The inspiration data stream.


I saw something in the sky last night. It didn’t belong there but it moved too quickly through my field of vision and out of sight.

There were no reports today, no posts on Facebook or Twitter saying that anyone saw anything. The paranoid in me says it’s a cover up and it’s only a matter of time before the MiB come for me. The rational person says what I saw was an hallucination. Both are possible but the latter is far more likely.

It was a saucer, flat and incredibly bright. Floating over the road at the intersection three blocks away, it seemed to be waiting for me to see it. As though it said, “You’re right. We know you know but no one will ever believe you. Make your choice. Be the one who shouts from the rooftops, the one who no one believes. Or be the one who knows, who can come backstage once in a while to see more. Your choice.”

What pulled me out of the house, out of a sound sleep to walk down to the parkway and look west? Them? That thing?

I’ve made my choice. I know who I am. Do you?

The Low Points

Water rushes down the creek, inexorably smoothing out the pebbles and stones on the bottom. I can see them clearly. The water is almost moving, liquid glass, vaguely reflecting the sunlight peeking over the mountains.

The house is up the hill from the creek, which is at the base of a fourteen thousand-foot peak whose name I forget. I’m at the lowest point in this this valley. At least until the creek makes the turn and continues down and down and down.

It’s an apt metaphor. Rejections sting, bees swarming through and around my email inbox. I’m hurt, shooting pains across the small of my back force me to sit straight and true which I should do anyway. 

Low Points are relative, anyway. There are always two directions and a choice to be made. Often I choose the way upward though I know it’s more difficult. And difficulty is relative, too. 

The water is cold, tastes fresh though there’s a certain danger to doing that. I don’t know who or what is upstream. If I don’t take the chance, then I’ll never know if I could have done something. The best I can do is follow the stream, make the climb and do my best to find the source. Haven’t made it yet, but I keep trying.





A silent protest in Love Park, downtown Philadelphia orchestrated by performance artists protesting the murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson. The onslaught of passerby’s  wanting to take photos with the statue exemplifies the disconnect in American society.  Simply frame out the dead body, and it doesn’t exist.  

Here are some observations by one of the artists involved in the event:

I don’t know who any of these folks are.

They were tourists I presume.

But I heard most of what everything they said. A few lines in particular stood out. There’s one guy not featured in the photos. His friends were trying to get him to join the picture but he couldn’t take his eyes off the body.

"Something about this doesn’t feel right. I’m going to sit this one out, guys." "Com’on man… he’s already dead."


There were a billion little quips I heard today. Some broke my heart. Some restored my faith in humanity. There was an older white couple who wanted to take a picture under the statue.

The older gentleman: “Why do they have to always have to shove their politics down our throats.” Older woman: “They’re black kids, honey. They don’t have anything better to do.”

One woman even stepped over the body to get her picture. But as luck would have it the wind blew the caution tape and it got tangle around her foot. She had to stop and take the tape off. She still took her photo.

There was a guy who yelled at us… “We need more dead like them. Yay for the white man!”

"One young guy just cried and then gave me a hug and said ‘thank you. It’s nice to know SOMEBODY sees me.’

I’m just gonna keep reblogging this because this is truly how white America works. Like people have their weddings on plantations, Blackface was and still is a major source of entertainment and the biggest movie of all time was Gone With the Wind. White America will kill Black people and then smile and laugh and enjoy their day it sickens me that we’re treated this way.

There are no words.

are you fucking kidding me

I know a lot of creative people and perhaps by correlation I know a lot of people who struggle with depression. They have told me (and they’ve told the world) how depression sits there, implacable, and drains the color out of the world until no success or joy matters. I believe them, and it becomes increasingly evident that no matter who you are or what you’ve achieved, that depression is a good liar and can make you believe none of it matters.
I know and love too many people with depression to believe that it’s something that’s shameful to talk about or to acknowledge. I want them alive and I want them here with us. If you have depression I want you alive and here with us. Don’t let the moment take you. Don’t be afraid to get help. The people who love you want you here. Believe it.

John Scalzi

No matter what problems you are dealing with, we want to help you find a reason to keep living. By calling 1-800-273-TALK (8255) you’ll be connected to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area, anytime 24/7.

(via wilwheaton)

(via mostlysignssomeportents)


Life is precious, all life. None more than any other, though. Living is what happens to us all. Right?

Those who feel that some lives are more precious than other fail to take into account the quality of life one must have in order to be happy. There are orders of happiness. And that is precious, too. 

So when one chooses to end one’s life because the quality of that life is not conducive to happiness that should be precious, too. Especially if all the paperwork is filled out and on file with local, state and federal governments along with the appropriate insurance companies. And filed by the early deadlines of one’s life.

I have all my papers (which is a joke, we don’t use paper any more) logged with everyone who needs it. My sister has copies, so does my lawyer.

Which doesn’t mean I’m anxious to die. I’ve thought about it before, nearly ended my life on two separate occasions because of despair rather than illness but I didn’t. I don’t have any plans, too, either unless I get terribly, terribly sick. Even then I’ll talk with Carolyn to see if she thinks I’m just being a wuss.

And she’ll tell me. She’ll never let me kill myself because I’m sad. She found me on the kitchen floor with the sharpest boning knife pressed against my chest, aimed upward to go under my sternum and straight into my heart. All I had to do was lean forward quickly and it would have been all over.

But I didn’t do it. And I won’t.

Having my wishes on file means the government and the insurance companies can’t not pay out if I do suicide. 

Because my death is as precious as my life. It’s just how I was raised.

Sheet Lightning

There’s a storm brewing outside. Low rumbles of thunder like gods walking on the floor upstairs. Sheet lighting flashing between walls of clouds on the horizon to the left and to the right. I keep looking for shadows of giants in the flashes.

Rain drips down in steady but light showers. The thunder rolls across the sky, a little more urgent now. It’s unconnected to the broad swaths of white flashing to either side and above me. I should go back in.

But I don’t. I look up, hold out my hands. feel the rain in my palms. I’m encouraged, hopeful that the gods aren’t angry, just conducting normal business.

Then the lightning flashes quickly once, twice, thrice and there’s a shadow of something HUGE in there.

Maybe it was a cloud.