I hate everyone but me and you.

I have nothing to say today. I'm supposed to sleep one third of my life away in order to maintain good physical and mental health. I'm not going to make it. There are more than 365 days a year. One year is exactly 52 weeks. Which is exactly 13 months made up of 28 days each. It works out perfectly on a lunar cycle. It works out perfectly on a regular menstrual cycle. There are supposed to be 13 months. But the Romans, (Whose calendar we go by) Decided that 13 was an unlucky number, so they broke it into 12 months to fuck with us. 13 months of 28 days works out perfectly. Men are not meant for perfection. Even when it's handed to us, we have to change it. The leaders of the world are not concerned with your best interest. Get over it. A democratic system is neither democratic, nor a system. Get over it. I don't vote, because there is no such thing as the lesser of two evils. Evil is evil. Altruism doesn't exist, and nobody's decisions affect only one person...ever. Chaos isn't a theory. It's a practice. Sense isn't common. It's a blessing. Nothing is free, except air, and we are doing our best to ruin that. I like cake...and Kitty.

I'm always right. I'm incredibly selfish. I'm focused on me more than others, and I can't help it. The worst part about all of this is that I love me. By always right...I mean that I am. Of course I can be wrong about facts, figures, dates, times, memories, colors, sounds, shapes, feelings, thoughts, actions, and infinite other things. But my opinion is the only one that matters to me. I'm willing to be persuaded. I can be easily...but until I am...what I know is all I have. That's why I'm always right. Once I change my mind, my new rightness becomes what was always right, and what was wrong is no longer a concern. I'm babbling. I don't understand self worth. I don't understand where or when selfishness became a bad thing. I love you not because of you, but because of me. I want to be with you not to enlighten you, but to enlighten me. I cannot say I want, I love, I choose, I believe, I care, I am...without always first saying...I. I am selfish. And I want you to be. Because when you are selfish and you choose to spend time with me...not because of me, but because of you...I understand that I am now a part of you. And when I choose you, not for you but for me...it's because you are part of me. Someone thinks I have the lowest self-esteem on the planet, because...and I truly do believe this...I don't think God loves me. More importantly I don't think he even really cares. My thought to this is...why should my esteem be tied to what God thinks. I love me. I care. I am the most important me in the world. If God can say I am, why can't I. I am. I truly, really, honestly am. I am, therefore I think. I think I'm tired. Kitty spends time with me, and I know that to Kitty, there is no one but Kitty. He and I understand each other. Goodnight Kitty.

Time doesn't exist. It's fiction. We measure it out in one earth revolution around the sun. Why do we do that? Because it explains age. That's all. It's a mathematical breakdown of symbols representing absolutely nothing. And this nothingness we call minutes, and seconds, and hours, and years. All in all it is the measure of a lifetime. My Grandfather made 98 trips around the sun. And all those hours minutes and seconds mean nothing now. I don't believe that time represents the measure of a man. So why am I trying so hard to stop it? Where does this irrational fear that time is passing me by come from? Why did I wake up this morning with the thought that unless I do what I really want (need) to do then time is wasted. I desperately want (need) to spend what available imaginary time I have left involved in theatre. Kitty chases his tail. He spins around a few times a day. I'm not sure why, or what he's doing. Perhaps his imaginary measure of time is based on spins around his own feet. I'm chasing my tail every second I'm at work.

What are we chasing? What motivates action on a daily basis. Routine? Need? Love? Fear? Desire. How do we achieve what we desire? Why do we want what we think we want, and do we really want it? Why are we compelled to worship. Not God necessarily, but something. I don't know of a word that correctly describes my current religious condition. I would say apathy, but I think about it way to much to be apathetic. I have taken to calling the theatre my church, my temple, my place of worship...but what is it I'm worshiping there exactly? Has whatever it may be become my false god? Is the stage my own personal graven image? Perhaps. I think that I am looking for some sort of redemption there. But I'm not sure that is correct either. There is no particular "sin" in my past or present that theatre can redeem me from. I don't even feel a particular need for redemption. Yes I have regrets, but even they give my life to this point definition. I will die with more regrets than I currently have. I will make mistakes. Does the knowlege of this fact vindicate my future actions, or in fact multiply the seriousness of them. Can life be redeemed. Should it be? What am I searching for. Perhaps it would be easier to find what I was looking for if I knew what it was. All I know is that when I'm involved in telling a story, inside the walls of a theatre. When my heart and mind connect with a moment, I'm closer to finding whatever that intangible may be. I've never felt this inside the walls of a church. I've never found comfort at a funeral. I've never mourned a life. I've celebrated life as much as I can. My grandfather was a great man. People like him don't exist anymore. My church will forget his name, but inside my theatre...if I choose...I can immortalize him. Death doesn't frighten me. Life without theatre scares me to death. Is it theatre? I think there is something deeper there. The idea that there I have already discovered not truth...but the opportunity to uncover truth. To discover truth about myself as an individual..but more importantly truth about myself as a human, on a planet as diverse, unique, and wonderful as this one. I think kitty might miss me on long days though.

Some say the glass is half empty. Some say half full. I say why are we wasting so much time looking at a glass. I think that every day something new should happen. Forget about the glass and just do something. Anything. Read a line from a classic novel. Quote a poet. Shake a hand. Ride public transit. Write to someone who we've forgotten. Touch base with ourselves. Life is too short. Kitty doesn't care if the aquarium is half full or half empty. He just wants the frog.

Tragedy! What is it that makes it so damn appealing? Why do we watch it, crave it, feel it, need it, taste it make love to it, and finaly define ourselves by it. Who benefits from it...most importantly...why is it so romantic? I'm sure kitty didn't think losing his balls was all that tragic? Would I? My balls...in the end probably not, but theatre...death. Erica? I can't stand the thought of ever losing her. That would be my deepest tragedy. People seem to need to defined themselves. Through there successes, their jobs, their loves...introductions go around and no one mentions their own tragedies. If they do they are considered a bore, or an attention whore. Why? Maybe pain is more defining than any other thing we have. Maybe it's our pain that puts the finishing touches on our character. Without pain we have no strength. Without tragedy we have nothing to overcome. Most of us will never live with an enemy, an arch nemesis, a difinable contendable conflict. Conflicts surprise us, distract us, and change all around us. Oh to be like hamlet and have one conflict. To kill or not to kill, that is the question. Wether tis nobler in the mind to destroy my uncle, or to take arms against myself and by killing one...allowing the other. We don't get to be so lucky. I think the greatest tragedy of all is not the lone hero who does or doesn't accomplish his single objective. But to not recognize our own daily personal objectives. Tragedy is the life undiscovered. Tragedy is not death, it's just not to have lived. God bless you kitty, your lack of tragedy is tragedy enough.

Sometimes it's hard to tell if kitty is growling or purring. You think everything is okay and then for what seems to be no apparent reason he reaches out and grabs you, and you finaly realize that all in not well in kitty land. So I leave him alone and soon he's fine. Still insane, but fine as far as cats go. I think what we all need is some sort of sign over all of our heads, that indicates exactly what mood we are in. Not our thoughts of course, those will always be just our own to cherish, but our moods would be okay. Maybe just a color bar, like in the sims, that shows exactly what we need. Of course then people would still discover secrets. Make realizations. Communication would be lost. I think soon, if such color bars did exist, every body's color bar, on the entire planet would just be black. We need to hide our moods. We need our secrets. We love to live with mystery and pain and love and hope and all of these things are so tightly wound together, that it's impossible to have one without the other. We humans are so complex, yet underneath the complexity lies an eternal wellspring of simplicity. We all have the same needs, and desires. Love me. Help me. Understand me. Know that I can achieve, and let me help you achieve as well. Of course sometimes its also fun just to destroy a role of Toilet Paper...BAD KITTY.

I had a dream that Howard Roark was a 50 year old red-headed raving lunatic dancing in the street. He was singing that all the art was gone, and he looked strikingly like Dogboy (for those who don't know...Dogboy's head is huge). The funny thing about objectivism, is that just like any other Strong philosphy or Ideology, it immediately lends itself directly to Hypocrisy. Everyone who subscribes to it immediately assumes the role of Howard Roark. (Interesting considering the vast world of strong characters she created in Atlas Shrugged). Well of course you can't be a Howard Roark without a Peter Keating, or else more importantly an Ellsworth Toohey. It becomes a quest to find an adversary. Someone who doesn't understand your art. Why? For the sole purpose of being better than that person. Someone you can discuss as a rival who doesn't understand you, or your pain, or your suffering. The great irony in that is of course Howard Roark never gave a second thought to Ellsworth Toohey. The Objectivist claims...I AM WHAT I AM...and I don't care what anyone says or thinks of me. Meanwhile judging everyone around him as a secondary character with a fictitious name. The real tragedy of the whole thing is that as a dramatic literary figure...Howard Roark isn't even that interesting. The entire book is a one trick pony. He suffers the exact same fate, with different characters acting out the events each time. SO WHAT. I guess why this bothers me so much is that sure...The Fountainhead is an interesting read, with some okay ideas that are nearly impossible to implement, but again so what. My problem is that I meet so many objectivist wannabes in my chosen career path. All of them are identical. They believe wholeheartedly that they are the best at what they do, and admitedly they have all had some considerable talent. But They (like their chosen hero Howard Roark) refuse criticism and refuse to change and grow and get better. They all assume that they are already at the top of their game and have nowhere to go. WHY? I will never understand why Miss Rand created this as such an admirable quality. All objecivists first line of defense toward criticism is the same..."You just don't understand." The catch phrase of our artistic generation. Well, fine. If it makes you feel better to assume I don't understand, why don't you explain it to me...oh that's what you meant...hhhmm that's exactly what I got out of it...so I guess I do understand...and I guess your not at the top of your game quite yet. Lastly...HOWARD ROARK IS FICTION. He's not real. He could never be real. If you must emulate a fictional character in your life, at least pick someone interesting...like Spiderman, or Jesus.
I wonder if Kitty has dreams.

I"m not sure what Kitty thinks about God. I'd be willing to bet that Kitty isn't even aware of the possible existence of a supreme being. By definition I'm not sure what this makes him. He's not really agnostic, because agnosticism is the admission of the possibility of a God. He's not an athiest, because this is someone who adamantly fights against that possibility. Kitty is too lazy to fight against anything, except a 6 a.m. when he likes to fight the noisiest possible enemy he can find. I'm becoming more and more non religious. I admit a belief in some higher power. I like the idea of a loving God. It fits better to my personality than the idea of no God at all, but religion is really becoming bothersome. I'm also not agnostic or athiest. I'm apathetic. This is probably worse than either, but like Kitty, I'm just to lazy to fight for or against any idea. So what do I teach my children. How do I explain to the ones I love most. Why is religion such an important thing in the lives of those who have it that they will retaliate against any other idea. Why is so much pain and guilt associated with such beautiful ideas and precepts. My questions aren't new, but they are important. Kitty doesn't think so. I love kitty.

Kitty sees something under the bed. It makes me fear an infestation, but I'm not sure what infests this type of apartment complex. Most likely it's just that my cat is insane. I've been slowly coming to that conclusion anyway. It's all right though. He's just a cat, what does it matter if he's a bit crazy. We just point and laugh and think kitty is funny. Which he is. I don't think I ever have to worry about going nuts. Sanity runs in the family. It doesn't even really skip a generation. I've seen crazy folks. All you have to do is ride city transit to know that mental health is really in a decline. I don't think we give enough lobotomies. Nothing like a good brain drilling to make the sane go stupid. But what makes a person crazy. For real. Obviously some lack of a grounding in reality, but why is that necessarily true. What is reality anyway. I think reality is just a mass concensus of perception. So when one voice disagrees with the majority, he's crazy. But just as crazy is the person who agrees entirely with the majority. Also crazy is the one who suggests that the majority might stand for a little improvement. I am therefore I think. I think i'm not insane. At least I'm not staring intently at something under my bed.

It's early morning. I'm up because she's up and sick. Comedy Central is running Southpark Movie complete and unedited. A monumental moment for cable television. The depths have gotten deeper, and I laugh my way slowly into hell. At least I hope slowly. I'd hate to wake up tommorrow in hell. I'd have to rethink all of my immediate plans. Kitty is hiding in the bathroom. He keeps hoping the toilet lid will pop open so he can see what's inside. He doesn't really drink the water, but he loves to splash. I thought cats were supposed to hate water, but maybe they'll play with anything.
Drasago. My alter ego. My other me. My other name. People ask, and I guess it does deserve some explanation. I created drasago as a fictional character years ago. He's all of my good, and none of my bad. He's everything I wish I could present to the outer population. He's fictional. A character, with flaws of course, but even they are admirable. So my email is drasago@hotmail.com. My blog is drasago.blogspot.com. Everything I do in cyberspace is dealt somehow by drasago. He handles my e-life. He's a mask. A name. An identification, that in fact has nothing to do with the real me in any way whatsoever, and I have to ask myself, what is the mask for. Anybody who really knows me, knows nothing of drasago. That is fine, but it begs the question, what is he for. What do any of our masks really cover? Why are we hiding? I think the current most popular mask comes in the form of alcohol. Now I'm no moralist. I make no judgements whatsoever on anybody who chooses to imbibe. God knows, I myself have been known to sip from the bottle in the past. Not so much anymore, but it has happened. I see, or hear people all the time talk about the wonderful virtues of Alcohol. Beer, wine, whiskey, gin, rum, whatever, everybody has "THEIR" drink. The one single libation that makes life better. That makes them more attractive, more witty, more fun, less inhibited. I wonder what it is so terrible about a person that they think that inebriation is more attractive. What is so vile about that girl in the corner that I'll be more impressed watching her puke, than knowing the truth. And if the guy on the table is more witty drunk than sober, then he must be an absolute gas at the office. Hmmm. But whatever. I guess I just wish that honesty still had the same value it once did. When a handshake and a smile were all that was needed to seal a deal. When a man really could be as good as his word. When masks were only worn on halloween. Of course I long for a time, that in fact I've never known. I'm nostalgic for a memory I don't have. I ache for truth. For beauty. For free love, and not in some stupid horny hippy sort of way, but true love, free, no obligation, no strings, and no disease. Just souls, not one, not two, but thousands. Thousands of souls, connected, eye to eye, and heart to heart standing together and saying yes. Yes I love you. Not your mask, not your pretense, not your hate or your anger, or your jealousy. I love you. You are good. You have value. I think that's about it for tonight. If you want to reach me...just search for me. You'll find me. Drasago.

Kitty is hiding. He's a neurotic tubby ball of black fuzz who likes to smell my feet. Not right now though. Now my brain is slower than my body. Which is hard to do because my body is pretty slow. With cuts and scrapes all a mystery. How did I get this? Where did that come from? Aging sucks, and I'm not even doing it yet...good night. I got distracted.

Good evening to anyone who may come across this. Technically I guess it is the 5th of July, but to me still the fourth. I haven't gone to bed yet, and who knows when I will. Kitty is looking at my feet fondly again, and saying something...but I don't speak cat. The day has come and gone. I have celebrated my independence today by fueling the Hollywood machine. I can't help it. I'm a slave to mass media. It's who I've become. I can't speak without some reference to pop culture. And because of pop culture, this makes me cool. Why bother quoting Shakespeare, Byron, or Shelly, when I can quote Tarantino, Scorcese, and Kevin Smith. They are the poets of my day. They are the spokesmen of My Generation. When I speak of Homer, it's not the great Greek poet, whose stories have survived millenia, but a fat yellow man whose stories pacify our children. Greatness is a mockery of itself. It stands through ages, time, and misfortune...to finaly discover, after a world of events...apathy. That warm numbness that reminds me that tomorrow will be the same as today. Hamlet had a country to save and a father to avenge. Romeo lived for nothing but love, and died when passion overcame logic. Caesar, betrayed by his best friend, bleeds on the steps of Rome, but decays in forgetfullness. Cobain saved us from the new kids and Debbie Gibson...but N'Sync, and Brittany saved us from Cobain. If I sound cynical, well, at least I know I'm trendy. It doesn't matter. I get to do it all again in the morning. In the immortal words of God...or was it Anthony Keidis...
I LOVE ALL OF YOU.

Good morning, i say to the cat and he says something back. He likes the way my feet smell, something noone else has been able to say about me. I have a problem. A pee problem. I can't do it when anyone is around...when I think anyone might be around...when someone else might need to use the bathroom...or in public...indoors or outdoors. I'm pretty sure this whole thing is going to lead to adult diapers long before I'm forty. I'm probably going to live to the ripe old age of 300, but my hair is only going to make it to 30. I turn 30 in five months. Goodbye hair...it's been a fun ride. You'll long be remembered.