Conceive and Believe

Think back to a time in your life when you felt inspired and excited to make a significant change. Did you go for it or did your inner obstacles get in the way?

Your thoughts and beliefs are the foundation on which you build your success. You can’t build a solid house on a foundation of clay and debris and the same truth holds for your success.

If your thoughts and beliefs are shaky, these obstacles will hold you back unless you eliminate them.

Sometimes it is our friends, colleagues and family members who sow the seed of doubts by trying to talk you out of changing your path. It is when you decide to make a better life for yourself that your decision will be met by all kinds of cautious warnings. All unsolicited under the guise of serious concern and well meaning.

People will say such things as “that sounds great, “but do you have any idea how much that will cost you or how long it’ll take to get the kind of result you want?”
Or, “And what will you do if it doesn’t work out?”
Or, “what will happen if . . .?” Downright to “you’d better stick to what you have now, at least you know what you’ve got”.

Regardless the origin of these warnings, they only serve to increase your level of anxiety and self doubts. The best way to handle such opinions is to thank your friends for their concern. Turn deaf ears to their platitudes and decide to watch out for whom you share your ideas with in the near future.

Learning to handle obstacles is the best way to stand your ground and succeed. While running away only undermines your self esteem.

Nature presents you with these challenges in order to learn to weather the storm and grow stronger.

To succeed at overcoming obstacles you need to have the guts not to quit, but to see things through; to have the strong faith to believe more in yourself than in the obstacles and to have the willingness to do what it takes to turn the obstacles around.

This means, you need to stand up to your obtacles and firmly believe you can overcome them. When you attack your obstacles and do something about them, you’ll find that they are not as threatening as they appeared to be at first.

Decide that you will not give up and if something has to give, it will have to be the obstacles and not you.

Standing up to your obstacles imparts you with a sense of accomplishment and reinforces the sense of your inner power. By developing a habit of facing resistance, you instill into your psyche a strong message of endurance and success. This strengthens the faith and the belief in yourself. Which helps remind you of the responsibility to yourself.

Sometimes you may have to resort to some other measures to overcome obstacles. If you can’t get through the problem, try going around it, and if you can’t go around it, try getting under it, and if you can’t get under it, try going over it, and if you can’t go over it, just dive straight into it.

Reflection:

Ask yourself if the obstacle can be ignored. Your fixation of the problem only renders it more cumbersome. If possible, stop paying attention to it.

Use humour or your wits to get around the obstacle. This helps to diffuse the tension around the issue.

Take the bull by the horn and confront the obstacle. Doing this might be challenging at first, particularly if you are not used to confrontation. Yet the more you do it, the easier it will become.

Action Point:

1.See obstacles as propeller to move you forward and use them wisely.

2. Repeat loudly as often as necessary to yourself : “I can overcome this, and I will”.

3. Confront obstacles as habits of success and not of failure.

4. Develop the ability to overcome, bypass, or eliminate obstacles.

5. When difficult circumstances arise, have the confidence to take action.

Don’t allow other people to put obstacles in your path. Learn to overcome obstacles by standing up to them without complaining. Have the faith and strength to change your thoughts and beliefs that you can succeed and you will.

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A monthly quick shot to motivate you, in less than 45 seconds, from Julie Cohen Coaching

What is your PASSION?

Dictionary*says:
strong liking for or devotion to some activity, object or concept; object of desire or deep interest; love.

What it REALLY means:
doing something or believing in something that matters to you; making choices based on something that energizes you and excites you; one of the reasons you enjoy getting up in the morning and doing what you do.

Why it MATTERS?
Incorporating PASSION into your life and work feels good. Excitement replaces drudgery; Meaningful replaces ‘so what?’; ‘Want to’ replaces ‘should do’.

Questions that INSPIRE:

• What is your PASSION? What action, belief, vision or object excites and interests you?


• What would it feel like if this PASSION was a part of your life every day?


• How is that feeling different from now?


• What one step can you take today which will make your PASSION more a part of your life or your work?

I would love to hear your answers and comments. Take 45 seconds to reply to these questions at Julie@juliecohencoaching.com. I will keep all responses confidential and reply directly to you.

I hope you enjoyed Words That Inspire, a monthly glimpse at words that matter. To continue receiving this, please send an email to subscribe@juliecohencoaching.com. Permission granted to forward or reprint, as long as copyright, subscription and signature information included. Visit archives at: http://www.juliecohencoaching.com/wordsthatinspire.php.

*(Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, 1977, G. & C. Merriam Co.)

© 2004 Julie Cohen, www.juliecohencoaching.com

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Success is the most desired ambition of the human beings. Every one of us wants to be successful. But only few endeavor towards that purpose consciously whereas others rely on luck and chance to achieve their goals.

The best example in this case is someone who wants to get rich but only has one alternative: playing the Lotto. Of course, there are chances of becoming rich over night, but how likely is it that this will actually happen?

Creating a realistic plan in order to achieve the desired results is vital in any case, no matter how high or low your ambitions are set and how high or low your hopes are.

The safest way to do this is by taking successive steps and gradually increasing your chances of reaching your ideal. The safest and surest.

Try to think of a metaphor and compare your desires with a professional swimming competition.

The first thing you need to do, in order to have chances of winning the race, is to make sure you are not afraid of the water. Before you even consider entering the race you have to eliminate your fears. They are the ones holding you back. But be careful! Some of your fears might save you from getting hurt or failing.

Once you are convinced that your goal is worth fighting for, you have to start the hardest stage in you plan: preparation.

To start with you must learn how to swim if you already do not know. You cannot expect to win a professional swimming race when you don’t even know how to swim. Start with the basics and never skip any steps out of desire of reaching your goal faster. The experience and knowledge you are skipping will probably come back and hurt you later on.

There is a price to pay for everything. Success too has its own price – Hard work

Prepare by taking gradually increasing steps. Swim half a lap first, and then move on to a full lap. Your skills will progress each time and you will soon beat your own lap records every time you enter the swimming pool.

It might take days, weeks or years to prepare for the “race”, depending on what your goals are. The main thing is to enter the race feeling confident in your own success and having all the skills that would allow you to win.

Taking steps one at a time and keeping your plan realistic gives you two important benefits. The order and precision of a plan brings confidence. You don’t feel like you are reengaging each new issue on a day-to-day basis. Organizing your strategy reduces the chances of making wrong moves or taking less efficient decisions.

Secondly, having a sound plan has many psychological benefits and your subconscious mind worries less. This gives you more energy to concentrate on what’s important. You are creating a pattern in your awareness that accepts success and integrates it in your plan.

When both you conscious and your subconscious mind believe in your chances of reaching a goal you benefit from a power of concentration and focus that eliminate outside interference and let you follow the shortest path to success.

Even though chance may still play an important role in your quest to reach your ideal, having a realistic plan lets you change the “unlikely” into “possible”.

Wish you success.

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Sunday, December 8, 2002, awaiting the Greyhound bus to drop off my travel partner from Maine, so we can trek to New Orleans together, as young, homeless squatters…

Life is life. This is a demonstration of Logic’s rule of identity. This is a grammatical error. This is obvious. This is complicated. All the breakdowns and analyzations through the foggy and dense myst of misinformation, by and by every person on our planet who has added their opinion, there is one thing that none have disputed. Life is life. And whether I will spend that time in a cage or in a field is up to me. I’m heading out again, and my motto still sticks: I would rather fail at my dreams, than succeed at my nightmares. Life is life, and I’m living it with the integrity I afford myself.

Sadness pervades me as I realize the loneliness of life without my brother. And as the soothing, somewhat powerful, always deep, music melds with my soul, I realize one recurring fact. Life is life, and I will be dead someday, just like every other living organism. And these emotions of misery and delight, these feelings that I never let leave, these memories and thoughts, ideas and desires, all of me, as a person, will be dust. So our fate is the same. I will be the nutrients that feed the grass, as much as the man next to me. And one day, there will be nothing but our own death. And if I could make one blind person see, give one tired heart the comfort of love, sustain the angel of mercy longer by one minute, offer the reverence for my brothers and sisters a little longer, continue my respect for heroes long dead and past for another day, give one more piece of bread to the hungry and homeless, give one more obstacle to the clergy and ruling class, if these things may be done before I die, before we all die, then life and death are a dream, and we will never slip into the nightmare of dissension.

[Author’s Note: The following entry has BARELY legible handwriting.]

With the alcohol flowing through my veins with as much rage as the sun and as much still solemness as the moon, I fear that maybe life is just life, and our existence is but all existence. Swallowed and swallowed again by the cherubs of hope, this fear dissolves into the swamp of strife, of history, of non-existence. Nothing but a bottle of Bacardi and my friends. The weed goes into my lungs and passes throughout my body. I understand my drunkenness as I write and as I think, as the faculties of my brain operate in cooperation with my inebriated state, and I think of life as a being, a thing, a goddess, a tyrant, a lover, this, that, everything. And I cannot see beyond the horizon of tomorrow.

Today was an intriguing venture, as was yesterday. Last night, I stole a bag of Picans and some Gatorade from A&P, then I went around giving it to the homeless. Then I stole a Sprite from a tourist shop, some batteries from Virgin, and that’s about it. While in Marie Laveau’s, Stray said she was hungry for some carrots. It was rather random, but I disappeared, and returned with a whole bag from A&P. I visited her work like 3 or 4 times, bringing whatever she asked for last time. She got out of work at 2:00 A.M.. Then we walked to the square, after my night of ruthless theft. And it is this unnerved stealing of food to give the homeless, the destruction of corporations and the rise of the people, that makes me a revolutionary, more than an activist, more than a protestor. More and more alcohol pours into my blood, as I turn up the volume on Heaven 17’s angelic, heart-stealing tune. Bacardi, called the stream of liberation to the few drunks, called the tickle of relaxation to every yuppy, but called just another good time to us squatters and gutter punks. [Author’s Note: The legibility was ridiculous at this point. It resembled a five year old’s handwriting.]

And sometimes, I wonder. I wonder about our existence in consideration to the historian who will live 1,000 years from now. And I will wonder why these people tried so hard to be tough, so cold without love. And I will wonder the extent of their cold shoulder to affection. But the wonders of their ignorance and sheer brutality, there will be no question. Give to me that lust, that unbridled desire of compassion, with all its facets of mercy and truth, of kindness and reverence, with all its hate of brutality and cruelty, only untouched and unmoved sympathy for those destined to relive their vicious nature through memory and humanity, and those with a nature to be exploited, manipulated, and abused.

…But life is life, and I’m just living.

It was 2:00 A.M.. I tried sleeping in the bed of a pickup truck. I buttoned up every piece of clothing I had, and for a few minutes, as the temperature dipped into the 20’s, I looked to the stars in the midnight sky…. and I listened to my CD player on dying batteries, hearing… “When you sleep, no one is homeless. When you sleep, you can’t feel the hunger. When you sleep, no one is lonely, in a dream…” It got colder, so I eventually went to the bench seats in the front. I moved around a little, and got at most 2 hours of sleep, until I figured I’d get no more. It was 7:00 P.M. when I got up and out of the truck, and started a new day.

It’s early. Too early to see the sun. It’s like a different city now. Fewer cops. No people. Everything is closed. It’s almost unbelievable when compared to other times.

It was freezing weather at the squat and I had one shitty blanket. I would touch my skin and feel how cold it was. Also, I was resting on hardwood. At most, I had 2 hours sleep. It was tough… I woke up, opened my eyes, and tried to tighten my blanket around me… and as I did, I felt my cold stomach flesh. It was ice cube cold. I woke up cold. I had done it once before in that miserable city of Boston.

Santa Monica seemed so great. Every few moments in our travel, whether it was dumpstering a subway cup to get free refills, or getting around town, meeting all the cool gutters [gutter punks], shit, it was done under a beautiful sky, on a gorgeous beach, with the most blessing breeze, feeling fine, feeling good. I realized then that the trip was not in vain and between every fucking thing we did, I would kiss, hug, touch, nuzzle or love physically Liz. And I can remember how good it felt to be here. Alas, these skys belong to me, and these trees, they are mine, I promise this. I am not defilice [I passed out on meth, LSA, vodka, and chronic at this point. I am not sure what I meant by that last line of “defilice…” — I only think that’s what it says. I can hardly tell as it trails off to just a line.]

I sit here, on Santa Monica State Beach, feet away from the currents. I look into the vast Pacific ocean and see those faded memories of liberty, those failed dreams of perfection… The gulls search for breakfast, but as the next wave slowly washes toward them, they quickly run away, almost like small children, intrigued by the beauty, the unique nature of the ocean, but cautious and fearful. Very human that we are, our animal nature can never be escaped. As I am surrounded by yuppies carrying water bottles and CEO’s “enjoying a weekend at the ol’ weekend house,” I find myself sitting here, crying… “These are the days we will never forget,” so Justin Sane sings on my CD player, as I use my Che Hoody as a beach towel. I walked into the waves, as the 2 inche high current slightly glossed my boots. And it was then that I felt free.

When I first got here, Liz said she liked my chain, so I put it on her. She said, “Aw, thanks.” I said, “Now ya’ have to have sex with me!” She laughed, and Pockets said, “See! Didn’t I say he would ask in less than 30 minutes?” And so it was.

[…]

Finally, Rachel and I were getting tired and sleepy. Meanwhile Pockets wanted to do Meth and stay up all night. “Fuck that, man, I need sleep,” I sez. So, Rachel and I went back to the squat, while Liz said she would come back soon, in 10 minutes. Pockets said the same. It was 10:30, and I started making a bed out of cardboard with my knife, for Liz and I. Pockets finally came back. He started arguing with his girlfriend about relationship shit. I just counted minutes waiting for Liz. Finally… Finally… I got tired of sitting up in anticipation for every person who walked past, those long footsteps reverberating through the 12:00 night. And she came, Liz, Graham, and two others. “Dude, we don’t have enough room for four,” Pockets said. To this Graham said, “Fine, fuck you, asshole,” and he left. I just realized, then, looking through the bars, that Liz was among them. And she left not saying anything. “Why?” I asked, “Why?” I put my socks on, and my boots on, not lacing even one hole. “Was Liz there?” Pockets asked. I nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, not for shooing them away, but because how I was done. I climbed that fucking chain link fence, and I fucking ran 3 straight blocks. No pain, no fear. Everyone stared at the crazy methhead, as I ran for her… but I couldn’t… I couldn’t find her. I checked Promenade and the park, but I couldn’t find her. So, I wandered around, aimlessly, maybe I would find her. And I imagined, at this 1:00 A.M. time, what I would say to an inquiring cop. “I’m looking for someone… I can’t find her.” And I cried. My first crystal experience, and tears. And I thought… “Why am I looking for her? Why isn’t she looking for me?” I ran into an older gutter punk (JR), and he said, “What happened? She run off on you?” I nodded. “I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.” He could tell.

There I was, walking down the park sidewalk, tears here and there, boots not laced up, the Pacific breeze coming in and turning my outter flesh to cold — my T shirt not helping when I wear it, my sweatshirt not helping because it’s at the squat. I left my watch, my knife, my drugs, everything,… at the squat. I know Pockets will watch it, though. He is my brother. My sixth time up and down the park, and I felt like crying to the city, “TAKE ME!” Whatever that means, “TAKE ME, SANTA MONICA!” And I was on my way back to the squat, despite considering staying out all night with other meth-heads. Then, someone passes me in their car, and yells out, “GUTTER PUNK!!!” Like, fucking really… What the fuck? Was that necessary? The most derogatory term you could call a homeless kid. But then again, the question of whether the homeless are human is still up to debate. And we shouldn’t assume what we don’t know.

Ah, but a glorious day, when the substances in my blood stream flow with the purity which produces endorphins, with the justice that creates dopamine, with the love that creates serotonin!

As the sun sets, a new kind of world unfolds. Venice Beach turns from a gathering to gang territory, the park from a place to walk to meth head turf. Oh, those changes incited by the astrogolical entities…

Wandering around this god-awful city, seeing these god-awful people, listening to “to only need to keep working, to pay rent,” on headphones where the left speaker is dead, blanketed by a sky of stars, dreams of dust, just wanting to go back home… Back home? I’ve never known anywhere that I could call my own home. These streets are awash with drugs and I’m trying to keep my head up above the drug-dealers-having-their-addicts-kill-people violence, just praying that I can hold on to someone, to something. And never let them go. Never let them turn their head that their eyes cease to shine at you. Because I am human, and I am forced by my conditions to live the way I do.

Just today, a cop brought his son to the Spider Tree and whipped out his baton, saying, “I’m one crazy motherfucker and I will beat you the fuck up!” We made out of it alive. Just violence, right? We then went around, got some weed, and sold it. Just drugs, right? Maybe for you, but a living for us. A girl walks by this creepy gutter punk on the sidewalk, writing in his journal and listening to beat up headphones. He looks up, she smiles. And she may wonder how she made his day. Because 8 hours of starvation, and asking an old lady if she could spare her styrophome boxed leftovers, to hear, “No! I have nothing for you!” might make you think less of yourself. And it did matter that you smell, it did matter that you look like trash, and it did matter to her that I am who I am. I found a flower on the ground made of thick paper. I used two safety pins to put it on my hoody so that everyone could see the beauty I found. It goes well with the spiked studed leash around my boot. Because I’m about peace, but they already think I’m about war. Because…. Seeing the same guy ask for money for surgery, spending that money on meth, is far from the worst part of your day. Because, there is not one night that you can sleep, without alcohol, and no matter what I have to do for it, I will do it. Because…. this is who I am, and this how I live. The world might not like it, but how can I refuse to accept it? This pavement is my bed, this air is my fucking blanket. I look through garbage cans for food and watch the beautiful California sunsets. I smoke weed with my friends and keep a journal of all the things I think. I just asked a girl for a fuck, and I love a female who could be anywhere in this world now.

It gets cold. The cops get suspicious. I can’t see a fucking single star. And I can’t stop hoping.

Where is Liz? She said, “I’ll be right back,” in tears, but never came. I tried to follow her, but she told me not to. So I climbed the nearest statue, and watched her walk away. I looked crazy, I looked drugged, but it is humanity, shining bright. And I had to watch her walk away.

Again…. One of those happy-not-to-be-dead-not-happy-to-be-alive days. One of those it’s-too-cold days. One of those watch-the-sunrise-and-cry mornings. Because as I drank with Thomas and Josh, looking at the stars away from the Promenade, I said, “Look at the stars and enjoy, because tomorrow, it will be illegal to look up.” One of those I-slept-with-no-blanket-on-concrete nights. One of those this-dirt-has-been-on-my-hands-forever times FUCKING one of those if-I-could-fuck-all-this-bullshit-and-spend-every-lasting-moment-with-Liz-in-her-arms-I-might-not-say-no days. Because the alcohol is running thin, and it’s not enough any more to make me happy. Because I had to spend my last two quarters trying to call her, and all there was was an answering machine.

And it gets so hard, when you wake up in a place swarmed with flies.

And it gets so difficult, when you sell drugs to your best friend, who says, “As long as this money supports the revolution,” and then to hear him with the drugs, “It’s my mission to destroy my mind and body in this fucking world. I’m not a circus freak, so the yuppies shouldn’t stare at me.”

And life is life again.

I’m tired of selling drugs. The revolution needs money, yes, but there may very well be other sources. It’s not even good money, and the main distributors of weed and meth ARE homeless. Then there is the paranoia of undercover cops, and Pockets asking everyone, “Where’s your badge?” I was getting drunk with everyone last night, and someone handed me a pepsi chaser.

Alas, alcohol fuels the mind with ammunitions for conflict. I can deal now. Sobriety, my mortal enemy, awaits at every morning, at every meal. We must fight long and hard, that there is not one minute sober.

[Note: The handwriting became absurdly horrid.]

Watching people eat while you starve. Fill your fucking Abercrombie-covered bellies to the fucking point they explode. Do it so I can smile at your bloody body and cry at the loss of another soul. Crying… For tomorrow. Because, we don’t have any “Fuck you up now” drama.

Threatened again by life. I’m sorry for it all. Just pray with me that not every day is a waste of blood. I’ll love you for it.

“Santa Monica Police! Wake up!” This is what I heard to wake me this morning. A police officer at our squat, fully armed. It’s not just here, though. It is happening everywhere. I imagine that right now, there is one police officer screaming, “LAPD! Get the fuck up!” and another yelling, “Chicago police! Fucking get up and put your hands on your head!” It’s fear, these words. They unlock pain in our heart. We never wanted to be criminals. They simply criminalized our lifestyle. Ask any squatter, “When it was made illegal to sleep on the grass, did they ask for your vote? Did they care about your opinion?” Not one was asked, but that is typical of any tyrranical government.

[…]

Because it seems like, most of what I do will be forgotten in some months, let alone some years, or decades. Most likely, I’ll be a corpse in some alley, and when the cops think it’s homicide, they’ll question, “Why would someone place a body so it is facing the stars?”

I am methed out and high on weed. My friend Dave and I, both high, walk through a McDonald’s, asking for spare change to buy a bite to eat. We ask a Hispanic family for spare change for food. The father shakes his head. One son, 4 years old, holds up a penny to us. He was bright eyed and beautiful. He glanced at his father, and his father shook his head. His son sat back, putting the penny back, looking sad. “Oh, it’s okay, you can keep that,” Dave says with a big smile to the young fellow. He walks away, and I feel like I’m about to cry.

For Life,

Robin Hood

Sitting on a city bench, waiting for the goddamn Greyhound bus to take me away from this god-forsaken American city. Hoping to be whisked away from these pimple-infested, gross bodies, whom I’ve learned to love, whom I’ve grown to call family. Take me… away from here. I am ready to leave these steamy streets, the asphalt mixed with fast food resin smell, that sand in my boots grinding at my every step in my wounds, those cold nights but colder winds — those 3:00 A.M. wake-up freezing so you can see your lover sleeping and feel like a king on earth. But fuck America, fuck the world, and sure as fuck Santa Monica. Bomb the goddamn mall, raid the office buildings, take over the fucking Pentagon. I’m ready to leave those eyes, starring at me, as I’m part of the circus. I’m ready to leave the McVeggie burgers (twice the cost of meat burgers) and the McDonald’s playing techno. Take me away from this land where we are arrested for sleeping in parks, stared at by yuppies and surrounded by a society that has decided to define ugly with our group picture. Take me away, because I never want to see a California sunset again, or a homeless Californian girl trying to make the best of what she has.

But then I feel like I could cry. I’m crying. Leaving these god-fucked streets, these “praise god!” evangelists, these “don’t ever forget” street panhandlers. Because it has been a year so far, from Boston to New Orleans to Santa Monica. Drugs and lovers, crime and prison. Fuck the law. I never did anything I thought was wrong in my heart and the blue-uniformed fuck who thought so is the one who sodomized your 4 year old son. So fuck this life, I’ve eaten pavement and drunk concrete. Afraid again… that doing what my heart leads me to do might end up in some happiness, some misery, and eternal memories. Not sure again… that I’m doing the right thing, or just what I have to do to survive. Scared I might wake up tomorrow morning to see the runrise and want to be back over that hill again, with an herb pipe, a few tall cans of beer, and a line of meth or two. But always with family. Because weed turns to ash, meth to water, and alcohol to urine. But the flesh of a lover forever leaves a mark on you. And you have to travel with it, wherever you go. So one day, you might see something beautiful, think of her, and cry, just so the next Mexican immigrant can pass you and ask, “You all right, man?” and you can nod, “No.” Unable to understand, if these are tears or sweat. Knowing that I only have 27 pages left in this goddamned fucking journal, betting it won’t be enough to write everything I learned.

I’m a goddamn gutter punk. But don’t call me that, or I’ll smash your face on the ground and make you give me the rest of your cigarettes — because I don’t even smoke.

I’m a goddamn squatter. But don’t tell me about squatter rights or I’ll tell you stories of armed thugs in blue threatening to kill me — because I have no rights.

Afraid again…. That just maybe doing all I can as my heart asked of me, just might not be enough, for me to find happiness.

For Life,

Robin

I am only 2 hours away from Boston, but it feels like I may as well still be in Santa Monica, or walking down Decatur in New Orleans. I feel that, no matter where I journey, I will find my friends and family. Massachusetts or California? There’s no real difference. Perhaps it’s just my apathy, after the ordeal of Greyhound travel — of 72 hours on a bus.

So, maybe this shall be my last damned journal entry in this goddamned book. Fuck. It’s nearly full anyhow. I love Liz, but I don’t think I could survive living with, close to, or next to her. The sort of bitter love, that when I’m 25, alone in my apartment with a fifth of vodka and Requiem for a Dream playing, I’ll make a list of everyone who’s ever loved me. It’ll read erroneously, “Samantha from Cali, Amanda from Georgia, Pockets from Seattle, Crystal from New York, Sirkuit from Florida,” and on that note, I’ll think…. “Oh, yeah! Liz! What fuckin’ state was she from? She pretty much went around.” Then I’ll add her name to the list without the state she’s from, telling myself, “I know what I mean…” Then I’ll look around my apartment suspiciously, and add to the list “vodka” and laugh. I just can’t be with someone when they conceal the truth from me. So fuck it.

Then I’ll wake up one day and I’ll be 32. I’ll be sleeping in the gutter, mumbling to myself in a drunken stupor, “hardcore gutter punk! 30 years old!” And I’ll miss all that I had, all these comrades and brothers. I hope I never turn 32 in a gutter. I want to be among the people who make me feel at home — the people who are my family. Specifically, who that is, may very well pass with the tides of time, as the years unfold and our experience grows. For the sake of brevity, I shall say this. I may be seeking out “home” for the rest of my life, never satisfied. I hope this is not the case. I hope a time will come, where the conditions are favorable, that we write. And I can shake the hand of every family member of mine without leaving the same room. I hope that we can change the world together as revolutionaries. I hope that to live among family is the way my dreams have described it: without ever a sad day.

For Life,

Robin Hood

Because whenever I think of the beauty that nature has given us, the unique glory of a midnight sky or the perfect gorgeousness of a sunset, these things which are worth more than anything else but are free — I am reminded then of my hopes and my dreams, that one day I believe I will have found a way out of here. A way out of this god-forsaken city, this American town, whichever one it is, they are all god-forsaken. And I will be able to scream to the night sky, “I made it!” All my friends and family will be there, and once I had finished howling to an inanimate sky, one of my friends will nudge me, “Okay… Let’s go.” Thus begins the long march home. And every time the cops take another life, every time another friend starves to death, every prison sentence delivered down like a blow with a billy club, I get afraid that maybe we will all die before we finish this journey home. But then I look up, and think again of those lovers nested away in alleyway corners, of those friends drinking together in private driveways, and I think just maybe, just maybe… Life is life, and we are all just living.

www.punkerslut.com

For Life,
Robin Hood

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Although it’s not my favorite thing to be in the world, I am a mouth ulcer. My street name is most commonly: canker sore. I’ve got a fancy name, and that involves painful open sores that will exist in your mouth when the mucous membrane breaks. You might also choose to call me one of these other names: aphthous stomatitis or aphthous ulcer. Now that we have that out of the way..

I will often being with a tingling or burning sensation in your mouth. This ‘tingling’ or ‘burning’ will exist in the place where the future mouth ulcer, canker sore, aphthous stomatitis or aphthous ulcer will exist. It won’t take me longer than a few days to turn into the state of a red bump or spot inside your mouth, which will then be followed by an open ulcer.

Once at the open ulcer state I will appear as a white or yellow oval with an inflamed red border. Modestly I will be approximately 3 mm wide, however, for quick bragging rights, I can reach up to and beyond 1 cm wide in extreme cases. If I’ve done my job really well, you will be able to see a white circle or halo around the lesion.

My main body, the ulcer, is often times very painful when agitated. This can also be accompanied by sore swelling of the lymph node. If your unsure of where your lymph nodes are, they exist below your jaw. For this locational reason I can often times be mistaken for a toothache at first. Open your mouth, look inside, I’m not!Your lucky with me, that normally I will go away without any treatment. The best start is to make sure you have good oral hygiene and avoid spicy/acidic/salty foods and drinks. The best and widely known ‘home remedy’ for dealing with me is to pour salt directly onto my main ulcer. This works but note - can be painful.

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The year was 2700 AD, and the technological advances of mankind were impressive. By now, 99% of disease had been eliminated, and the average life span was around 150 years. Innovating and exciting new fields of science had been opened and subdivided. Art found new and creative ways to be expressed. The ways of the people became not necessarily simple, but all directed towards fulfilling the passion of the heart, the creativitiy of the mind.

Bastello walked with his/her lover Rols, gently trotting across the otherwise untouched cobblestone. As they passed by a housing unit, they hear some shouting. It was their friend Casva. “Hey, Bastello! Rols! I’ve got something you want to see!”

“We’re comin’!” Bastello hollered. Technology had become molded with biology in this era, and many bodies included implants that helped boost immunity, strength, and other basic functioning.

“What do you have for us, Casva?” Rols asked once the two were inside the housing unit of their comrade.

“My newest creation,” s/he replied, “Are you looking?”

“The flower?” Bastello asked, “What about it?”

“I’ve been tweaking the genes of it for the past few weeks,” Casva sad, “I bought a gene manipulation kit at the hobby store. With all the effort I’ve put into it, I think I’ve been able to create the most beautiful flower ever.” A look at the scene right now would reveal a flower, a computer attached to the flower, and a solar panel similarly attached to the flower. “This solar panel allows me to get more energy to the flower faster,” Casva says, “Sure, sure, it’s not natural like other hobbyists like, but hey, it gets it faster to the best part.”

“So, what do you have to show us?” Rols asked, “It’s a flower. It’s not even open. It’s very much closed.”

“Okay, watch this,” Casva replies. S/He turns to his/her computer and presses a few keys, and then flips three switches attached to the solar panel.

With all that, the flower bloomed. It was a rose, but not any ordinary rose. The petals started to shift in color, twisting and turning into oranges, purples, greens, blues, yellows, the colors moving in and out much like waves would smash in the ocean. The psychedelic colors of the flower molded, morphed, grew, rose, shrunk, and receded. But, just as they had managed to be amazed entirely by this one spectacle of the flower, something else happened. It started to turn. The head of the flower was turning at at utmostly slow pace, adding to the immense beauty of the plant, allowing others to afford a greater appreciation of its colors. And, then something strange happened… All throughout the room, a sound could be heard. A very gentle and increasing hum could be heard coming from the center of the flower. It almost sounded like a choral voice. Very light. Very gentle. Very delicate. This flower, whose colors were changing and morphing constantly, its head slowly turning, and now, the perfect voice of a human resonating from it… In one more minute, all these functions would stop, and it would close again.

“Wow, that was amazing,” Bastello said, “I mean, I’ve seen some flowers do some crazy things, but that was absolutely brilliant.”

“Seven thousand lines of altered genes, my friend,” Casva said, tapping his/her computer, “There are billions I have yet to tap in to.”

“I have not seen anything so beautiful in all my years,” Rols said.

“Yeap,” Casva replied, “It takes 12 hours of the solar panel being charged just to get two minutes. I’m trying to reduce that time without harming the abilities of the plant.”

“You know, Casva,” Bastello said, “Several hundred years ago, toiling with things like genetics was considered a social violation. It was considered heresy, playing as god, to do what you’ve done.”

“Oh, I know,” Casva replied, “And only a few hundred years earlier than that, it was considered heresy to paint a picture of something that didn’t include angels or god. So many paintings were burned, so many libraries were leveled. And, if we also want to dig into the past, you’ll remember that what doctors did was considered heretical, because everyone thought that god planned for them a death date — and prolonging that date was considered heresy.”

“Yeah, you think people would learn to live and let live,” Rols said, “If it doesn’t bother you, don’t fuck with it.”

“I don’t think it’s that, precisely,” Casva said, as he unplugged a few wires from his/her computer, and then looking up to his/her comrades, “Actually, I think it’s learning what bothers you and what doesn’t bother you. The Nazis could actually argue that, by letting the Jews live in peace, they were being bothered. Homophobes of the early 20th century argued that by allowing Homosexuals to live in peace, they were being bothered. You wouldn’t think it at first, but the ’sanctity of marriage’ has just about the same foundation as the ’sanctity of the white race.’ Most of the time, it is the persecutor whose psychology is, in fact, not much more grown from when he was perhaps three or four years ago. It is the fault of the persecutor to harbor the sick ideas of oppression — not the fault of the oppressed to fight back.”

www.punkerslut.com

For Life,

Punkerslut

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I am Hepatitis C a form of hepatitis liver inflammation that is caused by a virus known on the street as HCV. Before HCV was discovered in 1989, they used to refer to me as a related name to my little brothers, “non-A-non-B hepatitus”. A laughing stock of the virus world, but that all changed in 1989.

Approximately 15 to 20 percent of people are able to deal with me and develop immunity. That doesn’t speak for the rest, and also 15 to 20 percent of them that will show acute signs of the me, Hepatitus C.

It is known that for each 100 chronic Hepatitis C patients, 20 will develop liver cirrhosis. Liver cirrhosis is a nasty scarring of the liver, which can progress into Liver cancer. I have infected over 180 million people around the world, and am now responsible for the majority of liver transplants, Hepatocellular carcinoma and also the major cause of death among HIV co-infected patients.

Most times, people that are carrier me in the chronic state, chronic hepatitis C, will have no symptoms. This doesn’t speak well for myself, but without further delay over time I can cause long term damage to the liver. This is due to my blood borne nature. I work slowly and severe liver damage may not develop until 10-40 years after my initial infection. Mixing things up, my symptoms vary based on each individual carrier. Often times they will resemble flu symptoms which include:

- body aches

- loss of appetite

- headaches

- diarrhea

- fatigue

- nausea- nightsweats

- abdominal pain

- upper right quadrant pain

Because, like I mentioned, these symptoms resemble the flue, most people are not aware that they have me until they visit a doctor and have a physical exam. Even then sometimes I can go unnoticed unless they have blood work done. Cases often exist, where a individuals will go to donate bllod or plasma, and will return positive results to a HCV test.

Needle sharing, drug sharing, and unprotected sex are just a few ways in which I can spread rampantly. It’s as simple as blood-to-blood contact. Wherever that exists I also exist. Things like piercings and tattoo needles are some of my favorites.

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I, Hepatic Porphyrias, primarily affect the nervous system, which can result in: abdominal pain, vomiting, acute neuropathy, seizures, and mental disturbances that include: hallucinations, depression, anxiety, and paranoia. Often times I can be involved in Cardiac arrhythmias and tachycardia as the autonomic nervous system is affected by my presence in the body.

Severe pain is most times present, and in some more rare cases, can be acute and chronic in nature. One of my favorites is that I can often times bring about constipation, because of my huge presence in the nervous system of the gut.

The erythropoietic porphyrias primarily affect the skin, which can cause photosensitivity, blisters, itching, and swelling, and increased hair growth on areas such as the forehead. In some of my forms, accumulated heme precursors excreted in the urine may change its color; For example after exposure to sunlight, I can change your urine to a dark reddish or dark brown color.

I can be diagnosed through tests on your blood, urine, and stool. The initial test for my presence in your body is through the estimation of porphobilinogen. More extensive testing is done usually done after thsi initial porphobilinogen estimation with spectroscopy and other chemical analyses. I am a rare condition, so normally this testing involves sending samples of blood, stool and urine to a reference laboratory. If the diagnosic suspicion is high, often times, empirical treatment is required.

If diagnosed with me, a high-carbohydrate diet is most commonly recommended. If I have reached you in a sever fashion, a glucose 10% infusion is commenced, which can in most cases help in recovery. If it is drugs that have caused the attack, is is always essential and to my dismay, to discontinue their use. I recommend that you take a look, and quickly, into visiting your local doctor or physician if you suspect that you have been infected with me. Once properly diagnosed they will be able to point you in the right direction for how you will be able to cope with my presence.

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Rarely is a chord played with its tones contained in a single octave, the root on the bottom, the third in the middle, and the fifth on the top.

Usually chords are “voiced!”

This basically means that the positions of a chord’s tones are scattered over the keyboard. The tones may be altered, doubled, added to, missing, and so forth.

There are a great variety of possibilities available in voicing chords. Voicing chords properly is an art within itself. Using the correct voicing techniques in your playing will give your improvisation a “hip,” mature and full sound. Chords played in root position just does not seem to do the job when playing Jazz, Rock, Pop, Blues, Gospel and “Smooth Jazz” piano.

Learning and mastering good voice leading techniques in your playing is not difficult if you just follow some simple rules.

1. The most important notes in any chord is the 3rd and the 7th. The 3rd of the chord defines whether the chord is a major or minor chord. The 7th of the chord will define whether the chord is a dominant or major chord.
Usually the bass player will play the root and fifth. The root and fifth are not essential tones and can be completely left our from your chord
progressions. If you must use the root and fifth try using it in your right hand, not your left. You should add your “color” tones in your right hand.

2. When you are taking a solo and not “comping” (accompanying) for another soloist you should play your chord voicings in your left hand, so that the right hand can be free to improvise, do fills, double the left hand, add extensions, etc.

3. The range of your voicings is also very important. A good rule of thumb to remember when voicing your chords, is to always try to voice
your chords around middle C. Keeping your voicings around middle C will sound full and clear. Limits of approximately an octave above or below will assure best results by preventing the voicing from assuming a quality of thinness or muddiness.

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Parkinson’s disease (PD), a neurodegenerative disease of the substantia nigra, was first discovered and its symptoms documented in 1817. This discovery and docomentation was by British physician Dr. James Parkinson.

It wasn’t until the 1960’s that the associated biochemical changes in the brain of patients were able to be identified. Although many genes have recently been identified, there are still several others that remain unkown. Parkinson’s disease involves a progressive movement disorder of the extrapyramidal system. The extrapyramidal system controls and adjusts communication between neurons in the brain and muscles in the human body. As you can see this is a huge, and important task. PD will commonly coincide with depression and disturbances of sensory systems due to the damage that it has on the brain. Aprroximately one out of every 600 people have Parkinson’s disease in the United States of America. The rates increase with age, especially apparent in those over 55. Still unknown, is the cause of Parkinson’s disease. 9 different genetic defects have been found. Each of these nine cause the disease in 1 or a few more familes with extremely high incidences of the disease. This unfortunately hasn’t take geneticists further as these familes are so rare to find. Although strong inheritance patterns are extremely rare, an person who is infected with PD is 3 to 4 times more likely to have a close relative who also has PD.

Today the strongest theory for the cause of Parkinson’s disease is from “the combination of a subtle genetically-determined vulnerability to environmental toxins along with even limited exposure to those toxins. The toxins most strongly suspected at present are certain pesticides and industrial metals.”

I wish that I had an answer like many others do to the cause of Parkinson’s. One thing that we know though, is that as science and technology increases, so will man’s understanding of diseases such as Parkinson’s.

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