Well, I have been absolutely despondent over the death of Hunter S. Thompson. Jay and I are supposed to be moving into a new appartment this weekend (same building, accross the hall, a two bedroom, wicked deal) but I can't seem to get going because I just keep thinking about Hunter S. My first thought on hearing the news was, "but he was the one who was supposed to beat the odds!" I mean, he already had, making it to the age of 67. After all, weirdos tend to gauge themselves on a much shorter life span that the general population of first world countries. He was a success just by making it to 50. Why do my heros always end up killing themselves? It does not bode well for me...After the initial shock wore off, I had to admit that I wasn't totally surprised. He was certainly following in one of his heros' footsteps; his hero being Hemingway. I won't pretend to know why he did it, but I can make a few educated guesses. I mean I wouldn't have counted him among my spiritual friends if I couldn't relate. This life, especially under the current climate of conservativism and right-wing faith-based dictatorship, is hostile to us strange, skewed, freedom-at-any-cost types. These are dark times for children of any age, while the "adults" of the world try to discipline us by starvation of communal affection and by injecting our minds with an unhealthy dose of fear and shame. I mean I don't mind having a healthy fear of 'God', it's a fear of ignorant majorities with more power than balls, and with more interest in imposing fear of God than adhering to it, that worries me. The two seem to be easily confused these days. The merry-go-round of world politics has once again brought us back to pointing fingers at people to explain away evil, instead of placing the blame where it belongs; on events and circumstances beyond our control that can only be combatted with faith, love and understanding. To be 67, and to see that your lifetime of idealistic efforts seem to have been for naught, because you've ended up in the same sad, dull, mean, violent, uncomfortable place where you began, would be enough to kill anyone, at least in spirit. Still, I hate to think that the "man" finally got him down after so many years of putting up the good fight-and winning. Jay and I have decided that we prefer to believe he may have been diagnosed with some terminal illness (he was a heavy smoker, among other things, after all) and decided to end it before the pains and burdens set in for him and his family. In any case, February 20 was a sad, sad day. The butterfly effect of this tradegy came from very big wings. He's left a huge crater in humanity's pool of spirit.

JUNG ON THOMPSON

She wasn't into ambiguous differences

So many layers of otherness...

She wondered,
should you still call someone an introvert
when most of the time she spends alone
she does not spend on self-reflection?
Aside from a persistent pain
in her shoulders
she does not feel
any older.
I dream of being Russian
and Bohemian
but the doubts that once fueled me
now crowd me
in my dungeon.