This is your world...

The text of the title to this post is a new phrase I employ in conversation. It is often what I say to my wife in her many moments of uncertainty and/or indecision. Often I follow the phrase with the chorus from Wu-Tang Clan's "It's Yours", or I say, "...well, really, its mine, but you are a VERY important part of it."

This is your world. What are you going to do with it? Are you going to chop its head off and eat its eyes, or will you serve it so closely that it resents you? How will your world taste? Always? Will your world give you good parking spaces on holidays? Will it make you quesadillas late when you're drunk? Will your world be worth today?

The only complaint I have about my world is also one of many points of celebration: the world is so rich in sensuality that it can be distracting. Sometimes I wish the world would tone it down, be composed of less, so that I could appreciate fewer phenomena more deeply.

Sometimes the world feels so incredible/terrible that we do not recognize how incredible/terrible it is. This is when we know our world is real, when it is too real to realize.

29er

I recently turned 29. I really do not give a shit about my age. There are more interesting things to talk about. For example: nostalgia and the appeal of the "old school", tourists who hate other tourists (perhaps "hate" is the wrong word...how about "avoid"...yes, much better) and why, how it is/is not absolutely INSANE that Barak Obama is the President of the United States of America, sex and/or past or present relationships, how guilt works in our conscious and subconscious life, how men are different/similar to women and vice-versa, what you would do if China, France, and Iran all became military allies and attacked the U.S., why it is that middle and upper class white children love and consume hip-hop the way that they do, what kind of car you would buy if you won the lottery, work, art, film, music, and so much more.

I will be 30 in less than a year. Yikes.

Why hopscotcher?

Six squares in the shape of a double cross with a halo above. A surprisingly complex "children's game" that requires good balance, quickness of feet, and even hand-eye coordination for tossing the marker. Most exciting are the endings of the game when hopscotchers attempt to clear the length from the first square to the halo. If no one makes it, then game over, everyone loses.

The last breath of Rocamadour, in an Argentine-French accent, I read into my soul. The mad artistry of Cortazar's characters make me feel mad. Safely mad, that is. I like that type of stuff.

That's why hopscotcher.