COVID 19 3/27/2020

So here I am journaling on a blog viewed by few, writing only for me, As it should be. Perhaps this will be read later by my kin. On that chance, I'll try to write about this profound moment in history.

It's not the first time humankind has been ravaged by a scourge. History chronicles many. The Black Plague, The Spanish Flu. Nasty, viscous snippets of RNA that wiped out large numbers of people around the globe. But this one is different for other reasons, primarily because of our culture, our political systems, our economies and out technology.

It is a small world. Air travel transports people and their vectors around the globe. The COVID 19 virus might have originated in Wuhan China, but it could have spawned anywhere there is poor hygiene, human contact and zoonotic opportunity. Breakout in a mega-city providing all of the above and an International Airport, as well as a secretive government, has made it what it is.

Maybe it came from eating bats or pigs or swine or birds, all of which have been associated with recent killer flu's. Here's an idea! EAT PLANTS. Been doing it for 5 years now and I'm better for it. I don't call myself a vegan because people on both sides of the practice extort the word for their own aggrandizing or hate filled purposes. Not that I care what other people think. It's just that I don't care. Think what you want. So will I. To my point, if you don't eat animals you do not expose yourself to zoonotic disease... except from those who do.

Our cultures and societies are causal. Massive cities, exponential human growth, centralized food production and economic interdependence. The conditions have been ripe for awhile. And 100 years ago, the Spanish Flu of 1918, was not that long ago. Still we forget quickly. We prepare poorly as a result.

There are no vaccines, no antidote. We self distance, isolate, sanitize, mask, glove, pray. Just like they did in 1347 with the Bubonic Plague. Interesting factoid. The first recorded case of that particular virus was in China...in 224 BCE. History repeats itself.

And that brings us to technology. For the first time in human history we have the technical ability to beat back these viruses and, hopefully this time we will not forget the lesson. We will prepare for the future scourges with all the genius and AI and cooperative human spirit we can muster. Frankly, I do not doubt our technical abilities. I doubt our human foolishness. Today the press and the politicians are making hay with our fear and our misery. At their own peril.

We will remember this time.

The Rest of the Story

What is the reason to venture out, to leave the familiar for awhile… or longer? It's been described as the “travel bug”, a “virus of restlessness”, but it is neither an insect nor a disease. Why does the “bear go over the mountain”? Perhaps the word “Wanderlust” comes closest, a passion to see what we can see...

Recent interviews with John Steinbeck’s only surviving son, Thomas, suggest that his Nobel Prize winning father took his trip, memorialized within his book “Travels with Charlie”, because he was dying and that he passionately wanted to take one more look, savor one more delicious and drawn out taste of a country and a people that he loved.

William “Least Heat” Moon’s impetus for travel was also rooted in passion, in his case the pain of lost love, lost dreams. As he described in his best seller “Blue Highways”, the stars of change aligned above in a two punch combination, losing both his marriage and his position as an English professor. His writing reflects the dark night of his soul. Was he running into America or away from his pain. In truth, he carried his pain with him and drained his poison, slowly venting it out across the Blue Highways.

Passion certainly brought us to the road. Connie and I are among the baby boomer generation, old enough to remember Jack Kerouac and young enough to not qualify for Social Security… “Tweeners”… between middle age and old age, a place of reflection and revelation. How many of we Boomers are coming to this point of realization, that life is finite, that there is so much more to the experience than the collection and maintenance of material things.

Everyone has a story. As the reader, you have the questionable privilege to hear ours.” The rest of the story”, as Paul Harvey used to say, would be lacking without it.

We were married in 1976. Like Moon, I had run away from my roots as a 13^th generation Mainer to heal a broken heart. Six months working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week in a pipeline camp in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska pretty much burned that hurt from my heart. But I was not aware that my heart was yet opened for business until upon returning to Maine for a brief family obligation, I stumbled onto Connie. It was the most fortunate blunder of my life.

She was the beautiful, oldest daughter of 7 children from a staunch Catholic, French Canadian- first generation, Irish American family in central Maine and, with her love, she effortlessly convinced me not to return to Alaska. As I said, passion led us to the road…

My career had been in the field of environmental engineering and that specialty led me into the paper industry where I climbed the corporate ladder as we raised our family. Identical twin boys followed by a daughter 5 years later filled the bedrooms of our large home and kept us very busy with the joyful business of life. But along the way, things got complicated, my job grew exponentially more demanding, the lure of material things, the trap of “more”. Life became frenetic, unobserved, lost in activity; the American Story?

By 1999, I had been prepared to run the company and, in order to educate my children and provide my family with the standard of life that “society” demanded, I would have accepted the position though I detested the work.

On December 8^th, the call from the Department of State informing me of the death of our son Eric, who had been studying abroad for a semester in Australia, put an end to life as we knew it and thought it would ever be. Our journey through grief, like so many others who have stood in the fire, changed us. It changed what we felt was important, how we saw the world, how we lived our lives. It was not a peaceful, gentle process. It was an excruciating amputation of hopes and dreams without anesthetic.

I quit my job and spent the next year focusing on my family. We sought and discovered invaluable resources; books, compassionate friends we didn’t know we had, the infinite love of family, wise psychologists and physician, nurses, hospice workers, and grief counselors. When life resumed it was so different. We were so different.

Over the next seven years we planned and hoped for the window to open. And Life threw the kitchen sink at us. I am drawing a curtain over much of the detail of this period of our lives. It is not because I have blocked out those memories. At times I pray that I could. Relating the painful, traumatic details might titillate the sensationalist, Jerry Springer junkies among us. It might even sell books. But not this book.

I will tell you that if you ever thought there was a bottom to that deep well of darkness and despair, think again. There is not. No bounce. Only choice.

When the kids were out of college and employed, when the jobs wound down, when the tumor was cut out and tested benign, when the plates and screws were removed for our son and the leg was saved, when we had buried my parents and Connie's dad, when the house closed and we sold our “stuff”, the window opened. And we took a leap of faith.

For the first time in our adult lives, we were debt free, untethered from material things (except for some boxes in a storage unit) and without a long term plan. Wild, exhilarating, terrifying freedom.

What do “Boomers” do with our lives when we finally have the reigns in our hands? Do we move to a 55 Plus community in Florida and learn to play golf. Do we throw ourselves into community involvement and volunteering? Do we become totally involved in the lives of children and grandchildren? Yes. We do all of those things.

But for others, dreams have become amplified, super charged, tinged with craziness, outrageous. Freedom mainlined directly into the vein, hard core addiction and the road to recovery, to “normalcy” takes years.

Fast forward....

We have been driving around America, watching life flow, “hearing the speech… smelling the grass” for the past 13 years. And what a trip it has been.

We are no longer "tweeners", now full fledged, social security, medicare, retirement savings, senior citizens. We have watched the body and the mind slow down, malfunction, misfire and, so far, have been rescued by medical science.

We are very glad we took the opportunity to explore this beautiful country while we had the stamina and fitness to do it with gusto. I'm not throwing the towel in yet. Still more adventures we want to have, more travel and things to see, but right now we want to be close to family and grandkids. A familiar tune for Boomers.

Are we extraordinary? Not especially. But we are extraordinarily fortunate...blessed... to have been born at this time, in this place, to this family.

How to express gratitude? Give as much as you can give. Not just material stuff, although the judicious application of cash has its place, but especially love, attention, compassion, understanding, support, babysitting, home maintenance, advice...

So here is my advice for what it's worth. At this stage of life:

Surrender the ball. Let the younger ones take over, make their mistakes and earn their experience. Relax, Calm down. Be quiet and pay attention. There is more to see and learn and experience, but you're not going to find it on TV. Turn off the news and politics. It is so toxic and fake.

Body awareness. Realize your new reality. Hold onto the railing and each other. Eat plants, less meat, dairy, eggs, junk food. Control your vices whatever they may be. Lose weight. Moderate exercise like yoga. Stay active. Walk. Take naps. Easy does it. Enjoy your joy.

Understand that no one knows the answers to to the big questions and anyone who says they do is trying to control you. That goes for religion, too. Get comfortable telling yourself "I don't know" and leave it at that.

I don't know why I am writing this stuff. Kinda preachy. Maybe I'm just writing to myself, maybe Connie, maybe some future family reader. It doesn't matter. Enjoying the act of writing does matter.

Carpe Diem.

Payback

Dan lived up the hill from us in Waterville. He and our boys spent many happy hours exploring the woods near Devil's Chair building forts, damming the steams, playing army. Later he and Ryan roomed together in college. Dan was an avid military history buff, especially the Civil War, as am I, and we enjoyed many long discussions about tactics and battles.

After college Dan followed his dream and his father's footsteps and was commissioned as an officer in the United States Army. Despite his commission, he was required to complete basic training and specialty schools. He relayed a story from one such training at Fort McClellan Army Base in Anniston, Alabama.

On one particularly sweltering day at lineup under the blazing sun, the Drill Instructor conducted roll call.

"Lieutenant Kenny!"

"Present, Sir"

"Lieutenant Kenny, do I understand you hail from Maine?" barked the DI.

"Yes Sir!"

"Lieutenant Kenny, are you aware of the history of the Battle of Gettysburg in the War between the States?" questioned the DI.

"I am, Sir!" Dan responded.

"And can you tell me which Confederate Brigade attacked the position of the 20th Maine Brigade under the command of Colonel Joshua Chamberlain on July 2, 1862?" continued the DI.

"Yes Sir, Drill Instructor!" Dan replied. "It was the 15th Alabama Brigade under the command of General James Longstreet!"

The Drill Instructor leveled his gaze at Dan. "That is correct, recruit!"

"Now, grab your gear and give me 5 miles... doubletime!!"

They say that revenge is best served cold, but 150 years cold?

Payback...

Addendum to the story. I emailed the blog to Dan to check on the accuracy of my recollection and he responded as follows:

"That’s pretty much how it went down. He did ask me why I thought Maine won with such a poor place to defend from. All I could think to tell him was that Maine is the Deep South of the Great North, and that it was just a bunch of boys with beards that had experienced harsher winters and probably knew how to suffer just a little bit more. He did not like that answer at all, and I think that might be why he made me run laps around the whole base. I did have to eventually concede that Alabama had a better football team than anything Maine could ever produce. He made me shout “Roll tide” all the time"

Of course he did... Those Alabama boys are just like that. 

Other Valuable Considerations

Carlton Littlefield Goodwin was born on August 15, 1910 in Shapleigh, Maine. He passed away on February 8, 1973 at the age of 62. Too young. Too soon.

He was born to Harry Raymond Goodwin (1885-1977) and Grace M. Littlefield (1886-1966). They had two additional children, Helen Louise, born 1914 and Roland, born 1923. Roland is still living as of this date.

Here is  copy of writing from The Frank Waldo Foss Family Story written by Frank in the 90's about his step-father.

Nellie married Carlton Goodwin on August 1, 1936 (a super break for Frank and I assume Bob feels the same way)

Frank and Robert enjoyed a comfortable and happy childhood after Carlton and Nellie married in '36. Carlton, although he held a chemical engineering degree from the University of Maine, could not find a job in his field and went to work for the W.P.A. building Sebago State Park in Naples, Bradbury Mountain State Park in Pownal and clearing the land for what is now Shawnee Peak on Pleasant Mountain in Bridgton. They moved to Naples where we attended Naples elementary schools until Carlton, with money borrowed from his father, bought the 100 acre Faunt Mann farm on route 302 in Casco, which was later called the Stage Coach Inn before it burned in a spectacular fire in the late 1950's.The property also included a half mile of shore line on the Crooked River. This afforded many. many opportunities for happy childhood memories since the Mann’s left a six man wall tent at the farm and Bob and I occupied it most of the summer at our swimming hole on a sandy point down by the river.

I began school at the one room Ross School about two miles down the road from the farm. My first teacher was Ethel Goodwin who was married to Carltons cousin. She provided transportation to school since she drove by the house each morning.

Roland, Carltons younger brother, was in the upper grades at Ross School when I started. He remembers me sitting "down front"- a fitting place for the little kids.

The one room Bridgton Road School in Casco, a one mile walk from home, offered eight grades of education sufficient for acceptance into the three room Casco High School. For teachers I remember the names Hester McKeen who married Donald Mann, Mrs. Shane, a nameless one who had the upper-class boys paddle us each morning and Miss Metcalf who took us on our eighth grade graduation picnic at the park.

The Goodwin-Pillsbury union also provided three sisters to enhance Frank and Roberts life. Beverly Alma born October 12, 1937 at the Jewett house on route 11 in Naples with doctor Bischofberger in attendance. Marjorie Ruth born June 16, 1939 in the front room at the farm with Doctor Bisch in attendance and Priscilla Eileen who was born December 20, 1943 at the State Street Hospital on State Street in Portland- again with Doctor Bisch attending.

On the farm we maintained a small herd (5 or 6) of milking cows, one horse, a couple of pigs and a small flock of laying hens. For a short while we delivered milk in the local area (at 10 cents a quart). The birth of a new calf was a thrilling experience for all of us. Milking the cows and cleaning the stable was a daily chore which although not pleasing at the time, I don't remember it as now as particularly distressing. However. delivering the milk over the muddy roads in April was not much fun.

Haying and tending a large garden was a necessary evil in our lives especially when Bob would crawl the length of the row and sneak away without doing what I thought was his share of the weeding. Mowing and raking was accomplished with an old white horse named Harry (Carltons father was named Harry but I never associated the two). We did not have a hay bailer so the fields were rakes into "windrows'', these raked into piles and each pile of hay hoisted onto the hay rack with a pitchfork and out into the hay mows by hand. A homemade-tractor, often operated by our mother. sped up the collection and unloading operation.

The river and the old tent allowed us, along with several other neighbor kids, to spend the summers out of the house when we chose and gave us a great feeling of being nearly grown up and independent of our folks.

In 1941 Carlton (my step-father) had gone to work as a laborer, for a company building a pumping station in Raymond for a crude oil pipeline company being built between Portland, Maine and Montreal, Quebec, Canada. A University of Maine classmate named Lee Wescott persuaded him to go to work for the surveying company laying out the right-of-way for the proposed line. Through this association Carlton and Lee both secured jobs with the Portland Pipe Line Corporation, a subsidiary of Standard Oil of New Jersey who were to operate the pipeline.

Carltons degree in Chemical engineering allowed him to become a very valuable part of the organization. He later built their oil testing laboratory and became a noted pioneer in the development of cathodic protection of buried pipelines.

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I have many memories of my grandfather at 136 Elm Street in South Portland and of his visits to our home in Vermont, both in Barton and in Sutton. He was always a calm and quiet presence in an often chaotic family setting with loud children and grandchildren. I knew he was especially fond of me, his first grandson, as he was of all his grandchildren.

He enjoyed working in the large garden with his straw hat or sometimes a handkerchief protecting his bald head from the sun. When I was old enough, he hired me to mow the lawn. When I was in high school he would always challenge me in Indian wrestling. He would laugh his special laugh as I struggled to budge his short, solid body. I always lost.

I used to love the smell of his cigar. He wore hats. On my graduation from high school he presented me with an ink pad and a rubber stamp with my name on it to label my possession before going off to college. I remember sneaking up behind him and stamping my name on his bald head as a joke. He muckled onto me, laughing, and used his considerable strength to make me regret it.

I was a rock collector and Carlton was always very supportive, bringing me rocks from various parts of the country. Once he gave me a large fossil and a styrofoam cup filled with red Georgia clay and Spanish moss. Another time he gave me a small bottle of quartz crystals. I think he was, in his quiet way, encouraging me to consider geology as a career path. He would bring my sisters packets of sugar, soaps and post cards; memorabilia from his business trips.

When I was a Junior in college at UMO and my Volkswagen bus died, he provided me with a old car he had purchased from an elderly woman to help her out. It was a green Ford Falcon with a blown rear main seal. I would buy oil in 5 gallon container and top it off every 20 or 30 miles. I remember the bill of sale he wrote out for me. "Sold for the price of $1.00 and other valuable considerations"

In January of my Senior year, Dad called to tell me that Carlton had terminal cancer and that I should visit him sooner rather than later. I remember sitting with him shortly before he died. I told him about my studies and my hope to work in the field of environmental protection after college. He told me about his experience as a Mason and how it had been helpful to him in his life. He had lost a lot of weight with his illness, but did not complain. I felt when I left that I would not see him again. And I did not.

He was a steady, quiet influence on my life and on my fathers, always there for birthdays, holidays and graduations. 

Today, on the 47th anniversary of his passing, I just want to honor his memory. He was an extraordinary man.

Eric's Journal

     When Eric's belongings came home from New Zealand 20 years ago, Ryan found this file in his computer. Eric had titled it American Observations and it captured some of his thoughts from his semester abroad at Melbourne University. It details the thoughts, hopes and insecurities of a 20 year old who was almost as far from home as a person can get and still stay on the planet.

      We miss him every day.

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American Observations

by Eric Davis Foss

1999

I feel like Doogie Howser... I've never actually taken the time to jot down my thoughts. Maybe because my mind works in a weird way. In some ways I feel like what comes out of my mouth never truly represents the thought process that occurs within my head. Somewhere in-between, an ego                                                                           or an insecurity gets in the way. 

Yet here I sit in a small room, located on the second floor of a castle, writing to myself for no apparent reason.

I haven't quite worked my way into the mainstream of all these Aussies. At dinner, I sit there and listen much more than I talk. I watch all these exchange students sit there and blow smoke about how it is in America and pretend that they're really somebody special where they come from. They are so eager to display themselves -or the selves they choose to portray. As for me, I like to wait and listen.

       You learn a lot more that way. Half the time, the more you get to know someone, the less you respect them. The other half of the time you make them your friend.

I've made two friends so far, an Englishmen named Chris who appears to be my equal in pool, and a 4th year Aussie named Simon who is much more Americanized than most you meet. He lived in Vail for two years and has actually skied at Sugarloaf, my  hometown mountain. Lewis, a Princeton man from San Francisco, has become my new lifting partner. We are both on a conquest to get huge. Laugh at us meathead weight boys all you want, but I kinda like having a set of pecks and a nice bicep  for once. My whole life I've been a scrawny little boy. Yesterday the captain of the rugby team asked me to play cause he needed some more big guys. I was flattered. Plus the chicks love it.

Anyway I really haven't accomplished anything that I set out to do, I actually wanted to come off sounding intellectual. Instead I sound like a columnist from Swank magazine or something. Maybe tomorrow I'll have something good to write. Until then...later.

October 21, 1999

The city of Melbourne is kind of like Boston, similar to Montreal, but it has this Australian feeling that is in a way overwhelming. "Cheers Mate" and "How you goin" are common greetings in these parts.

Aussies can drink!  An alcoholic in America is considered a good drinker in Australia.

I have been called a variety of names like Yank and American in drunken choruses sung by the entire rugby team led by Dennis.         At the end of each song, I was forced to scull (finish) my beer.

So much for the journal I was gonna create during my stay in Australia....I guess it's not too late considering that I still have a few months left....yeah...that's the ticket....procrastination!  The key to success. "The brain functions better under the stress of putting things off," spoken by a biochemistry major I ran into the other day. He seemed smart enough but could have been talking out of his butt, as many of the Australians around this place do. If they would stop complaining (and drinking so much),they could be one of the most recognized nations in the world....instead they're stuck under the wing of the Brits. Anyway....

What have I learned....

        Rugby is a good sport. It is played not only for your team, but for yourself. It is a true test of one's athletic spirit.

Beer is good.....

Those 7am phone calls from the parents in the states the        morning after a smoko (college party) are bad...

If you love someone and you go very far away from them, it hurts...

Bedtime is imminent when you can't type because the screen keeps getting all fuzzy. Especially when its 3:22 in the morning and you just got back from Octoberfest.

Maybe next time I'll express something meaningful in life. We're working on the meaning of life in philosophy. I've expressed two opinions in the class where others are quite quick to draw conclusions. As usual, I don't say much in a situation unless I'm sitting around a campfire with some good friends.

Who knows anyway...everybody can have an opinion, but

when all is said and done, they are still just opinions.

         God is different for every person out there, and religions put these gods into categories. It seems like the categories get bigger and bigger, while the number of people who don't fit into these categories, or perhaps don't believe in God, gets larger and larger. There are the people who don't believe in anything at all. Does it all come down to nothing? What could it mean then? "I dunno" would probably be a good answer since "nothing is the answer".

Getting back to the philosophy class, the only two comments I've made on the subject have been very short as well. The first came when someone rhetorically asked themselves what the meaning of life was after their idea was shot down by the  teacher.

I replied "42".....

A few laughed, obviously having read the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" series. The others stared as if I had something hanging out of my nose.

I realized that a few started actually contemplating the answer as if they had to check it out and see if that fit right with their belief in Jesus Christ and the Ten Commandments.

I laughed to try to show I was just making a joke. The teacher then pried for my opinion on the philosophical topic they were having before on the subject.

I felt like saying.."Listen buddy....I've had  better philosophy discussions with the kid on acid stuck to a chair in the corner than I am having with     you".

But instead I said, "Life is the meaning of Life. We are created by life, make life, and  die."

A girl from across the room  said, "Huh?"

I said "Excuse me."

She said, "Could you repeat that?"

I said "Tool once said Life feeds on life.....this  is necessary."

She said "Huh?''......Once again people looked at me "funny". Some were amused with the reference to a heroin metal band in a philosophy tutorial, while others gazed, once again, as if my words were Spanish.

I said, "It just seems like a reasonable deduction that we are here to make life. If we ceased to create life, there would be no life, and therefore all human possibilities would become impossible till the next batch of apes made that huge evolutionary jump and started the spiral all over again."

She proceeded to look down into her notepad and write something. I can't remember the last time somebody actually wrote down my name. Everyone else seemed to accept the deduction for a split second and then murmurs began around the room which seemed to overwhelmingly shoot down my theory.

The tutor began his objection right at that point, and confused the hell out of me for 2 minutes with his definitions of meaning. He seemed to meld the word from meaning to purpose, and then explained that my revelation didn't hit the mark of defining those deeper purposes involving right and wrong and good and evil, Ying and Yang, Bill and Ted ...whatever.

I said to him," Many of these purposes come from the process of creating life, such as family. They become the part in life that people value most. At the end of every great man's life, he most likely wishes he could have done more for his family, and less of what he did to pursue his own agenda. Morals and values should be taught at home according to most learned people. It just seems to make sense."

He said "True, true, but this still leaves us in question."

I nodded, as if to say "Fair enough", and with that he looked at his watch and sent us out into the world of academia to fill the jug with more  juice.

I hope the juice makes money.....ahhhhhh....those ever so "real-life" meanings.

Anyway....

November 2nd, 1999

3 days till my first final....Man I hate studying. The only time I can actually force myself to sit down and study are during those 24 panic filled hours before the test. I question the meaning of it   all often.  One of my only motivations to do well comes from my father. Otherwise I think I'd be content in some wanker arts subject just squeezing by. Glen is quite insistent about doing well. This is not necessarily a bad thing. I feel as though I'm left with some big shoes to fill when I look at my father. Self made man, very high work ethic, provides for his family, very high morals, all around quality role model. I wonder when all these qualities          developed.

      Probably the day he became a father. I bet ya he was just like me before he had an actual idea of what real responsibility was. I bet he sat up late at night like I do, doubting myself and thinking about what I am gonna amount to, who am I gonna marry, can I really picture myself with this girl for the rest of my life. I ask myself this question about my girlfriend now...I truly love her and we've gotten pretty serious lately. She really is a sweetie and we get along so well, but does she fit into the whole picture of how I see myself?

How do I see myself?  I wonder if other people know who they are....I think I have an identity crisis that has been imprinted into me from a very young age. Being a twin has given me a lack of self understanding to a certain extent, yet the ability to read others like a book. I see through people. I see their motives, opinions, lifestyle, and sexuality. When one tries to read me, they are left with a blank stare. The reason for this is that I can't often read myself. What do I really want? What am I looking for? There must be more than this.

I sit here jamming to Alice in Chains at 3 in the morning finding comfort in the bashing guitar jams and whining vocals. I could do so much more with myself. I'm a good musician, a good athlete (in the best shape of my life I might add), handsome, good with the ladies, intelligent, funny, and as far as well rounded goes I can take the cake. I feel like I've lived too many lives or something and it's interfering with the one I'm looking for. I never fit into a group. I'll lead or not participate. This big brother mentality would be great in the business world, but I question more often than ever why do we need all this money. It seems like one great big bonfire of the vanities. I really don't think I'm a vain person, but I do want to be successful. This comes from my competitiveness...another byproduct of growing up with a mirror. I miss my brother.

I want to clear this page right now and just start a novel, type until my fingers hurt and my vision blurs. I feel I'm a great story teller, I can captivate a room full of people with a ten minute story leaving them waiting for more. This could be due to the fact that I can embellish on anything.

Why do I do that I ask?  It seems to me that a better approach to life would be a strictly factual representation of everything, yet I find myself blatantly exaggerating once in a while, not about anything important, but just to captivate attention. I guess it all comes down to wanting to be accepted or liked.

Why do I care what  people think?  To hell with other people...yet daily I find my mind occupied by concerns of another persons view of me. I need to give it up. I   need to give up the hardass attitude. I need to laugh more and think less. Life shouldn't be difficult. It should be an experience and that's all. It should be about touching those around you with a spirit that is full of goodness.

Where do my religious beliefs fit into this? I don't know. I find myself saying the Lord's prayer before I go to bed about once a week....does this make me Christian...dunno. But it makes me feel like I have a small bit of spirituality which seems like a good thing to me.

I think back to about 2 years ago when suddenly I became convinced that Jesus was my shepherd and that the Lord was with me...I don't know what it was, but I had a rush of spirituality. This strong faith lasted about 6 months and then slowly faded. I now sit on the fence like most other normal guys my age wondering what is the meaning to all this religious speculation.

             Isn't it all just speculation? Who really does know? Why won't God come down and explain some of these things to us like he did with Moses. I want to be a prophet. I want to spread the word of God, but I'm hindered by massive feelings of doubt. This world is really a crazy place.

     Humans are a very strange breed. What are we trying to prove? Which directions are we headed in? It sometimes seems like one big downward spiral.

In all this craziness I find comfort in my relationships with others, especially my family and my girlfriend. I know these people really love me. They give me strength and a sense of importance, but there is much more to this picture. I just don't know what it is! What gives family an importance? What do the morals I've accumulated through good people like my mother mean in the grand scheme of things? Especially when there is so much out there that fills me with doubt...so much pointless shit!

Now that I think of it, my writing is pretty much pointless. I wouldn't be proud to show it to anyone. It doesn't really have a point. I guess it's just something to kill time which seems like the whole world is caught up with doing these days. Its 3:30 and I'm sitting in my room writing to myself! What a waste!  Who cares anyway? It's such a shitty attitude but honestly...who cares. Does God care what I'm doing right now? Does            anyone?

Most people are so caught up in themselves and their problems, they could care less about someone like me sitting in my room trying to process a few thoughts before I go to bed. I guess that is the whole point of me sitting here in the first place....just to process my thoughts. Yet these thoughts sometimes lead on a downward spiral to nowhere.

Tomorrow I will get up, rollerblade into the city for a glass of oj and a look at the morning news, which is sure to be filled with death, destruction, and political bullshit. I'll go to the gym and lift some weights so I can improve my physical appearance, and then sit in my room and study C programming so I can prove to myself and father that I have the ability to do well in school. Do I really care? No. But I should, is what I tell myself. So I do.

I'll enjoy the rollerblading, and I'll even enjoy the gym and watching all my muscles swell up to massive proportions, but the studying will just put me in a terrible mood. If I hate learning the subject matter why would I ever want a job dealing with it? Just to make money? But will this money really make me happy? We'll see, for I'm gonna be rich! The competition in life drives my spirit.

I will now set a goal to do something tomorrow that not only makes me feel alive, but makes someone else happy. I want to get up every morning and feel like laughing, running, thanking God for this day.

I don't want to lay awake dreading things. Instead I'll be thankful that I actually can do these things. I'll walk down the street with my head high and a smile and say hello to people I don't even like! I'll refrain from smoking and drinking and just get high on the fact that I'm enjoying my time on this planet...life isn't hard ...we just make it that way.

I've successfully talked my way out of a lonely hole and given myself some hope. Cause if I had my girlfriend with me right now I' d be cuddling and not sitting here lonely. I will learn all my studies tomorrow and I'll do it for myself and no one else.    

 It's funny how the dread of tests makes us crazy. I 1 m so relaxed compared to most. There are chicks here who cry and freak out over this kind of stuff.....how hard could it all be?

One thing this will require is a good night's  rest... and hence I say goodnight..