from Nebreska, the best folk album ever. Period. Bob Dylan and Woody are close... but nothing has ever made me feel quite as much emphathy for humanity and rage against the night as this album.
Highway Patrolman... this song inspired Shawn Penn to make the movie Indian Runner, which kicks ass...
I came in here today to write about something I have been letting go of lately... the creep who molested me and my brother. A member of my family esteemed for his piles of money and business acumen.... not to mention taking in exchange students and other shit that makes me wish I was the killer.
"man turns his back on his family, he just ain't no good."
I am beginning to think I lost my dear brothers respect over this and I AM PISSED OFF THAT THE REAL PERSON TO BLAME, THE CREEP WHO FORCED US INTO HIS SEXUAL REALM WHEN WE REALLY JUST NEEDED A FRIENDLY FATHER FIGURE (AND GOT A FUCKING PREIST)... now, this dear brother, who I bathed and loved and am damned proud of and find to be one of the funniest men on the planet... hates me for pointing out the elephant in the living room.
My neice and nephew, who I haven't ever been close to, will never come to my place to visit, or even be civil at a family gathering. This means that the creep has now forced me to avoid going back 'home' to Ohio. I have friends there I love like family, but going down there and not seeing the people who I love the most is too much for me to contemplate. I have my own family of sorts here, though you know, no kids or anything to make me feel like I am THE FAMILY, rather than the family being something I have to visit.
Sitting here listening to springsteen's nebreska is enough to make me feel pissed again about all this crap. I didn't ask for any of the troubles in my life, but I faced em down one after another, even chronic crippling pain and the loss of what I thought was the greatest love a man could ever have... just made me more ready to fight. On this creep issue, however, all I have is words... maybe nothing at all will ever come of them?
I play all the time like I don't care if I become a noticed writer or not... to feel this way required me to kill off a lot of dreams, and their deaths were as bloody as any kid who finds out he isn't going to be a rock star...
People envy me a lot, which is weird. They say things like, "Hey, you're doing what you want to do?"
Am I? I am doing what life has channeled me into doing, little different than an animal raised for food consumption; just a fancier cage and better grub. I am more confused than ever on this point because of this damn blog... the more I work on this thing, the more I re-read what is coming out and straighten things up... the more I think I am possibly doing the writing I was meant to... but blogs were not the literary realm where I expected to live, and the thought of a shelf of novels bearing my words is still about the only thing I believe matters. Do you have something in your life that matters more than anything else? More than people, animals, health, or a clear head? I spent my youth and health getting to this desk, right here, as a trained writer... and now I am not sure which hoops to jump through.
Now my family is as aleinated from me as the rest of you. The only one who cares to own up to everything has become by default my only real family. My mother is a repository for clean cut stories about a life she would like me to have... I love her all to hell mind you, and really enjoy spending time with my mom. She is a fun woman. Right now she is in London visiting my sister and the creep. I held my toungue as she told me about the trip and all this shit... what could I do, piss on her parade? I wish I could blow it off the face of the fucking earth!!!!
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.