November 18, 2009


I am here. I am typing. This is good. It feels right. I think. I ask myself why I take the time. What does it matter? So many judge me, dismiss me, stereotype me, tune me out. Really, what’s the point? So many have written the same words in different order and for so long, AND to no avail.

I know the odds. The odds on whether or not I will have any effect on the Travesty of Humanity called the Drug War or whatever the government has or has not decided to sell it as now.

Yet still I persist. It cannot be helped. It needs to come out. I need to scream it from the mountaintops. Not in anger, but in volume. Maybe I will go to the God rock my daughter visits despite our household’s complete lack of formal piety. She tells me he is usually busy, but she is willing to wait for him. She tells me she asks him if he is ok. She is a sweet soul. I like to think that she got that from me, but my humility prevents me from stating such so directly. I would rather hint at it in the immortal portal of cyberspace.

I know the chances of anyone subscribing to my blog in a world where everyone now has a voice, is also close to nill, other than those that love me, of course. When everyone has a voice, does anyone have one?

So many good people have been silenced by fear. I no longer wish to be one of them. The fear of retaliation is finally less than the fear of not standing up for what I believe in. I can no longer watch this crap and do nothing, not speak out. I don’t want my daughter to grow up asking why I didn’t get involved. I detest complainers who do not take action. I want her to see my definition of a true patriot- someone who questions authority and holds them accountable.

The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

-- Thomas Jefferson

It took my husband and me only a few seconds to try to trade votes when we realized our political differences. None of us can be trusted. Checks and balances. By the people, of the people, and for the people, period. No one ever seems to disagree.

I complain that writing is a passive activity in a world that requires action. I don’t have any misconceptions that anything I might say will change anyone’s mind. It will do for me what has been missing all these years. It will give me a place to organize my thoughts, notate my ramblings, and create a diary to share with others. Stories are what life is about.

I wish for the days of the media created lazy stoner to be considered like black face is today. I wish for people to WANT to know who we are, why we fight with such passion, and why we sacrifice so much. Just to get high? I don’t think so. If I can change one person’s mind, I will consider that a success.

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