“I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas. Kennedy himself was 9/10ths the way around the clock or he wouldn’t have accepted such an enervating and enfeebling job — meaning President of the United States of America. How can I be concerned with the murder of one man when almost all men, plus females, are taken from cribs as babies and almost immediately thrown into the masher?”—Charles Bukowski (Sunlight Here I Am: Interviews and Encounters)
You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.
In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter-things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon--
The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were not quite yourself,
And did not want nor have to be,
Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being,
The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound--
Steel against intimation--the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside.
That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
“The War on Terror has been a long and hard battle; one that has been erected in the name of being the best defense against terrorism. The argument that forceful crackdowns are the answer to terror attacks is a phallacy, as we continue to experience assaults at home and abroad. Democracy should never be shafted in the name of defense. During the Bush years, bills were shoved down our throats by Congress, and it is time for a policy change.”—
Conclusion to my essay on what’s wrong with current American foreign policy…
Okay, you have a lot of homework to do this weekend so you'd better split it up evenly each day. That way you'll get the hard stuff out of the way and you'll be able to relax on Sunday and not worry too much about the coming week. It's really important that you do this stuff and not fuck around, just sit down and power through it. It's going to work out really well and you'll feel really accomplished and you should just really take initiative because honestly if you don't you're going to get super overwhelmed and then you'll end up stressing on Sunday night and not getting any sleep and then you'll be tired during school and it really is just a vicious circle so, come on, you got this, you can do this.
“I know a man who is firm - he’s firm in his pants, he’s firm in his shirt, his character is firm - but most [of] all, his belief in you the students of Bethel, is firm. Jeff Kuhlman is a man who takes his point and pounds it in. If necessary, he’ll take an issue and nail it to the wall. He doesn’t attack things in spurts - he drives hard, pushing and pushing until finally - he succeeds. Jeff is a man who will go to the very end - even the climax, for each and every one of you. So please vote for Jeff Kuhlman, as he’ll never come between us and the best our school can be. He is firm enough to give it everything.”—
Matthew Fraser, high school student, in a speech to nominate his friend for student government. He got suspended for 3 days, but he took it to the Supreme Court.
Bethel School District v. Fraser. Look that shit up.