shit shoveler

That's what they told David we were. Way showers, or shit shovelers. I was under the impression that the most difficult part of this would be to go the way myself, and that others would willingly follow. When I come back to kindergarten, my hometown, the land of the uncurious, I find myself irate and at my wits end to defend what I know with every fiber of my being.

"I am only trying to help!" I screamed at my Dad, after dismissing the idea that I had a political agenda, or rather I had lost touch with reality. The real problem is that any of the "proof" I sense and see and know and find, will not be acceptable to him unless its on the cover of the New York Times. Or the Medieval times. I can really relate to those witches just about now.

What is strange to me is that these people who have relied upon my good judgement time and again, would suddenly think a strange malady of the "seriousness" in my brain has befallen me rather than to suppose I have simply applied my good judgement to another course of informaiton.

If you stay out of the Self Help section of the library, it doesn't mean that psychology isn't real and verifiable and useful and can have applications for each of us, it just means that you haven't read anything on that topic.

My Dad's way of thinking is diseased. And being around his energy makes me feel like one of my eyes is missing. He left the room, and I exhaled. The hum of the lights met the living room and we all relaxed. He can take his denial elsewhere.

They are my parents, but they may be the hardest cases of all. I think I have long exxagerated what I percieved to be the good sense of my Father. I think its heavy shadow was lengthened by his tense demeanor and strict condescenion of his brief truth.

I would melt and die as a crippled mangled millionare who won the lotto and then got hit by a car if I had to stay here.

I don't even think I am bright enough to shine a light in this darkness.

I hate when I end blogs on pessimistic notes.
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