T for Tom

This World

Posted in poem by johnsontoms on June 28, 2018

A world of neglect and the things we do to each other

“Just help us out”

Never enough to gain favor

Only gains to our savior

As everything trickles up.


Like a dam held up

We don’t ask for much

But asking, it seems,

Is uncouth.


Just a meal or fair rent

Is a chance to survive

To say nothing of what happens

When we nearly die.


But that I think is the point

That while children are crying

   And homeless are starving

   And mothers are working

   And soldiers are dying

   And workers don’t sleep

   And families cant eat

We shouldn’t feel good about living.


Negotiations in the Desert

Posted in Prose, Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on February 21, 2018

The sound came in as if from outer space, bumbling easily along on waves of activity like gentle beams from outside the known, a message of peace from the unknown. It sounds like night descending without relent, no more tomorrows. Just a long bleeding line of darkness.

That was the feeling out there in the desert. The pattern is familiar and the refrain is soothing, but it looms with regret, or even somber acceptance. It is an acquiescence – “no more false promises.” Somehow, in spite of the better part of this automatic life promising greater if not just simply other things than anything like this, we wake up in the desert. And then we wake up in the desert again the next day and the day after that and on again that way until someone of importance tells you to board a plane and go home. This could be metaphorical, but for me it was literal. And the notion of having a place to be is now senseless.

Home becomes the unknown and then rightfully dissolves. Familiarity, comfort, being in a place of belonging, these sensations are after all this time now relegated to the sound of kicking larger stones across smaller stones that line the sand floor during the walk to the dining hall, sitting on one concrete pillar for a cigarette while staring at the concrete pillars directly across that provide a blast shelter to every building and road and become ubiquitous, or rising early in the dark to see the one spectacular and humane thing available that is the cold, cold rising desert sun striped in purple and red across the long, flat orange and yellow horizon only to curse the same sun mere hours later as it melts a pair of boots to the cement and pasting the wind-blown sand onto skin and into hair.


The sunset from the back of the USS Ponce, November 2012.

These are things we’ve never done and certainly were never meant to do. We run timed miles on uphill roads along chain link fences hundreds of miles from the nearest Quonset hut. We drag boxes of water bottles over a hundred yards into our tents and stack them five feet high so the single stream of chilled air from the vent can cool the bottles to a drinkable temperature. We each take up a hobby or two that will fill our time and do it over and over again every day. We have all the time in the world and somehow we didn’t do all the things we wanted. I wrote a book, mostly. Two people have read it in its entirety.

I’m writing it again, differently this time, though the thing remains the same. Because the memories can’t be swatted away enough. “Heartache one more chance for you, All those things in the days before.” I sat there alone, at a desk, in the tents, in the tents that were our offices, in concrete corners of concrete towers alone with the wind-whipped trash to just get a minute to myself, or on Sundays in a half-crooked lawn chair tucked away in a dried-up wash berm behind the mobile shower unit that didn’t work any longer, the berm high enough to block the light from the flood lamp over my shoulder and the sky just dark enough to see the stars through the sand in the nighttime sky. Those moments were simulacrums, facsimiles, representations of things I knew in forms I’d never known before and never experience again. It was a series of negotiations.

All the while using these fake plastic moments, we’re left with the memories of things we can’t any longer see. Foods, persons, clothes, weather patterns, foliage, sleep. These things are replaced with choruses of indignation, collective shouts, grunts to the familiar. We churn. And somehow amidst the time lost, an actual year of life and choice that cannot be taken back, we replace our acknowledged home with this open air prison. Coming back from the unknown, we long for more. There is never more comfort than in a life on the edge. And soon, memories replace memories. “Memory leaving what you knew, former times how they follow you.” We now think only of the desert, we think only of outer space. In outer space, the worries of man whither to dust, wash to energy. It is a place of wonder.

How to get back? The strange machinations that made it possible are treacherous, impossible, and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. It could be that a desire to their effect is evidence of my crippling. I too have become unhinged. But I think of these modes, these methods, these negotiations, and I think of a time when I was at my highest frequency. I was alert, I was kinetic. I was interstellar. And whenever “Streetlights fall on hollow night, I see up ahead what could be.” I see the dark and I am not afraid. I see the dark and I do not wait for the light.

I try to picture myself in the desert and think of the work. The good, terrible, painful work of getting it all down, putting it to paper as much as putting it to rest. A true literary history must be told, of all that exists out in the open. There are no more stories, only the things that have been done. There are no more fantasies, only the horrors of man.

I’ll let you know when I get mine down again. It’s not about the desert, though, but a time on the way there. And aren’t we all on our way on to the desert.


I was there once, in the desert.

This Proximity to the Water’s Edge

Posted in Europe, Prose, Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on October 6, 2017

She had boarded the ship that would take her back across the water to her home, a ferry, but really a large cruiser that was used to transport people throughout the Scandinavian and Baltics via sea. I had made that sea-bound trip myself before from Estonia but this time flew into Helsinki and waited there for her arrival. Three days later she was leaving now and I had six hours or so until my return flight. I wanted nothing better than to walk around in the sun, or what little bit of it could slice through the Easter clouds of the typically grey Finnish morning.

My second time in Helsinki, this, and mostly all of both spent near the harbor, what is the heart of the city. That famous cathedral you know in the photos just a 100-meters or so off the central harbor not far from where she boarded, the steps to the chapel hall numbering some 50 or 60, enough that from its doors it overlooks the buildings at its feet and off into the water in the distance and further into eternity.


I was so vibrant then.

Helsinki feels that way, the buildings rising to uniform height, all the even lines vertically and horizontally, so tight that merely meandering the human paths before you can feel as if stumbling through the Coliseum of the heavens.

But I didn’t go back to the chapel this morning, not for a third time just a couple days prior, but huddled close to the water line. It was early April and the sun comes up around 4am, had been up about five hours now as I walked the sidewalks along the water. The grass to my right separated me from the red brick apartment homes that overlooked it all. And from this proximity to the water’s edge, you can see, even in springtime, the frozen layer of ice that covers the sea for as far as the eye can stretch.

It’s been broken up now but not thawed. It moves slowly with the push of the ships coming to and from. It never laps recklessly like surf but merely slushes back and forth, hardly a line opening up to show the dark blue infinite. Just ice of various depths, the earth in cycle.


…   …   …   …   …   …   …   …   …   …   …

I sat there for the entirety of my hours and wondered how something could be seen as less than cosmic. Equally of magic and beyond our machinations but yet so rote and earthen. Here long before us, here long after.

Like the frozen sea so too like the fiddles here, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over, slowly, again, ceaseless unending, evangelical and worthy of praise.


We Have Never Defeated Nazism

Posted in america, Prose by johnsontoms on August 14, 2017

Fewer and fewer times do I have things to say. The myriad issues that plague us, approachingly, personally, more and more each day, the more I am becoming numb. The struggle for positivity is at large among the world favoring those on the wrong side, and each event is merely evidence in loss. Charlottesville is no different. I am not surprised that such an event even had ideation and was organized in principle; I am not surprised that many like-minded individuals attended in support, among which many wore and flew Nazi flags, symbols, regalia, and dress; I am not surprised that those who hold (rightfully) values in opposition chose to counter-protest; I am not surprised that these clashes ended in death; I am not surprised that the President is unmoved. What I am surprised about, by many on both sides (to use a phrase), is the end-gaming that Nazism, as an idea and object, is both at once to blame for the outcome and at the same time defeatable. It’s presence at the event and in the year 2017 (the year two thousand and fucking seventeen) should make obvious that Nazism, as an avatar of hate, simple hate, is both indefatigable and undefeated. We did not defeat Nazism. We did not defeat Nazism because it is just one face of fear, hate, and oppression. But fear, hate, and oppression come in many forms, and like Nazism, they persist. We may have defeated an evil in 1945, but we did not defeat evil incarnate. Nazism as a form of government then was defeated, but Nazism as an ideology for hate was not defeated. Do not think that defeating it now will solve the crisis at hand.

These conclusions are simple enough:

If it is that Nazism is here again, it must be, then, that it never went away.

If it is that Nazism never away, it must be, then, that we never defeated it.

If it is that Nazism was never defeated, it must be, then, that it is spreading.

If it is that Nazism is spreading, it must be, then, that is being bred.

If it is that Nazism is being bred, it must be, then, that the system allows it.

If it is that the system allows Nazism, it must be, then, that the system must be changed.

This is the conclusion that will propel us in the right steps forward. This is logic, by definition. Logic determines that if we cannot suffer more tragedy, we must trace the events of causality to their root. Heather Heyer did not die because she was hit by a car (figuratively, at least), nor did she die because of the Nazis in the crowd. She did not die because the President of the United States encourages and endorses white supremacy, and she did not die because police did not intervene soon enough. The police did not intervene because of the never-imperiled distinctions of free speech that so protect our civilization that we forego simple enforcements that deny hate speech; the event occurred because declaring it an obvious intrusion on minority rights would be to declare it an intrusion on free speech; that do declare these protests an act of free speech must then equally protect those who choose to speak in opposition; that to protect both groups means to allow them, if not rightly encourage them, to appear face to face in physical antagonism without a determinant end.

Rather than step in and declare the obvious facts that this event would lead to death, the system must masquerade in protection of our constitutional rights until someone loses theirs.

This same masquerade is responsible for allowing Nazi flags in the march. This same system is responsible for allowing Nazi symbols online and in books and on clothing and in the streets and in the homes. This same system that will not impugn a person’s defined right to free speech is responsible for letting any person freely speak hate. This same system, the one that lets people freely march in Nazism in 2017, is the same system that declared victory over Nazism in 1945.

You’ve seen the pictures by now: improvised war slogans and updated propaganda to show Uncle Sam towering over the Nazi flag, ready to fight again. Do not be fooled that such a limited grasp of the issue will solve the problems. These are a few of the problems:

Black people cannot go safely in public.

Millions of Americans go bankrupt each year due to medical expenses.

Non-cisgender persons are shamed, murdered, and denied medical treatment.

Government officials are systematically redacting environmental protections.

The world’s wealth continues to accumulate at the top.

Aid is not distributed evenly around the world to states in need.

The education system is being dismantled to encourage creationism and science denial.

These problems are not the direct result of nor the cause of Nazism. They are one and the same in effect a result of hate, in its many forms. Distracting us to think that Nazism can now be the enemy again is to look away from the many problems that defeating Nazism will not solve. Distracting us to think that we can “defeat Nazism again” is to endorse the same government that “defeated” it before. Should you then endorse that system of government if it never defeated Nazism? Should you then endorse that system of government if it breeds Nazism?

Do not join in the chorus: Nazism is not your only enemy. Hate is the enemy. Government officials who prescribe hate are the enemy. The voters who empower those officials are the enemy. Be they Nazis, whites, klansmen, or your grandfather who’s just a believer in small government and fiscal responsibility. If it was your own father who prioritized lowering taxes over social equality, he is the enemy. He is also a fool. Do not be a fool also.

If you want to change these things, you must change the system that allowed them to exist. If you want to rid the world of these crimes, you must snuff out the protections that empowered them. If you want the voice of love and equality to be stronger than the voices of hate and persecution, you must form a system that educates, encourages, and promotes a tolerance for love alone with a violent intolerance for its opposite.

If you want a system that can defeat Nazism, the American system isn’t for you.


An Open Letter

Posted in Prose, Trying To Get Published, Uncategorized by johnsontoms on July 26, 2017

An open letter to my parents, their friends, and strangers like them:

Did all your dreams come true? Do you have everything you’ve ever imagined and more? I imagine you must be sitting there in a broad, window-lined living room, a small dog at the foot of your lounging sofa, the room dimly lit with ornate lamps, the spaces filling with the sound of Sinatra and a crackling fire while you or your spouse finish cooking in the kitchen where all the countertops are marble and the stove is electric. Somewhere in the garage are two SUVs and a stable of camping equipment for the many vacations you’ve taken and the many more you plan, miles of American highway that never stand in your way from the time away with your family. You return, you always do, because of the obligations of work and family, and spend the days in between your weeks alternately going to work and walking into church. The pension is growing, and there’s no need to worry when the boy and girl both need football equipment for their summer teams (soccer for the little girl, of course) because you’re on track for your third promotion and should have yourself set up quite nicely by the age of 55. No, nothing else could be needed.

Is that why you won’t let us have anything? Are you sitting there in that living room right now thinking, no, there’s nothing else the world could have or do, and so I will do everything I can to keep it just this way? Because I can’t think of any other reason to support the ideas, policies, and moral politics of a corrupt body that willfully, purposefully, and cruelly works to malign, injure, and put to death millions of people swiftly and at once.

If you are sitting there comfortably on your way to a rich retirement (and I don’t think you are), how did you get there? I believe you had opportunities, plural, rich opportunities in a world with less competition – when an entire race (or many entire races), gender, and age group are not allowed to gain employment in the only few sectors that pay salaries commensurate with a single family’s needs, do you feel that you fairly competed for the things you enjoy? Do you think that you got to that home, the two vehicles, and the recreational time by being treated equitably? If you think it’s been fair, you should look around. It hasn’t been, has never been fair, but the world is not ready to quit changing.

I have a strange fear, a real deep fear, that I’m wrong – you aren’t sitting there with a book in hand, staring out the windows at the light snowfall, dreaming of your upcoming beach vacation. You’re standing over the work desk, driving a truck cross-country, tossing boxes into the delivery truck, loading fish from the dock, or chopping trees. When you’re done you head home to a two-bedroom house with a five-member family, a kitchen without a stove, and only one car to drive the family. Worse, no car. Your marriage is tense because the bills are paid paycheck-to-paycheck while the children beg for more. Worse, no bills are paid and the children are still begging. And to top it all off, you remember sitting there in your parents living room – that same one I imagined for you – where the Christmas tree is lit, the presents stocked underneath, and you wonder why you don’t have the same. And worse, in your wondering, you believe the best way to get it is by getting back to that world where it seemed so possible – the world where everyone else (those weirdos with their dark skin and gay lovers and young punk hair) are stifled, put back in their place.

I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish you had the open-ceiling sunroom, afternoon sky gently illuminating your cocktail hour. I wish you had the trim garden outside with the veranda where you entertain your guests, telling jokes about the 18th hole. I wish you had the dreams of your fathers fulfilled just as they imagined for you. Because it would mean that these things were possible, in spite of the immigrants and the homosexuals and the millennials.

Because the immigrants and the homosexuals and the millennials aren’t going anywhere. This is their world to inherit. You and your friends have held on longer than usual, the benefit of growing medical science. There is reason for grievance – at the age now where you’ve either secured the healthcare you need through riches, or by simply living long enough to own state-funded Medicare, your choices and decisions and feelings about others (everyone else) is that they don’t deserve it. It might be even worse. Maybe you know they deserve it, too, but because you can’t think of a way for both of you to have it, you’ll selfishly deny them to keep your own. I can think of a few ways, but me and my generation, haven’t been allowed the clout of decision. I just wish it didn’t have to be that way.

I wish I didn’t grow up knowing I’d never have full garage or a mantel trimmed with Christmas stockings. I wish I didn’t grow up making plans to own very little, not even home to call my home, for fear of debt and the subsequent inability to move about. I wish I didn’t have to show up at work worried that my hair might make me seem out of place, or that I’ll never get promoted in time to cover my expenses because the supervisory jobs are held by boomers who never got their retirement. I wish I didn’t have to consciously, deliberately deny myself children because this world can’t sustain any more, or worse, the consequences of war and climate change would keep them from even living a full life. I wish I could sit there, like you wanted for yourself, without a worry in the world.

I am thankful, however, that you raised us in this world. Without the heartache, the unending the debt, the racism, the age discrimination, the wars on your behalf, the political manipulation of women’s bodies, the general diaspora of hate and filth, I wouldn’t be here today wishing you well. I might be just like you, in that living room telling the world to stop growing, stop changing, I like it just the way it was. I am thankful that I am eyes-open to the starving, the slaving, the shaming, the stealing, the warring, and the killing. Because I don’t want that for anyone. And that’s more important than what I do want for even just myself.

There isn’t enough for everyone to have large homes and multiple gas-fueled cars. There isn’t enough for everyone to have retirement funds or closets full of clothes or food for baby or books on the shelf or luxuries upon luxuries. There’s barely enough water on the planet as it is. We’re all just trying to survive. Those of us who suffer are catching on that the good life is an oasis, if not a myth outright. Don’t be so ignorant as to suffer and not yet be aware.

Because whether you have it now or never got it and still dream of having it before you die, I’m tired of you taking it from me before I ever even get it.



It’s 2017

Posted in poem, Prose, Uncategorized by johnsontoms on July 26, 2017

I was raised in a world that believed in better.

Fresh out of war,

hope and virtues lapping up like waves on the shore,

Bright-eyed, starry youthful dreams because we landed on the moon

Before I was even born.


Right back to war and now

It’s 2017 and people are starving.

It’s 2017 and men carry guns in the street.

It’s 2017 and black people die everyday.

It’s 2017 and seeing a doctor, wanting to live, costs money, at all.

It’s 2017 and people walk through the streets,

Into shopping malls,

Into church,

Listening to Hells Bells,

Talking of Reagan,

Afraid of changing,

But changing can’t come soon enough.

Get with it.

It’s fucking 2017 and y’all out there shooting, hating, killing,

Watching people die.

How far we’ve come to have gotten nowhere at all.

It’s 2017 and the shores are rising from the ice that’s melting


One day if we’re lucky

The waves will wash over the shore and cleanse the earth of all and sundry.

On Good and Evil

Posted in Prose by johnsontoms on January 26, 2017

We must remember the equal law of the universe. Perspective allows but timeliness denies the ability to see that things are as good as they are bad in equal measure. So for whichever you feel the direction the wind, hold also that it grows and shrinks for the opposite as well.

It would be easy to look around and say that things are as awful as they have ever been in a long time. But even 158 years ago, Dickens famously recognized that “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The temerity of humanity hasn’t changed much. That in our ability to see further, imagine greater, and believe brighter, there lurks too stronger fears, more powerful hate, and terminal disbelief. The limits of each end are only defined by the reach of your knowledge.

For these fears to exist now, that we headed in a doomed direction, must then be because of the greater acknowledgement that we can do so much better. Just a few hundred years ago, there was not a real testament to the power of peace, but the wellspring of harmony spreads in the modern times only as the violence of war continues to reach every corner of the earth. They are as married as tide and the moon.

The fears that bring this about are of course very real. There are genuine concerns that the climate may buckle before our children grow old. There are real people dying everyday in a war that grows only in extremities and sees no end. There are people everyday dying in poverty, left without the programs in place needed to ensure their survival in an overcrowded world. There is an entire gender that has very little control over its reproductive system. But to recognize these is to know also that a future can exist without these issues. Equal parts good, bad.

I believe that this swing of things is the direct result of the positive steps taken in the recent past. While not fully developed in practice or politics, there is an increasing public awareness to the value of positivity, charity, and peace. Negative rhetoric only increases to combat an equal measure of positive rhetoric. And out from this war of words, ideas, facts, and beliefs, we have seen only one side “win,” insofar as allow it to be a victory. And it may even be a giant, leaping step in that direction. But not long ago there was a victory for good. For all these reasons, it may be an even bigger leap than the one we’re taking now. And then it’s the good’s turn.

For this we have to keep hope alive. It is unbound by the rules of good and evil, and exists only within your heart. Hope. The world continues to conspire to make evil of art, reason, fact, and existence, but we are still alive. There is no greater reason to rejoice than to celebrate that the streets are still full of good people. And a great deal of them are taking to the streets in increasing numbers.

So there in your home, keep hope alive. There in your workplace, keep hope alive. In your churches, your synagogues, your gardens and bowling alleys, keep hope alive. Everywhere we look go and gather, there are people in the great communion of the soul, conversing, cheering, arguing, and living in the splendor the human condition. It is by its definition an awful condition to be stricken with in our existence, but that only means we can achieve an equal amount of good if we recognize and overcome its terminal end. We are not meant to be here, and so the only choice is to make good of it.

Because without hope, we will meet only our end. We’ll meet our end anyway, but let’s make the choice to do it in peace. Here’s to optimism in the new world.

The Gap in Empathy, or Social Progress as Self-Evident

Posted in Prose by johnsontoms on November 4, 2016

There was a young man I spent some hours talking to the other night. About my age, white, longer hair than I (which means long hair), thin, frameless glass, and whether part of his Halloween costume or not, a pair of suspenders exposed over a white shirt. He could be and was mistaken for David Foster Wallace. But you know who David Foster Wallace is because he did something exceptional, at least once. I didn’t know this young man across from me at first, but I knew him later as we spoke. He exists in various forms throughout this country and throughout this world.

My introduction to this man came as he knew a childhood friend of my own. They were in a probationary summer school program, by which they attained full admission into the state’s flagship public university only after attending the summer session immediately following high school graduation. There are a few other programs that exist to admit students into the university, and this one is sandwiched in between the two most prominent – the state of Texas’s Top 10% Rule, and the Continued Admittance Program. The first, the top 10% rule, requires little introduction – if a student attends any public school in the state of Texas and graduates in their class’s top 10% population, that student receives automatic admission into any public university in the state; the purpose of this rule is to increase minority populations in the state’s largest educational institutions, and it has been proven a resounding, although incremental, success, one worthy of continued defense in our nation’s courts of public law. The second admission program I mentioned, the Continued Admittance Program, is available to those students who are just outside of their high school’s top 10% population and would have normally received admission the public university of their choosing, but were not selected due to a limited amount of space; these students can choose to enroll in any branch of the university of their choosing in a separate location (as in, the University of Texas at Dallas) and after a year of passing grades can automatically transfer to another public education institution within the same university’s system (as In, The University of Texas at Austin); this program achieves a secondary goal of allowing these students, who through subjective opinion prove their value as “stewards of education” by passing their classes and filling any available slots that become available through students transfers, dropouts, etc.

The program that admitted my friend and this young man is the little-known, thinly-sliced invention that fits somewhere in between, by someone’s imagination. It can only be imagination, as though the metrics I just laid out before were somehow still not quite fair enough. Even so, there’s a small number of high school graduates who are on the outside of their class’s top 10% population but are deemed worthy of not having to wait – and by enrolling immediately, have the opportunity to attend their public university of choice via this commitment. It’s a small number of students, and their impact on the racial and ethnic makeup of the university is marginal, though relevant.

This is important because I had to explain this to my wife the other night as this young man sat across from us. He took exception to this definition by writ of its simplicity:

“Hey, it’s not that simple,” he said. “I tried really hard in high school, and I got in the way I got in.”

There was never any implication that he didn’t work hard.

“That’s fine man, and you probably wen to a difficult high school,” I said.

“Lake Travis, and it was.”

Lake Travis High School is located a few miles west of Austin and is predominantly white, if not entirely. The district exists as a confluence of rich, elite whites leaving the suburban confines of inner Austin and it now forms one of the largest tax districts in the county.

And that’s the whole point. His high school was propped up by numerous and infinitely pass tax bonds to improve facilities, salaries, and educational tools by the white resident population for the white child population. It is a highly-sought after employment location by educators, and its education reflects this increased opportunity.

“Right, my man,” I said. “And that’s why the Top 10% rule exists. There are students throughout this state that haven’t gotten the education that you already received through your circumstance of birth, and they’re given the opportunity for that education at a higher level.”

This didn’t go over well, and the remaining hours were spent toggling over his personal merit versus those whose faced many more and drastically more harrowing difficulties – this young man across from me did not struggle through poverty, starvation, and lack of transportation to get through a sub-par education system, at any merit. So much so, that for this young man, not graduating was never a possibility, as it has been and remains for a large population of ethnic minorities throughout the state (and across the country).

But I’m not here to talk about his education, at least not directly. What worries me, and what I see more and more of each day, is that this young man did in fact go on to graduate from the state’s flagship university to become an alumnus of one of the most intellectually distinguished institutions in the nation, only to sit across from me now approaching the age of 30, unmarried, working in a low-salary if not hourly wage position with little to no hope for immediate future promotion. Like so many of the people I know and continue to meet today in the city of Austin, he is visiting his girlfriend who also lives in a home with three or more roommates, stuck in a low-rent situation without hope for better by writ of circumstances they cannot control. And yet he, like the many others like him, sat there to tell me things were acceptable and improving. That he, somehow, was not a member of this nation’s increasing population of people in poverty. And I don’t know how.

These are the definitions of poverty: inability to find living wages, unable to hope for promotion, unable to seek immediate desires of family because of economic placement. These people are no longer just ethnic minorities, but increasingly consume the majority of those young elite whites who enter a world filled with older elite whites who will not make room for the youth of this nation. How is it possible that these whites who grew up in a situation where family, income, are security are normal tell me now that nothing has grown worse?

It can only be that the prejudices they were given, likely from their parents and their education, are telling them now that no matter the circumstances, their life will be okay simply because they are not black.

Looking around the party I was surrounded by 50-plus whites exactly like this man. I don’t need to speak to them individually to know that they have all come here because they have met in their jobs and in their social circles as a reflection of their status. But they remain impossibly white. Among the many other people I know like them, and like myself, are some in much worse positions: living hundreds of miles away from any family, unable to locate individual living situations and taking on roommates without furniture, without transportation or personally owned vehicles, in low-wage jobs and piles of debt, or in other words, living in poverty. Not abstract poverty, but actual, defined, real poverty. And repeatedly they say “it’s not that bad,” and go about their lives waiting for the change to come. This mindset is only possible through a framework of opinion that establishes that at one point poverty was never their possibility and therefore remains impossible for their life. Denying their circumstances in finances, health, and family, this conclusion can only be reached at the assumption of race. These conditions are taught to whites as a condition of race. Whether this young man realized it or not, he was taught as a child in Lake Travis that he will never be poor. And if the conditions for poverty exist only for minorities, then perception tells white populations that they will never possess these conditions themselves. They are not poor because they will never be poor. And that was granted to them by their race.

The logical question or conclusion to be drawn is that the status quo of race economics has never been challenged. A simple string argument delineates that a mere 1-percent or fewer of the population have the accumulated wealth to live with the singular possibility that poverty will never be their reality. For the status quo to continue unabated or challenged in any way means, therefore must mean, that a majority of the remaining plurality also believe that poverty will never be their reality, in spite of real and conflicting data. Otherwise, the system would have been changed, a revolution would have come about. It is only by the joined belief of the majority that change does not become real.

Often I have said before that these things must be fought. A simple example of this effort reaches back to the Occupy Wall Street movement, but simply mathematics tells me that a few thousand people marching around the country do not a majority make. In fact those brave few were mocked almost universally for their efforts. And if they failed to achieve real political change, they did achieve personal growth through a recognition that certain influences on our life are not within our control on a daily basis. A vast system of eternal influences exist to limit our ability for social movement, and the majority through ablution allow it to continue. The white majority of this country has never empathized about what the ethnic minorities of this nation face every day, and by subconscious inversion project on their populations the perception that existences do not meet in any way. That poverty for black and Latino populations is a poverty not achieved by white members of society.

This empathy gap denies the invention of progress. It denies minority populations the ability to find affordable housing in neighborhoods with a better education. It denies minority populations the ability to locate living wages, and precipitates that their children also will live in these conditions. Without the empathy to see what has been done to them, the real act of deducing that their struggles are circumstantial to their birth and not an effect of their own action, we cannot also see that our own circumstances might truly be the same. Because it is impossible to live in a world where things as they were remain in power.

The mere reality of time as dimension denies the possibility of static existence. Things must get either better or worse because of the contrary fact that they cannot remain the same. You will die. Death is certain. And if the value of death is worse than the value of life, any condition that pushes a person more rapidly toward death is a bad condition. That these conditions once actualized increase the possibility for other more numerous conditions implies that things are never the same, are never equal, are never static. Progress then, a merit of improved quality and improved quality of life, is the only assumptive method by which things do not get worse. And without progress because of the existing prejudices we possess, we are doomed only to perish, quickly, violently, at war with ourselves and nature.

The solution is simple. Realize that our conditions are poor, undesirable, and actively damaging. Realize that these conditions exist tenfold and hundredfold in the lives of those not lucky enough to have been born white in a Western nation state. And work to erase any continued possibility for the status quo.

Things are bad and getting worse. All you have to do is look around you and realize that it is happening to you also, and act accordingly. Your conditions will improve only when conditions improve for everyone.

Thoughts, Pt. II

Posted in Prose by johnsontoms on August 13, 2016


I’m tired of being immensely talented but living without action.


More than half of my life has now been spent with America at war. This is something that exists in photos and textbooks, can’t be touched, and yet feels real. There are children who, at 15 years old next month, will have never lived in an America not at war. It’s been five years since we killed Osama Bin Laden, since we got our man, and nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes. Faced with the possibility of taking a few steps backward to navigate a new way and new path to forge ahead, it’s easier to incrementalize a few inches on the same warring path, pick different battles, distraction, turn on the television, Cheetos.


If in a serious sense we ponder at the how or why Donald Trump has made it to this point in the electoral process, we’ve failed to consider the right facts. Day after day and week after week as the nominee of a major political party continues to eschew racism, bias, xenophobia, and fear, no one has asked yet what actually can or should be done. Instead, the continued refrain is one of incredulity. But the lack of solution is not for a lack of trying. There have surely been calls to change the nomination system, to void the party lines. But that’s not thinking. That’s working within the system, and we must decide the entire system is a failure.

Donald Trump is not a product of a New York life, or a rich man’s trust fund, or a life spent outside of the trenches. He is a product of America, if not the product of America. And the longer it takes until we decide to close shop, call it a day on democracy, and find something else, this will not be the last time we are shaking our heads at a failed election. We are all to blame for this.


When everyone has a voice, the smartest no longer shine through. It’s a numbers game, always going to lose.


As bad as I like to think it gets, man, it can be so much worse. There are women in Venezuela undergoing sterilization so that they don’t get pregnant and bring a child into their world. And I sit here unwilling to march on Washington. I’d like to, but it doesn’t feel like a single man or woman can make a difference in a world with so many engines moving on the same line.


Was at a concert the other night and always have a thought every time, that at some point somewhere in time there were, and maybe still are, musicians who try to use their music to impact the public, protest, what have you. I wonder why it doesn’t still happen, but then I know it clearly has never worked.

It takes a lot of money also, to not only make the music but broadcast it in a way that people will hear, especially if you want people who don’t look for music to hear it. Stages, microphones, amplifiers, cameras, water and food, broadcast television, news release. The musicians don’t have that money, not in this world. Been abused too long at the hands of those in control.

It takes sponsors to put on something that big. And sponsors have corporate interest. Never will be a big enough protest until someone takes a risk, musician or not.


Still growing out my hair.


One of the things I always noticed when I came back here, to this place, and maybe I’ve talked about it before, was how there are a lot of cars on the road in need of repairs, a lot more than ever seemed to be before. People just don’t have the money to fix things anymore, and keep on livin’ with less. I wonder how deep it’ll go before something happens.


Just heard a baseball announcer say “I had asked you a question but the national anthem began, and you can’t upstage America.”

Yes you can.

I Will Not Miss These Things

Posted in Prose by johnsontoms on April 29, 2015

As you reach the halfway point on the North Franklin Mountain trail, heading southward during an ascent from Mundy’s Gap, just as the ridgeline trail meets the summit trail, there looking westward you can see the canyon below and the city further beyond. At your feet there, and for miles in each direction along the eastward side of the summit, is an unexplained number of unexploded ordnances from the years spent blasting rockets, artillery, rifles, missiles, and canons of all kind into the mountain for testing, or something. You can take the trail up to the summit from this point, but there’s only a single trail leading down, a single stretch cleared out of the side of the mountain where otherwise you might find a Vietnam-era mine waiting for you. I know this because there was a day, the second time I tried to summit the north peak, that I reached this area, my furthest point yet. I hadn’t really tried to summit the peak before and ran out of daylight each time, but I’ve never gone past this spot. There’s a giant sign in the ground and a long chain of fence keeping the hikers from descending improperly, lest they blow the fuck up. I didn’t get higher because I spent maybe thirty to forty minutes staring at it and thinking, what have we done?, or, what hasn’t been done to clean it up? and why not? I lost daylight thinking about it, and I haven’t gone back to try the summit again. I will not miss the opportunity for the loss.

I will not miss the mountains, in their empty and uninspiring way, for being so corrupted by the city below. When my wife came back for the second time we had a discussion about this place makes it so difficult to breathe. I’ve been confused for some time why a place that is situated in a river pass between two small mountain ranges could be so filled with grief, and in some time I knew the answer – from any perspective near or far, I couldn’t see the mountains for the city below. The first time I drove into the city, the first time I came down from the Sierra Blanca ridge, that day when the sun bore through the clouds and lit the valley below and the sight line stretched for a hundred miles and right there in the middle you could pick out an entire thunderstorm that looked merely cartoonish and singular in the space around it, the rain banding downward like a showerhead and in an hour I’d be covered with rain. Driving in that day I was bewildered at the sight of the mountains. But never since. I will not miss the city below.

The city is among the dirtiest I have known, and not from the sand and rocks and dirt that soak its atmosphere. It is littered with trash. From my porch I can look up the short hill behind the parking lot and see ten twenty thirty bushes with something stuck in it; plastic bags, bottles, potato chip sacks, papers of all kinds. What the wind doesn’t blow out, the rest is thrown on the ground by the people of the city. I will not miss the people of this city.

Driving home there’s a new billboard posted. It’s in the spot where just after the downtown there are two highways running parallel. Primarily the interstate, but just southward and below is Highway 85. Highway 85 is, for about three miles, the literal border. If you drive southward on Highway 85 from Sunland Park, the concrete shoulder of the highway is the fence. Well, it is the fence insofar as it has on top of the concrete walls a 10-foot high, 3-foot thick copper and brass fence that even a bird couldn’t pass through. This fence starts here and follows the city for the populace’s entirety, and continues on each direction. In certain high-traffic areas there are two such fences running parallel, a distance of about 100-feet between them. They are lit on all sides by a series of halogen lights, each light pole only 10-feet apart, running for 24-hours a day for maximum visibility in all conditions. The border patrol places a manned Chevrolet Tahoe every quarter-mile in these high-traffic areas. They rove the space between, a quarter-mile at a time. And, in what I guess is the most trafficked area, the fence even has inverted lips along the top, sometimes barbed wire. I will not miss the fence.

The effect of the fence, the effect of the people who transition daily from side to side, the final causality of El Paso is that it is stripped of any culture. The displaced people who come here in the military refer to this as Mexico, because it is clearly not Texas. But tellingly, it is neither Mexican. Those who got across at a time when there wasn’t a fence and those who come here daily for work or recreation, they come here to get away from Mexico. And they’ve brought none of it with them. They’ve replaced whatever culture they had (and wanted to leave behind) with what is the assumed American identity – where we lack for taco trucks, communal and religious events, colorful homes, and tight communities, we make up for in Red Lobsters, Olive Gardens, JC Penney’s, PF Chang’s, movie theaters, car dealerships, McDonald’s, Burger Kings, Starbucks, Whataburgers, shopping malls, Best Buys, Wal-Marts, gas stations, Subways, Taco Bells (no, seriously), Barnes & Nobles (there’s only two, but they represent the entirety of booksellers in El Paso), and car washes. I didn’t understand at first why there were so many car washes until I spent two weeks here. But more than the dust, I am disgusted by how difficult it is to find a local foodstuff. The best, and really only, genuine burrito I’ve found comes from a converted gas station by a business founded in Juarez. Its ingredients are all slow-grilled in large vats, and their tortillas are handmade each morning. The place is called Burritos Crisostomo, and it has two locations. Everyone I talk to says it pales in comparison to El Taco Tote. El Taco Tote is an El Paso foundation, and is best compared to Chipotle food, stuffed into a Dairy Queen building. I do not eat at El Taco Tote. I will not miss El Taco Tote.

Looking for any other kind of independent foodstuff, local or otherwise, can be counted on a two hands. There’s two pizza places, (Nona’s and Ardovino’s), an extension of Austin’s County Line Barbeque (here called State Line Barbeque), the aforementioned Burritos Crisostomo, Kiki’s Mexican (the oldest and most original Mexican restaurant in town that no one goes to), La Malinche (the only menudo to be found in a citizenship once famous for it), and Casa Pizza (which is actually a Greek sandwich shop that makes the best salami subs). This rest is a smattering of Denny’s, IHOPs (WHO THE FUCK STILL EATS IHOP), Olive Gardens, Chili’s, Applebee’s, TGIF’s, etc. These places all have the longest lines and numerous locations. This wouldn’t be surprising if it were a burgeoning frontier township striving for capital growth. But El Paso alone, excluding Juarez, is the country’s 14th largest municipality and has nearly a million people. They all eat at Red Lobster.

The reason for this, again, is the desire to seem American. The sad triviality of this is the cyclical and non-expansive nature of El Paso’s population. Outsiders do not come here, El Pasoans do not leave. The University of Texas at El Paso boasts a student body over 25,000, but I assure you that most come from the city itself. They graduate and return to the workforce in El Paso as the few who do not labor. Because of this the education system remains mired in a spiral, teaching its students to grow up and teach its future students, and for their lack of broad and divisive course study, they do not burden their current and future students with any thought of improvement, change, deference. El Paso is as it was and as it will continue to be: a city of poverty, labor, low-income, and poor man’s education. It bleeds into every facet of character both visual and visceral and cannot be misunderstood by anyone who spends more than a day here. Because if you spend any time more than a day, you will see that anything that was sacred in El Paso is no longer. And that can only be allowed by an entirely uneducated population.

There are of course the mountains that will never be cleared of explosives, but there is also the ghost town comprising El Paso’s former downtown. The brochures attempt to sell you on the historic nature of the Plaza Theater, the multiple Kress Buildings once running the famous Kress Department Stores, the Oregon Street shopping district. It is, I say assuredly, a photographer’s paradise. The kind of empty, decrepit relics of postwar booming American cities – neon signs that haven’t lit in decades, candy-striped barber poles, hand-painted advertisements, handcrafted aluminum signs and banners, individually numbered curbsides, aluminum awnings and full corner glassworks, red brick walls with giant painted Coca-Cola logos. It’s the kind of scene straight from Bogdonavich’s “The Last Picture Show,” and it encompasses every corner of downtown. In one notoriously jaded lower floor, there’s a stretch of windows plastered with make-believe images of stores that could be housed in the empty storefronts, emblazed with the words “this store could be you!” I doubt if there’s been a store in any of these buildings since the 80s, and I wonder if ever there will be again.

This is remarkable but entirely credible because the city is constructed of a commuter’s world. From its farther westward point to its furthest eastward point, El Paso stretches from 36-miles. My own commute to work is 26 miles. It stretches from the west side of the North Franklin peak all the way down to the pass, and then east and southward along the border until just after San Elizario. San Elizario represents the end of the municipality as well as the only remaining bit of culture. San Elizario is famous for being the only jail that Billy The Kid escaped from, which is the dubious variety of fame, but nonetheless. Pat Garrett was here the sheriff, and you know this from the films. Each of the first Fridays here in San Elizario is an event called Art Fridays where the well-maintained adobe hut buildings that comprise the downtown square open up with art galleries, wine, sidewalk projection shows, and live music. The only people who go are the ones who operate the event. The other 900,000 people all miss it, and I will not miss them.

Because everyday I drive home and one of these 900,000 people nearly take my life on the highway. [Ed. Note: the following few paragraphs will contain statements seemingly derived of hyperbole, but I assure you they are not an exaggeration]. Driving home is a dangerous activity here. If not for the poorly constructed weave of highways, or the central traffic funneling that is the interstate, or the endless construction zones throughout the city, then mostly for the people using the roads. A few bad drivers are blemishes to the record, but a city that experiences a dozen wrecks in a single rush hour has an endemic problem. This, the traffic and its inefficacy, is the largest and singular proof of the city’s problems and cultural clashes. Because there are two types of people on the roads here, split in unequal numbers; there are the native, uneducated poor who drive well below the speed limit from I assume is a great fear of death, police, and a cost they cannot afford, and there is the non-native, uneducated poor in the military who through brazen ignorance treat the world like a playground and only drive as fast as possible. There are no less than 10 cars abandoned on the side of the highway during my commute, every day. There are no less than 1-in-10 cars driving on spare tires. This is a big one for me, because it is the sad evidence of two terrible ways of life: the first, that the driver got in some accident to lose a tire; the second, that they have not the income or budget skills to replace the spare. The types of vehicle that make up the roads are the types of vehicle that you sold to a dealership ten years ago. Here there are ten trucks for every car, and not because we need trucks in El Paso. El Pasoans drive trucks because they are old, cheap, and can be purchased easily. When it breaks down, I assume they replace it with another 1997 Dodge Ram, as most have and are. Just the other day I tried to park in the garage of the University Medical Center, but it took fifteen minutes just to navigate to the fourth floor, because the trucks trying to drive and park in there were too big and driven by people who couldn’t handle the size of a dually, 2500 series hauling truck. It’s not because they need a truck – it’s because they need a vehicle they can purchase in cash, in whole, and for cheap. That vehicle will be driven until it cannot, and then it will be replaced. Whether by falling behind on maintenance or by totaling the truck in a wreck doesn’t matter.

And they wreck so frequently. Often, and by my own experience driving in Europe, I’ve learned that we teach our drivers in America to drive defensively to a fault, instead of driving aggressively. The intent of the adjective aggressive is not to provoke stupidity, but to instigate vigilance – the vigilance to be aware and cognizant of a vehicle’s surroundings. But by fearing aggressive driving for misunderstanding it as fast and dangerous, we default to defensive driving for sake of safety and isolation from fault. The thinking goes that if I don’t do anything wrong, nothing can happen to me. This is manifested mostly in the failure to obey any right-of-way or fast-lane designations, and primarily occurs in wrecks where entrance ramps enter the highway. Never once does a vehicle on the highway allow another vehicle to enter. To compound the situation, the vehicles entering the highway often decelerate out of fear to find an open space, rather than accelerate. And in the many cases where this results in a wreck, the immediate response is a shaking motion of the hands and the phrase “no police, no police.” I’ve seen this many times, and expect it many times more. But it is not their fault for fearing police involvement. It is our fault for creating this place. It is our fault for putting up a fence, divesting half the workforce, separating families, stifling the already poor, and enforcing it through force. It is our fault for creating a world that has yet to open its boundaries. It is our fault for being patriotic to a written document instead of to the human race. It is our fault for filling this city with problems and leaving it to rot. I will not miss the rot.

This city came to these problems the same way any other has. But only because it started in the muck, it buries itself even further with the added contemporary problems of a mortgage-crisis, low-unemployment, and border security. There is here like there is in all the world, a growing population driven by consumer interest. But where a city like New York or Tokyo or Paris might have the standard quality of life to allow its citizens the luxury of a new smartphone, El Paso cripples itself by choosing to buy the iPhone 6 even when household income cannot support it. At every stop light, the lead car is slow to accelerate because the driver is staring downward into a smartphone. This is not an exaggeration. It is doubly worse on Fort Bliss. Without failure, every car that I see swerving and driving with inconsistent speed is driven by a person that is looking at a smartphone. Just last week it was only my horn-honking that saved the Jeep in front of me from smashing into the highway barrier instead of curving with the road. It wouldn’t be so endemically true except that the places of highest congestion occur where there are shopping malls. I live near one. On every weekend, the roads there back up through all intersections. These people do not go hiking, do not go downtown, do not go out, they go shopping. They spend what little money they have on things, just things, and do nothing to improve their way of life. The city’s parks are not parks, they are dead-grass fields with a few lights. There is no entertainment in El Paso because the people wouldn’t go. There are no arts districts, there are no independent shops or bakeries or clothing stores, there are no live events. There are only shopping malls. I will not miss the shopping malls.

It is not their fault. We have created an education system that teaches us to want things, and to work for the money to have things. We do not teach our children to work for ideas or fulfillment. We do not teach them to work for life-enriching experiences, nor emotional stability. We teach them to work for money, and money buys things. Our status and fulfillment is derived from our possessions, our visual manifestation of who-we-are-cum-what-we-have. This is a problem everywhere, but it is a depressing reality in a city that should not afford its luxury. This is a city that should be building and cleaning and developing a better future. This is a future full of people that wanted to be better, but they stopped improving just after crossing the fence. We’ve taught people on both sides of the fence that over here it’s better because we have things, and access to things. If only we could get the things, our life would be better. And the people already on this side of the fence, we won’t let them over anymore to take the things we already possess. But we have so little things, and each of them are unimportant. If the people here could understand that. If only they could see all the things blowing here in the wind, the things litering the sides of the road, filling up the trash containers, and sitting around wasting in the desert sun. These were things that were bought on Saturday but were useless by Monday, and were thrown out. Not thrown anywhere particular, just out. Out onto the ground, into the desert, out of the room and no longer their problem. There is a special kind of laziness that only a poor education can create that allows this type of ignorance, this deference to nature and humanity. It is an education derived of living for, possessing, and needing things.

Things. They are just things.

I will not miss the things.

The same education that made this possible made the war that made the job I have possible. But this education infects the other 400-million people of this country as well. I will not miss serving in this capacity. It worked for me insofar as its benefits to my own life outweighed the negative effects incurred. For so long as it paid me a substantial amount o erase my student loan debt, I could suffer it. For so long as it subsidized my life in Europe, I could suffer it. For so long as it emboldened my experiences and placed within me within an environment of curiosity and wonder, I could suffer it. But it does none of these things any longer, and I will not miss it. I will not miss the city that it brought me to, or the people that continue to suffer it. I will not miss the handshakes I receiving for defending a country that shouldn’t be defended, and I will not miss the uniform that places me within a peculiar and isolated portion of society. I have done good things while in the military, but many of them are a result ancillary. The places I have gone, the things I have learned, the people I have met and the woman I have love, these are all indirect benefits of a system that now exists only to ruin my mind and further my depression, and I will not miss it.

I will not miss filling my days with data and facts and figures that amount to war. I will not miss knowing that my work, when even its fullest contribution and development still only totals 1/400,000th of the Army’s power, comprises 1/400,000th of this nation’s power for war. I will not miss hearing phrases like “combat power” and “force strength” and “shoot, maneuver, kill” and “strike the enemy” at simple board meetings and welcoming conferences, as if these phrases were as common as “brand synergy” and “competitive value” and “marketing power.” I will not miss being told to “impact soldiers” when there is no way for me to have an impact – if I present myself wholly, truly, and genuinely for the person I am, I am met with derision; I am not like these people, I read, I wonder, I think, I believe in peace, and I speak clearly. In order to make an impact, to have influence, I have to become, and have become, one of them. I will not miss being one of them. I miss being inspired, I miss being creative, I miss believing that everything is possible. And to get that back I have to be free of this, and I’ve errantly found a way. As has happened numerous times before, I’ve found another way to return to nature, return to searching, return to freshness. I’ve found another way to screw up, and I miss the feeling it gives me. I can do anything again. The end is here, but the beginning is coming up right behind.

No matter how the end comes, it is here and I will not miss it. Everyone I know repeats the same phrase unprovoked – I never belonged in the Army. I contend that there were moments when I did belong. There were moments, moments sitting along the Salzach river or the Italian beaches of Porto Ferro, moments drinking oak-barrel scotch from the frozen Finnish pubs, moments sipping mulled-wine next to a fire on Christmas listening to the village folk band play traditional hymns in a 10-piece brass band, moments when listening to my new Czech friends DJ their latest set at an underground club in Prague, moments running from the bulls in Spain, moments lying in the snow of the rolling farmlands of the German hinterland, moments when I felt at home that I could belong in the Army. In these moments I belong because the Army made those moments possible. But it no longer makes those moments possible and I am irreparably depressed for it, and I will not miss it.

The strongest, most lasting thing I learned is that I have lived overseas, and it is not so hard to do again. It seemed so foreign when I did it the first time, but I’ve physically done it now – I can physically do it again. The means are not important because I have the desire, the will, and the knowledge now. It is a skill gained, like any other skill of bootcrafting, sport, musical, or otherwise. It’s been done, and I know a little bit now of how to do it again. If everyone could get this just once, they might do it again. But until then, they are doomed to comfort and security. Doomed to a home in one place.

But the world is one place. The earth is one home.


I was pilfering through old photos a friend of mine had posted online, a good large collection of pictures of people I grew up with and all the things they had done. I remember all of these moments too, days in junior high and days in high school, in and around my hometown. All the people I had grown up with in a small town where everyone knew everyone, all the people were there. There were the heartbreaking photos of the many friends I had that are now deceased, the moments we shared. There were poor fashion choices and high school pep rallies and pictures taken during an innocuous lunch on a random school-day afternoon. In each of these moments were precious memories, but I wasn’t in a single photograph. I wasn’t snapped or taken or involved. If I asked this person or these people to recount the details of our collective childhood, I have a place in all of them, and yet I’m not represented in the pictographic evidence even once. I always there for everyone, always on the border, but never really inside these circles.

I always felt like I didn’t belong or wouldn’t get in with this people, and I can remember a lot of these moments exactly as I’m viewing them now in the pictures – from just out of frame. There but not really. And I wonder why, until I realize that it wasn’t that I didn’t belong. I just didn’t get in there.

I didn’t really care to get in there. I think I have this shared, collective experience with almost everyone I grew up. Always considered a part of the group, but never inside the closest circle and not a part of any one’s life any longer, not worth holding onto. The geeks, the band nerds, the athletes, the popular kids, the outcasts. Everyone called me a friend, but I’m not a part of any one’s most cherished memory. In the end, I just didn’t really care to belong to any of these groups. When everyone cut their hair, I grew mine out. When everyone wore polos and stripes, I wore tees and solid colors. When everyone listened to hip hop I wen to the rock’n’roll show. I did it on purpose because I didn’t want to fit in. I relished it, even when I thought it would help get me in. But I know now, that I what I truly wanted was to be different. I know this now.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find a group, and I probably won’t. My beliefs have always been too broad, too strong, too universal, to enriched and empowering. The kind of beliefs that others find offensive, because it belittles their insignificant problems and worries. Maybe this is why my newest best friend is mother nature.   Unimportant.

What’s important is that I need to stop trying to belong. I’ve forgotten how to not belong.