for. </div>
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But what is interesting? It's not necessarily different. Or, novel. I've been looking back at he same things I have been looking at seemingly forever, and I'm amazed at how different it is when the light shines brightly, or dimly, or during an inversion, or during the winter, or, after you cut two large trees down in your backyard. The world is always changing. You may not like the pace, but you have to deal. </div>
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Can I slow things down? </div>
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I used to be obsessed with the old shit being torn down. I'm not so obsessed anymore. I am paying a mortgage on an old, postwar ranch style house. I don't know enough to fix things myself, or change things, or rearrange everything. I like having things done though. I just can't decide. Do you ever have the feeling that things are just wrong, and you can't figure out exactly why? </div>
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That is the story of my life.</div>
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So, what does a person do about it? What can a person do about it? What should a person do about it?</div>
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Talk is cheap. Actions are expensive.</div>
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Someone with an idea may help. They may make things worse.</div>
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See your chance. Take it.</div>
John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-85198185317779650712016-02-12T00:27:00.000-08:002016-02-12T15:48:55.733-08:00This Week Feelings<br>
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I've been low sometimes. This week. It's frustrating. I can remember what it was like to feel confident. And that makes the sudden confidence deficit that much harder to take.</div>
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I know it doesn't matter. Feelings don't matter.</div>
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They are just feelings.</div>
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Perhaps there are reasons for the feelings. </div>
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But the feelings aren't a reason.</div>
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The world doesn't exist for you. You exist for the world.</div>
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You make a difference. Your feelings make no difference.</div>
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What are feelings, besides a '70s hit song?</div>
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What is evidence? It's what you believe? I don't think so.</div>
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But you should believe anyway. </div>
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You may be "proven" right.</div>
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But.</div>
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Will you be better? </div>
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Will the world be better? </div>
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Will the ones you love know how you love them? Do you?</div>
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Do you love yourself?</div>
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When the voices tell you that you are worthless, are those feelings valid? Sure seems real to me.</div>
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Watch them go away when you tell them, "So what?"</div>
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But what if they are right, the voices? Where is the noise coming from?</div>
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Tell them to be quiet. They are interfering with the mission. </div>
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And your mission, which you have no choice but to accept, is this.</div>
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Exist. </div>
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What else do you have to do?</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-36262897142724448282016-01-29T21:49:00.000-08:002016-02-05T21:10:14.529-08:00Pointless<br />
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I'm tired of being cold. I try not to let it bother me. I like extremes. I like weather. I don't take weather personally, like I am the center of the world,</div>
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but it's making me ache.</div>
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And that is something I'm tired of thinking about.</div>
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Which makes me glad that I don't have to think about it every day. Like it is a fact of life.</div>
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Like when it snows.</div>
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What is it like to bundle up outside in the snow?</div>
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I wonder.</div>
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I wonder what it is like to deal with this as a matter of living. </div>
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To live outside. </div>
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If you are in the wilderness, it's not an issue, because people are barely there. But what about civilization, where some people are full, and warm, and safe, and you see it all around you, and you are none of those things.</div>
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Everybody has a choice, right?</div>
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I don't aspire to it. Being outside. Being cold. </div>
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But I know we have excess population. And I wonder where they are going to go. </div>
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Outside?</div>
John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-40908845399950197302016-01-15T17:09:00.001-08:002016-01-15T17:09:04.257-08:00States Rights<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUs1zyeIILHmTLZhf0XtCWu1VhtxZfVop9OlyYDsY4EMgkBF3QPlaRbG0aYLyy6_NBBNvftt6_wrrQ6eC5VTD6C6X_Faulljj73g0H8PgPYPBNSpAoKo3Ti-U5nWVgzDpgY5W/s640/blogger-image--725308556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUs1zyeIILHmTLZhf0XtCWu1VhtxZfVop9OlyYDsY4EMgkBF3QPlaRbG0aYLyy6_NBBNvftt6_wrrQ6eC5VTD6C6X_Faulljj73g0H8PgPYPBNSpAoKo3Ti-U5nWVgzDpgY5W/s640/blogger-image--725308556.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In 1974 I helped my family dig a septic tank hole, so my brother could move his double wide onto our land. My father had fenced a corner of our pasture next to Plat B Road. I don't remember if he had put in a driveway, or even if the actual trailer had been delivered, but someone dropped a dime, and we were visited by the revenooers. And, in the judgement of the agent, whose name was Skiles, that was not an optimum site for a drainage field, and the whole plan was scotched. Had my father not been averse to greasing palms, or even hiring a backhoe to drop the tank in quickly enough to make the operation a fait accomplĂ, things might have turned out differently. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As it turned out, we dodged a bullet. Having them on the property would have been a disaster. Having the gubbmint intervention saved us, not only from having a grotesque manufactured home nearby, the lack of resources would have guaranteed a slipshod installation of the septic system. So my childhood home would have eventually been an EPA site!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Or, perhaps not. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Later on, after I had moved to Eugene, and my father retired to the homestead, and had the time and equipment to actually pay attention to our 6 Acres, he worked over the land and made it a productive hayfield. In the course of that activity, he took a swampy portion of the lower 3 acres, and made a water collection pond. It filled up over the course of the winter, made a nice layover for the migratory waterfowl in the spring, and dried up by August. One year, it collected so much water that there was a sizable amount still left in September. Cue the government agent visit. Dad claims the dude was ready to declare it a protected body of water, and restrict what he could do with the pond. So, after the official left, he took his tractor down, cut a spillway, and drained all the water out. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He later devised a series of ditches that collected and distributed the water to his hayfields. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The point is: things defy control. But, people can control themselves. We don't exist in a vacuum, and peoples actions do affect other people. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So, jail those carpetbagging Bundys now!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-8942117029495981382016-01-15T14:17:00.000-08:002016-01-29T17:09:44.058-08:00Front And Center<br>
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<i>"Could we even pretend that the law existed</i><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">, or was it something that you made up now,as the occasion required?" </i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">-James Howard Kunstler, pg. 181 <a href="http://worldmadebyhand.com/" target="_blank">World Made By Hand </a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Life is complicated, yes, I know. Even when it's simple. And things are simple on the surface, and deep in the essence. But the middle is the complicated part. Other people. Things. Relationships. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Humans invented this thing called mediation, someone making sense of two differing (they think) viewpoints,meeting somewhere in the and it's a part of the human condition. Other animals sort things out differently. Or, so we think. Like other humans, we don't have any idea what is in their mind. We like to think we are different. Not savage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Our capacity for self-deception is rivaled only by our penchant for momentary outrage. We have no power, so we lash out on Internet comment boards, and listen to the voices on the radio telling us to lash out. You will notice, none of the bloviating commentariot are urging you to rise up. Instead, they want you to direct your rage downward. </span>They. Who are they? No one really knows. It's not us, that's for sure. Or, is it? The best way to tell: do you have enough money to go to court? For a decade? Two decades? If you do, you're one of them. A corporation person, imbued with all the rights of citizenship, and none of the responsibility. Chances are good that you are not. "They" don't exist. "They" are shadows. It used to be said that sunlight was the greatest antiseptic, but no oligarch bothers to hide anymore. The fix is in. The house always wins. And you are a renter. You are playing on their money. </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But nothing lasts forever. Gravity is relentless, always pulling down; complexity, always fragile; agreements, always provisional. So, content yourself. Do something good with your time. Good for you. Not good for them. It's almost time to go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Do you feel ready? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Are you ready? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Do you have a plan? Get ready to throw it away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As Robert Fripp said years ago, small mobile units will be the future. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The circumstances and personalities seem so large, but everyone gets forgotten, and everything fails. </span></div>
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Then, we are free.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-60762503144950108712016-01-08T12:53:00.000-08:002016-01-08T12:53:58.355-08:00Dug In<div>
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You dig in and try to hold on, even though your surroundings are dry and hard. And it's an untenable situation, but you dig in and grind it out. </div>
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This is modern life. You are deposited somewhere. It may not be fertile ground. But you do what you can with what you are given. The normal ones live miles away, in the loamy valleys with their own kind. They feel good about where they are deposited, like they had something to do with it. They have their own concerns, of course. Their own joys and heartaches. But it doesn't matter to you, out on the edge.</div>
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Deep in the deck, the hard clay, the asphalt and concrete. These are not forever. Some things are eternal.Not them. This: the suffering, the struggle. Who really cares. That is not a question. It is unquestionable. </div>
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But you still ask questions. Who am I and what am I doing here? Why am I growing this way? </div>
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Life is a challenge. Everything is a challenge. Everyone has their own struggle. Everybody has a path. Some choose it, some endure it, and some are born at the destination, and wonder why it takes some people so long to get there. And if you never arrive, well you must have been lacking somehow. </div>
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I am asked to provide an answer. What am I doing? I exist. That is enough.</div>
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You don't solve all the problems at once. You do it one problem at a time. However, one solution can affect other problems, and cause unintended consequences. You must be resilient. Because you don't matter, not by yourself </div>
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You can be uprooted easily, you lone weed. You can only survive so long before you are picked off.<br />
So, join hands.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-64756942576673622372015-11-22T13:14:00.000-08:002015-12-01T17:16:08.250-08:00Muted<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Protection</td></tr>
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I looked at death last week. I saw it with my own eyes, in my own house.<br>
It was on the glass table, passed out on the couch, next to where I type, and<br>
where I look out the window, trying to see what's next.<br>
Of course, it's terrifying. I was suddenly very cold. Inside and out.<br>
I wondered if it was time. My time. Our time.<br>
Watching the world I can't help but feel that the drawdown has begun.<br>
Time changes always. Always fleeting, ephemeral, given without guarantee.<br>
We supply the meaning.<br>
We generate the hope.<br>
All the while, wondering about the purpose.<br>
No one gets to tell you how to grieve.<br>
How long to grieve.<br>
What you have lost.<br>
What you have gained.<br>
Just because the phrase "life is short" has become cliched, does that remove its meaning?<br>
Besides, do you really believe it?<br>
And, do you live it?<br>
It's alright. I don't pretend to have answers. I fail just like everyone else does.<br>
Give up or not, you will someday expire altogether, and if people do remember you, they will not remember what you were, what you were really like, and misinterpret what you did.<br>
So, smile.<br>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-732997331700799392015-09-13T17:55:00.001-07:002015-09-18T13:24:54.855-07:00Found Object<br>
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It's always a lie. It's never what it purports to be. It's only about one thing. And it's not the truth. </div>
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The truth is elastic. It sits on a shaken foundation. The structure is still standing, but it's not altogether safe. It resembles the past, but it makes no sense. Inanimate objects have meaning you are not cognizant of. Mundane items like cotton swabs have a use you never contemplated. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Things disappear. </div>
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This spoon was not deposited under this tree by someone who had just had cereal, or perhaps a dessert of tasty pudding. It was discarded by someone attempting to hide their true nature. </div>
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Who is at fault here? Who is being harmed? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">What is a <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">wasted life?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We hear about the sanctity of life, that all life is precious, while the evidence presented to us indicates that life is cheap, easily thrown away, and taken for a joke. </div>
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Life is serious, but not that serious. You are not important. The only inherent value you have is what you can give other people.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And the only value they have is what they give you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">See? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That is how it works. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Stop blaming them for everything that has gone so wrong in your life. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Stop blaming them for everything you've done, because you did it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The sun is shining outside. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Even in the darkness. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You need very little else. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only your greed makes you hungry. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You have all you need. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Inside.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, decide. Do you want to live, or do you want to die?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-46086294301200078612015-08-19T07:46:00.000-07:002015-08-19T17:19:19.666-07:00The Weeds<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqMr7QYKmnKJQac35UNKa9SvF7X9RIJOX4N9qhdh7el2TJx3A3okLXuTqYNXlL5zT5BOn_nNoPJt6XIc3BC_YLTOhNEdWU6LVQo6xksJ2Wc8ahOBNFaywUuNmPVi7uBBi95Xd/s640/blogger-image-584571255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqMr7QYKmnKJQac35UNKa9SvF7X9RIJOX4N9qhdh7el2TJx3A3okLXuTqYNXlL5zT5BOn_nNoPJt6XIc3BC_YLTOhNEdWU6LVQo6xksJ2Wc8ahOBNFaywUuNmPVi7uBBi95Xd/s640/blogger-image-584571255.jpg"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing Lasts Forever</td></tr>
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You knew it wasn't over, but you pretended like it was. </div><div style="text-align: center;">It comes on like a cold, a summer cold. And you cannot escape it. The heat makes the chill worse. </div>
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I'm tired of thinking about it, but I can't stop thinking about it.</div>
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The resolution is coming, but it may never be resolved the way you want it to.</div>
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Or thought it would be.</div>
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Life finds a way. It may not be a nice way. You may not like it. </div><div style="text-align: center;">In fact, I know you won't. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Because it's awful.</div>
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But it goes on, regardless of what you think.</div>
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How do you overcome it? </div>
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You may not. It's part of your life now, you live with it. It's there.</div>
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Right there. All the time. Casting a shadow. You walk faster, get into the light and leave it behind. But you have to rest sometime, and it catches up.</div>
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So, live with it. Look at it. But don't dwell on it. Keep moving. You may never outrun it, but you will make sure that it doesn't cast a shadow over you. </div>
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And take over your life. Remember, it's just a part of your life. We all make mistakes. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Don't let mistakes make you.</div>
John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-64206968775851676172015-08-07T12:11:00.002-07:002015-08-07T12:13:25.019-07:00What Do Happy Means<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eclipse</td></tr>
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I shouldn't feel the way I do. So lost. Your mind plays tricks on you. It does. </div>
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You're safe. You're safer than you've ever been. But the primate inside is ever alert for danger. And the rules have changed. They are always changing. Now there are no rules. </div>
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Life is now a series of gangs. Of territory. Of terror. </div>
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You can justify any behavior, all you need is the approval of your group.</div>
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No matter how opened up the world appears, the horizons are smaller than they have ever seemed. No matter. It's human nature to exclude. To fear the unknown. To attack the other. To build walls. To viciously obliterate the opposition. To dehumanize your opponent. To have an opponent. To regard your fellow man in opposing terms. </div>
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To break things, kill things, wreak havoc. </div>
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The utter joy at killing things for no reason. Not to eat. Just for a trophy.</div>
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Just for the experience. </div>
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Just for the picture.</div>
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It's not a great leap from animals to humans. To not feel remorse.</div>
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To do the moral/mental gymnastics to justify your actions.</div>
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Just a thug. Just an animal. Just a lion. A giraffe. A human. Whatever.</div>
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You are who I say you are, not who you say you are.</div>
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So you deserve to die. </div>
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I hold the power in my hands, and you wait to have me change the course of your life.</div>
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And the lives of all who surround you.</div>
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It's a mental failing, of course. You didn't measure up.</div>
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Or you wouldn't have been in my sights.</div>
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As long as you are out of sight, and silent.</div>
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We have no problem.</div>
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You cannot reach some people. They are remote. </div>
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They kill from above. </div>
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And, they feel justified. No moral gymnastics for them.</div>
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Just the self-satisfied feeling of a job well done.</div>
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Without any consideration of whether it's a job worth doing.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-20391178938962426792015-07-31T12:48:00.000-07:002015-07-31T12:48:30.906-07:00Double Five On The Dime<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVYGuYhAm8krPY6mG0rcKYBHZmyxOoYCOeOpgc8VRe1hoIDtNpW20XPUYXNk5juJakNMfbrC2nOOQPZGM1evGg3fdt1zRIzyORtft_JOgQWwYZdQrS-xCNcwtwz7HegOQOCMw/s640/blogger-image-560645190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVYGuYhAm8krPY6mG0rcKYBHZmyxOoYCOeOpgc8VRe1hoIDtNpW20XPUYXNk5juJakNMfbrC2nOOQPZGM1evGg3fdt1zRIzyORtft_JOgQWwYZdQrS-xCNcwtwz7HegOQOCMw/s400/blogger-image-560645190.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grapple 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I don't have it bad.</div>
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I've spent a lot of my life worrying, and while some concerns were valid, others were misplaced.</div>
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That's just the past. It's gone.</div>
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But you don't just throw it away. You learn from it. You deconstruct, and reconstruct, and rebuild.</div>
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I'm 55 years old this week..</div>
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That is no big deal, of course. People have been turning 55 for centuries. </div>
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I'm not special.</div>
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So why am I writing this?</div>
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Because I can. </div>
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And I'm done apologizing. For that, at least.</div>
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I, like all those millions of people who have reached self-dedicated milestones before me, have been taking stock, trying to remember where I've been, what I've done, what I've seen, what I've learned, and what I can do going forward.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am grateful for things. The light through the trees. The moonlight in the dark<br />
The roof over my head. It sounds so trite. But there is a baseline for being.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm alive. I can walk around and I see people I know who are glad to see me.</div>
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For whatever reason. </div>
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I'm thankful for that. I am. It's not trite. </div>
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But, there I am apologizing again.<br />
And I promised I wouldn't. I tried, and failed, again.<br />
But, really, what does it matter?<br />
Who gets my apology?<br />
What good will it do?<br />
The endless list of grievance, of angers, of resentment, it doesn't matter at all. Things happen, or don't happen, for no reason, sometimes.<br />
Sometimes things happen for a reason you cause. And you can accept credit, or issue an apology.<br />
Your choice?<br />
You have a choice?<br />
What is choice?<br />
Do I ask too many questions?<br />
Some things defy answers<br />
And some things don't need answers.<br />
Some things just need questions.<br />
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-70658018481345949462015-07-24T12:00:00.000-07:002015-07-24T12:00:01.270-07:00Mood Poisoning<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBkh07qmjYb0Hb2IZHBHLvpFurFsHo1hjIJwk-7QA_MUMWlgCNCeDLKaZROs_105oUJPV7N0oOOBJBzUJVF2ypDAuS7WT3jq_1yCh2sRMZlYCBD1SEVQ2-I7kXoDSWqJTdpqh/s640/blogger-image--821600021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBkh07qmjYb0Hb2IZHBHLvpFurFsHo1hjIJwk-7QA_MUMWlgCNCeDLKaZROs_105oUJPV7N0oOOBJBzUJVF2ypDAuS7WT3jq_1yCh2sRMZlYCBD1SEVQ2-I7kXoDSWqJTdpqh/s640/blogger-image--821600021.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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I will myself to go. The switch turns on and off. I don't control it. I don't think?</div>
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Maybe I do. Maybe I am comfortable with this mindset. Conditioned to fail. Staring into space. </div>
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Tired.</div>
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That's a theme I return to repeatedly in my life. No way to overcome it? </div>
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I don't know.</div>
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So who does know? I don't believe in a supreme being. I don't believe in a human-centered universe.</div>
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I look for the things that will supply some meaning. Humans love to look for patterns.</div>
For proof. For structure. They want the heavenly father, the stern taskmaster, the happily ever after, the afterlife.So what?<br />
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I don't expect anything else to come. I think you just go out like a TV set. The rest of the programming is still being broadcast, but you don't receive it. </div>
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You have today. That is it. Plan ahead if you want. It occupies your time. It's about as meaningful as a board game. Life is capricious. You get to start over. You are not alone.</div>
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But you are. You can be. You don't want to be, but you can be.</div>
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I am on no high perch.</div>
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But maybe the Dyer/Carnegie/"Power Of Positive Thinking" mindset is right.</div>
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Be the change you want to be.</div>
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Don't be a downer. </div>
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You only hurt yourself.</div>
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It's so liberating to know that you don't matter to others, so you may as well go full bore into your own self interests. You don't want to destroy your neighbor, but if HE gets in the way, well, bowl him over. </div>
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Glengarry Glen Ross is not a work of fiction, it's how things are today.</div>
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Always be selling, you don't even have to be closing. If you can't close the deal in a short time, move on to the next mark. </div>
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We are all marks. </div>
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We are here for our self aggrandizement, and that is your purpose in life. </div>
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Be a mark.</div>
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I want to be smarter. I don't think it will happen in this lifetime.</div>
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But, I'll keep trying.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-76637966694100432132015-07-09T13:00:00.000-07:002015-07-10T15:57:13.743-07:00Horse Race<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIuFTY0otyOlkqyfAX6e-xeYbYnQ4kVKCfDK8mJUzWxVZoX12aj-nCYHVjLxouccFvOceoe-uTOImBkh5uT_tdWETno8OT6jiU_zls_TzDzj18wCFUjzoZay6ZcgndlGapVqlG/s640/blogger-image-183837282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIuFTY0otyOlkqyfAX6e-xeYbYnQ4kVKCfDK8mJUzWxVZoX12aj-nCYHVjLxouccFvOceoe-uTOImBkh5uT_tdWETno8OT6jiU_zls_TzDzj18wCFUjzoZay6ZcgndlGapVqlG/s640/blogger-image-183837282.jpg" /></a></div>
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Photo by Robyn M. Jones</div>
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I went to the horse races on the Fourth of July. I didn't know a single person there, except for the ladies I went with. I didn't know a single horse either. It was great to go see them, go smell them. </div>
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And watch them run. </div>
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I wonder what they are thinking. I think they like to run. I've always thought that horses probably tolerated us, to a certain extent. They struck me as being kind of high strung. More like cats than dogs. The racing horses are beautiful, shaped differently than the cow-horses I grew up around. I can see how it gets to people. How it insinuates itself into you. </div>
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I like horses a hell of a lot more than I like motorized transport.</div>
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I bet it's just as expensive, though. </div>
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A lot of rural people there. A lot of NRA sympathies. A few 4H badges.</div>
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I really enjoyed it. </div>
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Even threw down a few dollars betting on horses to win. Two bucks. It's nothing.</div>
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The grandstands are old. They are next to the Fairgrounds. I made a mental note to attend the State Fair early, so I could check out all the animals. </div>
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And the 4H badges. </div>
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And the NRA sympathies.</div>
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And the smell of animals.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-11853300072269260352015-06-26T12:00:00.000-07:002015-06-26T12:00:02.917-07:00Before The Fireworks<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XzG7FpduddQL47igQoxcz8qaehnxyAC1yrQQgHeaVF4qO-iZsKrPna2LbZGiyCZOY5wk-wFdWuSefWm1sMMSoNjPImNV0PTL9jtWpABWekMlhShqhltlHRL_3hLUHwQzpI26/s640/blogger-image-1993844025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XzG7FpduddQL47igQoxcz8qaehnxyAC1yrQQgHeaVF4qO-iZsKrPna2LbZGiyCZOY5wk-wFdWuSefWm1sMMSoNjPImNV0PTL9jtWpABWekMlhShqhltlHRL_3hLUHwQzpI26/s640/blogger-image-1993844025.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><u>This is a distant memory. Circa 1998</u></i></div>
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<b>Things happen. </b></div>
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So much happens it's hard to remember what order they happened in.</div>
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For me, the last 9 years have made everything before it hazy. Stupid Hallmark Holidays like Father's Day have been imbued with such bad memories for me, I don't want anything to do with it. Sure, I was a father. I largely failed at it. </div>
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<b>Fireworks.</b></div>
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I remember the boys in this photo, taken on the 4th of July at a cousin's house. The one on the left has not gone off the rails at this point. Although he was always a willful, difficult and intelligent child. Puberty has not happened. The lying, long silences, drug abuse, jail time and violence are coming, but for this moment, with innocent anticipation of cheap fireworks imminent, no one knows it.</div>
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The one on the right, he's going to have his problems too, but they are the normal problems, benign problems. He will make mistakes. But none of his mistakes will involve parole and probation, or cardiac arrest and an ambulance ride. So, for that I'm grateful.</div>
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<b>Past.</b></div>
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My own father is gone now, he's been gone for over 10 years. I've forgiven him for his failures, even though I haven't forgiven myself for mine. It's a long process. </div>
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I still miss him, and think of him often. And I see flashes of him in the mirror every morning. The fear. The fatigue. The lifetime of work. All done voluntarily, I might add. </div>
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It's how I was brought up. I fall far short. I don't work nearly as hard, can't do nearly as many things. And my sons were brought up differently. This is where the mistakes were made. I should have made them do things. Made them learn how to do things. Made them fail. Taught them not to fear failure. That is my biggest failing. </div>
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You can talk about what a "man" should do. How a "man" should handle things. You can talk about things all you want. </div>
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It's what you have done that is the measure of you. And will people see your works as a good thing or bad thing? What you say is a pale echo of what you have done. </div>
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Or, didn't do.</div>
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Of all the things taken away, or given away, or lost, lighthearted laughter is something I miss the most. </div>
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<b>Next.</b></div>
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What am I supposed to do? I probably have 30 years left. Probably.</div>
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I don't want to live. I don't want to die.</div>
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My stubborn sense of history has gotten me this far.</div>
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But now I lack the confidence, the underlying conviction, that I'm right and alright. </div>
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That things will be fine. </div>
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Am I supposed to pretend that things are great, that reality will conform to my wishful thinking?</div>
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That's what all the self -helpers and 12-steppers tell me to do.</div>
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I have felt the unease my entire life. Even before I was aware.</div>
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I can't help but feel that we are going down the wrong road.</div>
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So, that leaves me with the conundrum. I still have to live.</div>
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I have no choice in the matter.I have to fight the quandary.</div>
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I don't want to put the book down.</div>
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I want to see what happens next.</div>
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So that's it, then. I'm disengaging from the pettiness. </div>
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I'm looking for things that matter, when I believe that nothing matters.</div>
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It's going to be. It has to.</div>
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See you around.</div>
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-37831929722555133052015-06-26T11:00:00.000-07:002015-06-26T11:00:05.354-07:00How Did We Get From There To Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsoMS-ZzboJTrOmZoO7n7bN3JidBfdSHWR_RZw3NTvkDZXmkdn-PiXdTMhBdG-F18MQs-5pGuEGVxw_t8d0aEYOSXSnnNyqlGCwYUM3VWCD0K5HT1z17X2WXKqZkFzp-KLWTn/s1600/FishingtripMEO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsoMS-ZzboJTrOmZoO7n7bN3JidBfdSHWR_RZw3NTvkDZXmkdn-PiXdTMhBdG-F18MQs-5pGuEGVxw_t8d0aEYOSXSnnNyqlGCwYUM3VWCD0K5HT1z17X2WXKqZkFzp-KLWTn/s320/FishingtripMEO.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWy0whgaLYfg7bNTzwYNuRxa_4qegq28gmGlvdomz-p2ei74pPB81E0IRovDlfr50Bbjvbte-BWWulkRNoGXyI956b43IHAQzg_sm4Ytam4tmJJRpuusfcV0LG3OgUMaIb6jMm/s1600/MarshallEthanONeil6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWy0whgaLYfg7bNTzwYNuRxa_4qegq28gmGlvdomz-p2ei74pPB81E0IRovDlfr50Bbjvbte-BWWulkRNoGXyI956b43IHAQzg_sm4Ytam4tmJJRpuusfcV0LG3OgUMaIb6jMm/s320/MarshallEthanONeil6.jpg" /></a></div>
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When did it happen? Where did it go wrong? We have tortured ourselves with these questions. We made a lot of mistakes. We did a lot of things wrong. He was difficult. Difficult people made him. But, we were all in. Everyone was. Perhaps, over invested, which makes the present even more hard to bear.
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It's hard to believe you are bad.You grew up under our sight, if not our supervision.But it's hard to believe you took what you were given, and made what you did from it.
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And now we live suffused with sadness. That we created this. And we are not hard enough to turn our back and walk away.But, we can't give anymore. We have nothing left, and it doesn't help anyway.You have to do it yourself.
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It's just a bill. It doesn't have any meaning. Someone calling on the phone with a complaint and an offer. Someone far away, who is capitalizing on a decision that was made in faith, bad or not.Someone who has no idea what you went through to give it up.
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I suppose it's all meaningless.People who make their own reality don't give in to reality,may never give in to circumstances beyond their control. The lottery may bless you with a sympathetic judge who will make your dreams come true at best, and at the very worst, you will star in a psycho drama that will add meaning to your life.
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Some people have angels on their shoulders. You search for a meaning. But it often eludes you.So we cope, we medicate, we try to maintain. But the undercurrent is always there. </div>
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If I never see another courtroom in my life, that will be fine with me.</div>
<br />John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-3064301180385085892015-04-25T23:41:00.001-07:002015-04-25T23:41:57.951-07:00Pull It Away<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_8rmiI9yZ7ZVy21q-7gw4wGsWjNlCryNgVjdte8RuQQEYuK_BHe2yT6Wb8G8Bm6PNSgBnjrF54_y1sAzgWF-FsaZYKYsDlGmxXa1V0lj2xtsRDS5nuKGd1gxtyJeZZWLV4D3/s640/blogger-image-919060998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_8rmiI9yZ7ZVy21q-7gw4wGsWjNlCryNgVjdte8RuQQEYuK_BHe2yT6Wb8G8Bm6PNSgBnjrF54_y1sAzgWF-FsaZYKYsDlGmxXa1V0lj2xtsRDS5nuKGd1gxtyJeZZWLV4D3/s640/blogger-image-919060998.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Look for the dream wherever you may look for it. </div>John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-13736914389723801552014-09-27T11:16:00.001-07:002014-09-27T11:16:56.858-07:00I Remember When There Was Hope<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3CmCqQeE00rAIEkjSOiJnxfjek2RXGu1JmaPhwXpWVIK9MfPF6ozTV8b8wXixRm1r65n-xlkQo-jsaTa_oc8ap6uDTO9LQIaShA_3vYalX_5Pre5WpdJmV1NrDtkVcyLJseT/s640/blogger-image-157953272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3CmCqQeE00rAIEkjSOiJnxfjek2RXGu1JmaPhwXpWVIK9MfPF6ozTV8b8wXixRm1r65n-xlkQo-jsaTa_oc8ap6uDTO9LQIaShA_3vYalX_5Pre5WpdJmV1NrDtkVcyLJseT/s640/blogger-image-157953272.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Maybe I don't. Maybe it was all a mirage. All self delusions. That is the secret. Perhaps. There isn't a secret after all. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">You just live. You get up in the morning. Do something. Maybe you get asked to do something. Maybe you volunteer. It all seems like a remote possibility. I've lost the plot. I think my time has past. Nothing seems to be worth doing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So, you fake it. You do something. Even if it seems to be a betrayal. Of something. Truth is, it doesn't matter. You, don't matter. No one does. The mass moves forward. That is what matters. Everyone will just wash away. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So take that for what it's worth. Me? I'm a grinder. I will see this thing through to the end.</div>John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-26762365322957518212014-06-11T07:18:00.001-07:002014-06-12T07:43:13.733-07:00Released<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEp1BwECmOrKnoDGJU6HrufjSftdheehkxR6wEVDh45ZrckRgPvqute0OyzpCgcQve0rhjZ_f6SQylJyqqA_X-eGUQvQ5tMETDE1AgC_4h1i453s6LBDnmmTDeRjOdHgqPqcK/s1600/IMG_5419.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEp1BwECmOrKnoDGJU6HrufjSftdheehkxR6wEVDh45ZrckRgPvqute0OyzpCgcQve0rhjZ_f6SQylJyqqA_X-eGUQvQ5tMETDE1AgC_4h1i453s6LBDnmmTDeRjOdHgqPqcK/s400/IMG_5419.JPG" /><br><b>Hot Work<i></i></b></a></div><br><center>People are cheap. Do I provide value? Am I worth something? <br> What does worth mean? Money? An arbitrary measurement at best, because someone other than me controls it. <br> The best intentions? Work all the time and wonder why? <br> Sometimes.<br>Timing is everything. Luck is undersold. Nobody wants to be reminded of how slim the tolerances are.The people who make it want to think that is the way it's meant to be. Their unshakeable faith in their success is probably why they are where they are. So, they are probably right. I wonder how many sign fliers just know they are one break away from paydirt. <br>And it doesn't matter.<br>Who really cares? Ask yourself that question? Who is there when there is no benefit, no money, no nothing. No question mark. No question? Life is hard, since when is that a question, my existential angst is really getting tiresome. That is why I put it here. It's safe, and it don't matter. I could go on all day, but what's the point?<br> Time to go to work.</center>John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-37917449667453531812014-05-27T07:34:00.000-07:002014-06-12T17:55:47.405-07:00Declining<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3_zPegbjvaIgxTmCXChxfCTvSH9VpW3x0DKksTlq1dkqV97Fkn6WCLy0ITa4TJgQqqc-AbhEgeGm2xLis5qIPmqYM1USAcFiNGT7-loLDeEjGiGYY6oDKmDVpjlzwFfJlL_l/s1600/IMG_4533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3_zPegbjvaIgxTmCXChxfCTvSH9VpW3x0DKksTlq1dkqV97Fkn6WCLy0ITa4TJgQqqc-AbhEgeGm2xLis5qIPmqYM1USAcFiNGT7-loLDeEjGiGYY6oDKmDVpjlzwFfJlL_l/s400/IMG_4533.JPG"><b>GUTTERED</b></a></div><center><br>I get tired. It's a theme of mine. Of mind. I'm tired.<br>Do I mean it? I don't know. I'm expressing the inner futility. The fear. <br> Who knows if the stuff inside is real.<br> Real. What a laugh. You only exist in relation to other people. You can't see yourself. You look strange in person. I know I do.<br>I am old, fat, and tiresome. I hate what I see when I look in the mirror. So, like Lefty advised, I never go around mirrors. </center>
John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-45019300990574783602014-05-25T12:45:00.002-07:002014-05-25T12:45:53.850-07:00Which Way To Pleasanton<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgW_KKQ7M_AQfwHreh5OKoPH8YYvmjbLYm9h-f57adtAd3hKKSvIfcdedmCNMUuBmVbQOrferKwQnzILOygLsj0ZiYyEFPrDDTMENSNokXysuwabzY1ZA_mR4QZibhZjVDmUA/s1600/DSCN1791.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgW_KKQ7M_AQfwHreh5OKoPH8YYvmjbLYm9h-f57adtAd3hKKSvIfcdedmCNMUuBmVbQOrferKwQnzILOygLsj0ZiYyEFPrDDTMENSNokXysuwabzY1ZA_mR4QZibhZjVDmUA/s320/DSCN1791.JPG" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uUKd-3FSKJs69uYp1szQWvZNrhxi2DjJRZ8iJr5XTGNK4gkaZdmFfkI26_WM9DEOYpI9aRsryewmeuOvANjOESoD0Xj3xqGTRDCABSvBWxxPjaisH9CQdfdJvPhO0eOA_mWw/s1600/DSCN1792.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uUKd-3FSKJs69uYp1szQWvZNrhxi2DjJRZ8iJr5XTGNK4gkaZdmFfkI26_WM9DEOYpI9aRsryewmeuOvANjOESoD0Xj3xqGTRDCABSvBWxxPjaisH9CQdfdJvPhO0eOA_mWw/s320/DSCN1792.JPG" /></a> </div>
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Where is Pleasanton?<br> Is it pleasant? <br>Are you pleasing it?<br> Please let me know.
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John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11016767.post-70422314755301899682014-05-25T04:00:00.000-07:002014-05-25T04:00:04.894-07:00Possessions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLkQ8tU2BQCLkeA7sun9mEfINg8z_wjA9s6cYwl1YR4RM16EmG2l040Uc3urSp7ztk2fEUlGThHr1O7N0DZ1X_UakU2D3O5KBsfVRVzS2Druqe14QUHZjb9phPpuUa0ZLFt_e/s1600/SANY0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLkQ8tU2BQCLkeA7sun9mEfINg8z_wjA9s6cYwl1YR4RM16EmG2l040Uc3urSp7ztk2fEUlGThHr1O7N0DZ1X_UakU2D3O5KBsfVRVzS2Druqe14QUHZjb9phPpuUa0ZLFt_e/s400/SANY0160.JPG" /><br />So much stuff has gone missing. A lot of it is my fault. I have been stuck for 5 years, maybe longer.But so much is gone. That is what happens when you have too much stuff. You lose it. It doesn't matter. It's a good thing it doesn't matter. </a></div>
John O'Neilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02740943586377859477noreply@blogger.com0