Woke up 7ish. Checked in on world. Heard about the massacre in Orlando. Soul death.

Gave up on the Spider-Man last night, turned to The Name of the Wind. I was loving reading from a book again, after a slight break in my regular habit. I excitedly explained to Britney it was a deep, mystical work, encoded with many lines of truth that I had been thinking and reading about in other places and sharing with her recently. That when I read this bit about the Heart of Stone it resonated so deeply with me. That I had always imagined some internal, mental/spiritual space, where nothing could really touch you. An empty space, the void. The Audioslave song Like A Stone, an ode to the void, I believe. The stone, consciousness layered in on itself. The stone falls and it doesn’t.



I try to sit down and right (leave the Freudian slips) my words. I’m supposed to be writing my exciting climax, shoot out at the OK corral and all that. I had a seventeen year old boy, blasting a bad guy in the head, while driving a station wagon, a la Mad-Max. Seems insulting, sacrilegious. Why write Fictional violence, when real life violence is so disgusting and disheartening.

But we need heroes don’t we? And there are bad guys right? Do we write the story so we can better brave the real life tragedy? Is it a grand exercise of wishful thinking, since I can’t actually defeat evil in the real world, fight in imaginary, creative ways on the page?

Think I might take the day off, or journal like this. Sometimes you just have to stop. Reevaluate the world. I feel asleep trying to watch Jupiter Ascending, weird movie, won’t make a second attempt at that. Just like the book I recognize the shared symbolism. Note how the move is like CS Lewis’ Cosmic Trilogy, with its planetary conceptualizations. What would life, people, entities be like on Mars, or Venus, or Jupiter, or Saturn. What do those planets look like personified? Why would it even matter?

Main baddy is named a variation of Baal. There’s this idea of an Olympus, Asgard, type place where the good (and bad) angels, demigod things live. And little grey aliens capture Mila Kunis. They blend into the world through fantasies, dreams. Freaky stuff really. Probably not bedtime material. Maybe not digestible material at all.

I’m scared for the world. I know that’s not a cool thing to say, like a little too obvious, and Motherly, but I mean it. I’m scared for the world. I think people have been played for fools, in the sense that the things they should be really concerned with receive little consideration, and the superficial things have take precedent. Recently read in a WB Yeat’s Poem The Second Coming, “The best lack all of convictions, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” I’m intense about my writing, turn over to it, arrange my life around it. What true effect can it have?

And same time, I think I am a fairly moral person. Even more as I have mature in adulthood, and after having children,  but still, I can do almost nothing to help the vast deluge of suffering which exists in the world. I can only stand there and shake my head in disbelief, rant and rave if you want me to, give you a twenty or mow your lawn, but that’s about it.

Maybe not though, that’s just how it feels sometimes. I can talk to you. I can listen. I can share another perspective. Two cents. I can tell you when you’re being conned, you can learn to identify that. I can help you protect yourself. Mostly though, there’s a lot no one can tell you, I think. You got to just sort of sit there and look at it yourself. That’s about all you can do.


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