Fifty, that’s me, the “silly season has begun.” Senator Obambi just left downtown Austin after healing a crowd of 20,000 and I’m walking around with a cheese-eating grin, I can’t believe our good fortune, I’m so proud of my political party no matter how it turns out we can’t go wrong. I can’t believe how long we’ve been waiting for this, I can’t believe I was even born. February 23rd 1958, delivered by the hands of a stern woman doctor, a fact I still savor because it makes up for something, though she barely spoke a word of English, that’s how it should be in this great melting pot America, land of my birth.
Growing up I never thought I’d make it to half this age and what they say is true, if I’d had known I was going to live this long I woulda taken better care of myself, it’s like taking the piss out of fakegod, fuck you I’m still here, and you’re still debated! Heavenly father put the weight on me, a weight that follows accumulated history, the cranky gravitas feels better knowing ya earned it, even as all those youthful anticipations morph into the dread of experience, put there by the undeniable store of knowledge, five decades and counting. Next up is religion, I suppose, going spiritual, completion, the reckoning, important plans, please see that my grave is kept clean, just a poor wayfarin stranger, travelin through this world below, no sickness no toil nor danger in that bright land to which I go…
Til then I aim to use it all up, learn Photoshop, make a rueful toast to roads not taken, pick a year, look back, shit, what was I thinking. It goes on. Funny story here, found at psychotherapy.net makes me almost giddy about the career-path smashup-college dropout if I had to do it all over agains and lifelong loser whatnot. Yes, a celebration, of sorts:
By Tom Greening © 2006
As I came into consciousness there was a war where millions died, and even when frail peace broke out life’s anguish left me horrified.
I worked in mental hospitals, construction jobs and factories; I traveled where the war had been and contemplated tragedies. Perplexed by what I’d seen of life, appalled by so much misery, I sought to understand the cause and thought I’d try psychology. I hoped I’d find some people there who cared about the human soul, but learned instead it was our job to do “prediction and control.” And sure enough, some governments have found psychologists can aid in customizing torture skills, a job for which they’re amply paid. Not all psychology, thank God, is used for purposes so cruel, but much of what it’s all about is tailored to a basic rule: Whatever does in fact exist exists in some precise amount, and so our task is to devise precision tools with which to count. Away with fuzzy-minded thought, away with sloppy sentiment– Pure science is the one true faith; the goal of life is measurement. Do I belong in such a field? Can such a field put up with me? When questions such as these grow grim for refuge I try poetry.
^^^actual page from psychology textbook^^^