the rain i fall in

Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Steinbeck. These men wrote for the twenties and thirties.
John Knowles, Orwell, wrote for the forties and the fifties.
John Irving wrote for the Baby Boomers.
Yann Martel, he wrote for postmodernism and pluralism.

Who will I write for? My generation? Can my generation be said to have a voice? It seems all of us each have our own. It will take thousands of writers to speak for all the different voices. One for the goths and nihilists, one for the partyers and preppies and white girls who love black rap, one for those who give a damn... Bob Dylan, he can write for us, one for those who need a reason to wake up in the morning, one for those who want to smile though our teeth are covered in blood, one for those who find answers in people, one for those who find answers in books, one for those who drive hondas and live in the suburbs, one for those who will never have a real job, one for those who would rather be bums, one for those who want to write but cant find the words, and one for those who have words to say and no friends to listen. And perhaps this is the voice of my generation. We are not blue, or red, or yellow. We are all the colors, thrown together in a mudpuddle, and we make white. Our voice is chaotic, and many, but symphonies sing many parts, all at once, and we stand and applaud. We are independent and unique, all of us together. We are each raindrops; and our voices are the rain.

Love, what is it good for?

What is it about love that makes the whole world beautiful?
People who fall in love or in like seem to forget there are millions of people crying.
I'm happy they get this release, but is it real? Or is it just mere momentary denial?
And what is it about falling in love that sweeps away every possible reason for tears?
People who are in love only cry during sappy movies or when they get dumped.

Can the affirmations of just one human being assuage the rejections of a universe?
And does anyone ever truly get rejected? Who has ever rejected a friend? An advance, yes,
but a friend?

Smile people who are in love, smile, to give the rest of us hope.

I think the world's greatest inventions have been squashed beneath the weight of obligation.
We have not yet cured cancer or established colonies on other planets or perfected teleportation because the men and women who conceived a solution to such problems have since died beneath menial chores and deadlines.
Perhaps it is no fluke that Einstein conceived General Relativity while working as a mail clerk. Many men would have liked to have done what Einstein did, but he was the only one with any free time.

Woke at 4:30 this morning to someone's incessant video game.
Trudged down stairs to beat of narrator in my head: "Who the hell is up at 4:30 playing video games."
More of THEM in the lounge. Changed the wash; now my fingers are sticky. Blame THEM.
More questions: "Why is the moon rising at 4:30? Will I get back to sleep tonight? And am I living next to this guy next year?"

Mood: Grouchy, sticky and placid.

The birds are singing now. I'm going to go wash my hands.