Bryson Treece

You know, I’m not big on any ideal that requires the death of humans to accomplish its goal. Property damage is one thing, but when you kill innocent people, it’s just one of those bad ways of doing something that tends to overshadow and truncate the good intentions behind the act. Never mind debating the definition of innocent.

With that said, I cannot believe how securely proud I am of what Joseph Stack did, or more specifically for why he did it.

I firmly believe that had he done it any other way, that without the loss of life beyond his own, many of us wouldn’t even know who Joseph Stack is. And what’s more fitting is that his ultimate motive was inspired from dealings with the IRS over money—such a common theme that is developing anymore.

But what really has me puzzled is how I’ve only seen opinions from a handful of people that condemn him as a terrorist or murderer, compared to the hundreds already portraying him in a heroic light. Is this the act of irrefutable change that I have been waiting for? Perhaps.

The more times I read “God Bless Joseph Stack” from the people who share his burden just as I do, the more I have to believe that this could be the start to a revolution that might actually leave us better off as Americans.

While reading his suicide note, it’s hard not to get lost as he trails off into a fairly indirect description of his troubles and ultimately the cause of his actions. But I found myself wanting to support him before even finishing the first page.

I don’t know what else to say…he certainly isn’t the hero this country wants right now, but he may just be the hero we need.

Joe Stack

It’s been pointed out to me recently that I haven’t updated my blog in months. November 10th, 2009 was the last update actually, and it was but a short little poem that I wrote about my daughter.

Well it’s been three months since I wrote that little poem and nothing has changed in that time.

Perhaps the truth is that little has changed. Some things have certainly changed. For starters, I don’t write on my blog anymore. A person I found myself very fond of is no longer around. I’m no longer employed.

I still don’t get into the details of who I’m fond of because it’s private, and someone taught me very well that private things should never be aired in any amount of detail. See, I do listen.

I’m not sure how I lost my job—maybe I did exactly as I should have that morning, and maybe I didn’t. I’ve never been one to take shit from anyone, but not even I can say whether it was foolish to stick with that character trait that morning.

I have started trying to reduce my existence. I suppose the only related secret is that I have been so stressed over it that I’ve allowed it to affect me so deeply.

As for why I’m doing it, that’s not a secret at all. Not to me, and not to any one person who reads this. I simply cost money to live and there isn’t enough of it to go around.

I can’t say anything about it in a normal way, resorting instead to using my blog, because regardless of how much thought or effort I put into it, I’ll be perceived as trying to induce a guilt trip or perhaps sounding unreasonable or childish.

Since I wrote that little poem, nothing has changed with the economy either. I’m trying to fight off my own thoughts that the economy is affecting my job hunt, but sometimes the inevitable reality is simply that things are what they are.

There’s no way to change them or fix them.

It still doesn’t help me sleep any better at night though. It doesn’t help me rest any easier during the day. Knowing that simply means that I must deal with it and move on.

But isn’t moving on about progress? I haven’t seen a lot of that lately.

I still flock to my most unhealthy addictions and obsessions without any regard for the consequences. Consequences, that I cannot control, that take their toll on me in ways that most can’t see and only I feel.

But then my feelings are another thing all together. I have so few of them anymore that I’ve begun to wonder if I really don’t care about certain things, or if the feelings I have just don’t register anymore.

I suppose there isn’t much of a difference, is there?

I wanted to write a blog but I’m not satisfied with what I have to write.

And now I’m cold. Had to go help get snow off the van. I wonder if she notices how my willingness to do little stuff like that is always high. I used to groan about having to do simple things like that, even with Kaytie. I have to eliminate all hesitation with that stuff to feel like I’m doing something.

It just doesn’t apply to everything.

Taking the trash out is one of those things. I have an issue with something and I won’t tell anyone what it is because it’s stupid. It’s still real and valid but it’s stupid and I’m embarrassed by it.

And it’s not one of those things were someone thinks something is stupid, but those around them wouldn’t actually agree. This is stupid and those around would agree, I know because I’ve mentioned it in minor ways to see.

In true dramatic fashion I’ve used a lot of bites of text to not say what it is. Oh well.

Do you ever irritate yourself? I do. I feel a compulsive need to over explain everything. Some times people think I do it because I’m nervous or because I’m stalling or even because I’m trying to belittle their intelligence. The truth is that the more agitated I become with myself over it, the more I see that I have very little control over it.

It’s how I word things, my phrasing, and it’s just there.

Maybe if I do finish learning Spanish it’ll help in that area. I’ll have to keep my phrasing short and sweet from a mere lack of knowledge, and maybe I can apply that to English as well.

I tell you though; this up and down bullshit is getting on my nerves the more I experience it.

The magic went away with you

the magic in you

Colors never seemed so grey

Not until that day

My whole world in your hands

In your hands I melt away

The colors of magic in you

That magic in you …