how can they call it a desert when it rains every fucking day? yeah i know one has nothing to do with the other, but there it is.
i finsihed the book POPULATION: 485 BY MIKE PERRY, a bunch of essays about life in a small town as a volunteer fire guy. its my 29th book this year. i will again fail to reach my goal of reading 52 books a year, one a week. eh, i've failed bigger and more important things.
the book was good, it made me look at my own wierd existence. the guy is comfortable and happy, fitting in in his home town, a local, a thread in the fabric of the town's history, interwoven and integrated with the other lives and souls. living a transient life these many years i have no "home" to go to, i am not part of anywhere or anything. if i decide to settle and take root here, i guess i could integrate myself in the community, but all these years of breezing into a town, staying for a short while, then leaving, like the hulk, only without the green muscles, has left me a bit insulated from others. i'm an alien on my own damn planet, a foriegner in my own damn country, an interloper in my own damn town.
it's interesting how our lives come in contact and we click, and then move on, like billiard balls. fire needs three ingrediants to live; heat, oxygen, and fuel. without those, you can get a spark, a breif sputter, but nothing more. so how many, and what are the ingrediants needed to sustain the attraction/fire/whatever between humans?
the other thing the book made me think about, which isn't a new thougth for me, is how temporary it all is, how thin the strings on our marionette lives are and how easy and quickly those strings break and leave us a crumpled heap on the floor, disposable. here i sit, thinking about what i have to do tomorrow, and i have no guarantee i will need to worry about it.
there are two tattoo parlors in town. i have some ideas. i think it will be time to once again go under the gun....
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