Stuff Making Me Angry Right Now

Patriarchy. Young-Earth Creationists. People who can’t drive. Bad writers. Bad spellers. Ignorance. Self-centeredness. Entitlement. Spoiled kids. People who take what they have for granted. People who won’t listen. Rigid ideology. The distribution of wealth. The price of school. The price of housing. The price of gas. The war. The fact that my car runs on gas. Unemployment. Smugness. Shoes. Rape as warfare. Genital mutilation. The fact that nobody understands that circumsicion IS genital mutilation. The death of the women’s movement. The right-hand ring. Propaganda. Advertising. Big Brother. Wisdom teeth. Hormones. Narrow mindedness. Failure of imagination. Guilt. Lack of lightning-quick inspiration. Apathy. Hopelessness. Toxic chemicals in fucking EVERYTHING. Lactose. Casein. The cost of insurance. The total lack of give-a-damn the uninsured can expect. Contempt for folk healing. Contempt for folk wisdom. Modern medicine. Modern childbirth. Drug culture. Addiction. Side effects. Low expectations. Celebrity cults. Money. Money making the world go around. Money being the only thing that walks, talks, or greases the wheels. Money keeping me up at night. The housing market. The boarded up old places in town that I’d love to pour my heart into, but can’t. Smoking. Kids whose parents let them play Halo when they’re under ten. Kids being raised by GTA3, or Saw IV, or ignored in favor of WoW. Homophobia. Creedism. People who build treehouses with a big "No ____ Allowed!" signs. TV. Wanton stupidity. Prescription drug commercials. Doctors. Retail. Relationships. Family. Life.

The fact that all I can do about any of this is blog.

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A Day at the Getty

Travertine limestone like the tomb of a pharaoh, piled in gamboling curves toward the misty LA sky. Unlikely rain pounds the slick rock stairs, unlikely children

Gigi Philomena Lara Luca

yuppies

man in the white belt hippack bruno magli, wife in j. crew blackberry in hand

hippies

tall redhead and fuzzy bespectacled s.o. pentagram and hemp shoes

And us. Products of wonder and desire strolling through images of beauty and regret.

Unlikely the Chinese paper art downstairs from Rembrandt van Rijn. Unthinkable the sudden sunlight, the dappled mud of the gardens.

Opulent and beautiful, free to all who come up this hill. The best of three continents assembled in the name of our benefactor, J. Paul.

I have been there with everyone whom I have really loved.

I have kissed all those that mattered; our echoes are embedded in those rough-hewn stones. I embraced her in the muted shine of blonde hallways. I led him while he sniffled to the view of the sea. I felt his arms around me as we walked today. I remembered them all in a Venetian flask, a bronze sphinx, the objects I deposit memories inside like messages in a bottle for my future self to find.

I have always liked it better in the rain.

Tonight I sleep with the echoes of awe, with the images of Fate and Christ and Desire burning behind my eyes. I curl beside the Odalisque and beneath the Chollo in the park in 1986. I am planning already my next foray to Fragonard, my revisit to illuminated manuscripts.

Have you been?