Saturday, June 18, 2011

Bifröst


I lied once. I love poetry. It's difficult to connect, and I hate callow attempts at obtaining "deepness" but I'll still get something out of it.

I guess I'm pretty judgmental. But I don't think it's as bad as it sounds. If you walk a dog down a street full of dogs walking down the street, then you'll notice that each dog walking down the street interacts differently with your dog walking down the street. Fight/Flight, Bark/Bite. You can get a pretty good idea of people based on how they walk, talk, and look. Same goes with writing. In my search for pained individuals through the use of the Next Blog button, nine times out of ten I'll read four words and move on. Maybe I'll simply look at the color scheme and decide it's not for me. I don't care about reading about what movies people saw or what pasta they pasta'ed that day. I don't want to know about how much you watered your Jack in the pulpit or how much chocolate you eat on your period. I want emotion and feeling. I want to read something and hurt or smile or laugh or think shit that's a fun game (video game blogs are an exception).

Right now I'm stuck traversing through an endless stream of running and exercise blogs. Talk about discouragement, I'm supposed to spend hours running and then come home and talk about it? Sorry guys, but I've done a lot of running in my life, and it is honestly one of the most boring past times there is. I don't think I could find a way to make it interesting. "Today I moved my legs for thirty minutes longer than I moved my legs yesterday." "Today I saw a turtle." Actually that doesn't sound that bad. But shit, running is boring. If you're going somewhere, cool. But shit, running is boring.

Next we have the parental and family blogs. These are cute and all and probably show the happiest times in many of these people's lives, but still not really what I'm looking for. Two of my siblings are parents now, so I've seen some baby love lately and I understand the desire to track it and let other people know. I just don't care to read it, at least not now. My mom feels the need to tell me on a regular basis that I need to make sure I get all my traveling and everything else I want to do out of the way before I have a kid, as if she somehow thinks that if she isn't careful I'm going to start making babies behind her back. She does not need to worry, I still have some things I need to do.

Logically following family blogs are religion blogs. When I first bought myself a journal, I intended to mainly use it to connect closer with my beliefs. Now, not so much. I think faith is great, but I feel like it should be present within other things and not a category in-itself.

Now I'm on gardening blogs. These I actually don't mind so much because there's always loads of beautiful pictures. I can't bring myself to read any of the words between the pictures, but these plants are damn cool. I think there's always going to be a part of me that wants to live on a farm or ranch somewhere. Or maybe just have a kickass garden. Or maybe just have a wife that has a kickass garden. Or just have a door that leads outside.

There are a lot of old women bloggers. I guess that shouldn't be too surprising, but I still think its weird when old people use the internet. There's probably buckets of knowledge and life lessons hidden away in their daily recaps. The first post I read was title "I sure do miss you a lot!" and told the story of a woman who had just lost her mother who had been in an old folks home. The woman talks about how happy her mother was every time the daughter would come to visit. I think about this, and I think about how many times I hear people my age talk about how they want to die before they're old. It seems nice right? No old folks home, no hip replacements, no social security issues. I think this is the most selfish thing you can say to anyone. The only person that doesn't suffer in death is the one who dies.

Mother's are the most frightening and powerful beings on the earth.

I like poetry written by men more.

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