Before the song birds turn to crow

the distant siren of a police car jams down Fessenden Avenue, i live in NoPo. you remember, where you need a gun to walk outside—

Conflicting emotions are a part of the natural adult experience. I find that it is normal to feel confident and solid for hours, then to get stuck in traffic and lose control of my zen-like calm. The beauty of this is that I recognize my rapidly shifting emotions as a product of this culture of instant gratification. I am not pleased about being in traffic, therefor my world is not working for me. WTF? why am I even stuck in traffic for an hour?

A recent conversation went like this (and I am ever the person who realizes hours later what I should have said): "What kind of computer do you have?" a person asked me. "An old G3 I bought in 2002," I replied defensively. "Wow! is that as bright as your screen gets?" Evidently, my computer is ancient. "I guess so." I said tapping the brighten key on top of my keyboard. "Well, ours gets a lot brighter. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

That's when I should have said: "Why? because your consumer product is new, better, and more expensive than mine? does that mean that your life is also better and more fulfilling than mine?" But I didn't because I was ashamed that my computer (which works really well) was older than theirs, so I left and got stuck in traffic and wanted to slam my hand in the door because I was so bored and mad about being poor and having to pay my own way through life.

I used to shop exclusively at goodwill because I thought it was cheap, that was until I went to the mall. I hate malls; the florescent lights make my eyes shiver, the pumping of canned music is sickening, and I hate the smell of cinnabun. I had not been to a mall in years, maybe a decade. I have to admit that I was really tempted to buy really cheap T-shirts—two brightly colored shirts for ten dollars seems to be the norm—I wanted the shirts because I wear T-shirts everyday and I am tired of wearing the same four, but I couldn't stop imagining the tiny fingers that make those tiny stitches. Now that I know how cheap the mall is it is going to be hard to go back to the goodwill bins, but now I have convictions.

the meanwhiles (or, why I want to move to Canada and be a Socialist)

when I read backwards, from bottom to top, I see things in your writing that are not really there

Along with ponies and sandwiches, I also like boats. Especially huge boats with sailors on them. Walking around the periphery of the 100th annual Rose Festival I ogled the boats. They are behemoths, huge towering structures that sit heavily on the water. They carry men and equipment around the world. They protect Our oceans from terrorists. I noticed that there were three sets of boats: American; Canadian; Coast Guard. This would have been of little significance had I not also noticed the accompanying military occupation. The American Boats were heavily guarded. They were docked behind a cyclone fence. The walkway was being patrolled by twenty armed men and women. These people had more than the two regular, right and left arms that you and I have, these people had automatic weapons.

Suddenly, ships and sailors were not as attractive to me. What, I wanted to know, was keeping them from snapping and shooting me? boot camp?

I walked away from them, inland down the esplanade and came to the Canadian ships. There was only one man standing guard and since he only had two regular arms like you and I, I felt safe approaching him. He wasn't even a real sailor, he was a submariner who couldn't wait to get back to Canada and back on his submarine. Sergent Oleander was kind enough to answer some of my questions. I asked him why he didn't have a six-foot fence, why he didn't have armed guards, why he was standing alone (looking ever so handsome). It turns out that they were supposed to have all of those things, but it was too much work and so they decided to not allow civilians on their ships. He was friendly, I did not feel threatened speaking to him.

What I learned from my experience is that though I know I live under martial law, I do not like to be reminded of it. In my heart I know that guns are evil and deadly machines. I do not care who is holding them, I do not believe in the power of so few being held over so many. The army that is supposed to protect and serve is a machine that, if commanded, could easily slam bullets through my house. I do not like guns.