Time gets measured by snacks and naps. We wake, eat, copulate, do a little dance through the fast lanes of the rat race and try our best to not get ran over. Life gets measured by our interaction with others. We hold our breathe and wait for the great love, the desperate hate, the fury of emotions to make things feel a little more real than the melting chocolate of a Reese Cup, or the stale grease from McDonalds fries. But it seldom does. Then when we find that new big thing, that pentacle of emotion, it doesn�t feel real. It takes on the glow of a movie, soundtrack blaring crickets to tracks from Garbage or Frente. The light changes suddenly and goes hazy, or ultra bright. Then touch falls in line and what should just be a kiss turns knots in your stomach and lights fire in your toes. That�s all good, but damn, I keep wanting something more. The truth is we all do. No one wants to wake from that perfect dream to find that the alarm clock is honking, (especially if that alarm clock just happens to be shaped like the Mystery Van from Scooby Do and actually is honking, but I digress�)and life has returned to snacks and naps.

Things are not always the way that you left them. Like turning off the clock and trying to get back to that dream. Sometimes you can, but you will always find a detail changed and life man, you might as well hang that one up. Life is far more complicated than dreams, the flow is all off. Time has a way of freezing you out. There are no instant replays.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Who do I want to be? A butcher? A baker? A candle stick maker? I want to be free of the addiction to bigger, better, faster, more. I want to be existing in the very essence of now. I want to find my doggie. Have you seen my doggie?

I�ve decided that this world is putting on a show. It�s yakking it up. I�m driving down the road today in a town that is little more than a sweating sand trap and I�m seeing crazed things. This house all but abandoned. It�s all dirty cream stucco siding and concrete stoop. Out front the yard is swept as clean as sand can be by the wind and sitting completely abonbandoned is a baby stroller. I�m thinking to myself that it is bizarre and macabre and eerily just. There are drug dealers with guns in their jeans and sweet as apple pie mama boy faces smiling like fools or angels in glaring southern heat. I want to capture it all. I want to show the world the way my eye takes it in. I�ve got the only free ticket one ever gets and it is to the gaudiest, sweetest show ever produced. The world is just begging for us to all carry cameras and stand clapping and thanking God for the spectacle. We are all tourists in a strange land.

This is where I was born in a sand trap, in a sweating jungle of drug dealers and flying cockroaches. It is a far cry from the lush verdant hills of East Tennessee. It�s a horror show and a love affair, but I don�t think that I feel that spark their always referring to.

I�m tired going through life from interaction with boring, dull, stale, mundane, folks that life is always thrusting at me. I think I�m going to spend more time making sure that I�m not mundane and less time wasting those short moments of waking with those that are.

Written by Neve Hathor. I am adipose out here in diaryland. My email is [email protected]

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