Labor Day 2009
I’m never far from labor. I am labor. The only real distinction between my work life today and when I was paying dues is that I’ve eliminated a few overlays of people telling me what to do. And on this score I’m beginning to understand, just a little what my father was up to.
My father loved his autonomy, he followed the rules; paid taxes, contributed to unemployment and benefits for his workers, he worked longer hours than any two men, and neglected a family life that didn’t coincide with his labors. He just did what he needed to do to have a little breathing space. I never once recall him bitching about paying taxes or benefits. Never. Although he was a boss with an eye to finishing his jobs, his motivation was more for some personal control than economic profit. Another thing I never heard him utter was the oft used term, “bottom line.” He would say that a job turned out well or they did well or not. Sometimes he made some money but over time I realized that money was just a byproduct of jobs that went well. Some of his jobs were “stinkers” but he’d keep at it. I heard from someone that that first big job in Ogdensburg lost $10,000. Not a great start. But the stories he told of that job had nothing to do with money. His stories were about the saloons in the town, and about Uncle Ray and Grandpa’s drinking and about the aggrieved nuns out on the porch. I never heard that the job was a stinker. I’ve seen a black and white photograph of a brick arch that they had built and though the image is very grainy in my head the archway is some sort of a connection between the old church and the addition that Pa and the Murray Bros. crew were building. The picture was taken before the mortar had set up, the joints are still dark, and probably just after the arch support was removed. In the picture you see, bricks, mortar, the rubble of new construction, the amazing connections between a previous mason and Pa but there is no reference to money. A few years ago, I asked Uncle Dick about the business, about Murray Bros in particular and he told me something that I’d never heard, he said, “Oh, you mean the time we went broke?”
“Went broke?” I asked.
“Sure, a few years after we started, we went broke. Had to go down to Lincoln Bank to borrow money.”
Apparently, and I remember this, there was some connection between the bank and the Murrays. It may be that the loan officer was a classmate of Pa or Uncle Dick or Grandpa but there was some connection. They got the loan and continued for another twenty years. Funny part about that is in his catalogue of stories the going broke part never came up. The term ‘bottom line’ never made it into Pa’s lexicon. He was a working class boss – a very odd duck.
So where am I going with this little ramble? I recall one Labor Day many years ago, back in Syracuse, Pa had a job, I don’t recall where the job was but this is in my/our era you may have been in school by then. Anyway, he’d rousted me up from sleep to go to work. I said, “Pa, it’s Labor Day.”
He had that grin of his, the mischief grin, “That means we’re supposed to labor. Get up.”
Most likely he followed that up with his favorite lie, “It’s only a half a day.” Which to my ears meant we’d work till noon and I’d be home by one in the afternoon and could still have a life. Uncle Dick later decoded the term for me, “For your old man, half a day is twelve hours.” Dick version was usually closer to the mark.
I can’t think about Labor Day without connecting the day to our family’s brand of labor. Most of the Syracuse version of my past is either the grainy black and white or faded color tones of old photographs. My memory has no well defined edges. Work and Labor can sometimes be the same. To me work means the fine grey dust of mortar, the sandy sharp edges of brick, a truck windshield silvery with dust, the smell of fresh concrete and old truck exhaust, how weirdly natural a ‘Rose’ trowel feels in the hand, being out in a cool fall breeze with nothing above you but the blowing clouds. I love being outside in the time of year when the air is crisp and leaves fly. I guess I’m a romantic sucker for all the years that have passed without a single thought to the reality of today. When I’d attempted to get my teaching credential I told a friend that I was quitting the trade for once and for all, “It’s like being in a bad relationship. I’m sick of getting my feelings hurt [by masonry].” I realized after a semester of school that teaching high school would require me to serve a multitude of bosses and that I’d be more miserable than I am already. I’d be walking on eggshells every minute of every day in fear of, cursing, saying something insensitive, of showing my volcanic anger in fear of, you name it – everything.
What kind of a person talks about his work as a relationship? I guess a person who still loves dirty pick-up trucks and jobsites and the feel of brick in the hand. I have to admit that I’m about as crazy as anyone you may ever meet and my craziness at least part of it, comes from my relationship with bricks, and work, and jobs, and Labor.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Does anyone need a used Bricklayer?
8/30/09
I tried, no, really, I tried. I tried to be good. I tried to put a new kink in the misshapen arc of my life and be part of the solution. Upon inspection, the solution dissolved my resolve. Casting aside vagaries, I quit the credential program therefore not become a high school teacher. I ascertained that there is no way for me to sink root and flower in the layers of administrative pavement of any high school system. I can’t blame the California school system.
In the first credential class of the fall ‘09 semester, after one full semester learning pedagogy, I discovered that I needed two years of a foreign language, I fact sidestepped repeatedly by the credentialing program director. In the first credential class of the fall ’09 semester, I was hollered at by the instructor (a former San Francisco Unified School principal) for attempting to remove a copy of the syllabus from his desk; a thing that hasn’t happened to me since I was in high school (class of ’72). Unpleasantly shocked at being made an example, I recovered and forced a chuckle as my classmates nervously laughed. Ha, ha, ha, the teacher is making fun of the oldest person in class.
His rudeness set me to thinking about years of insults from false gods; ego maniacal persons in positions of authority in school and at work and how over time I’d renounced these gods. Long ago I began fighting back; this does not lend to career building. Later I learned to pick my battles. In class this night I saw quite clearly that if I were teaching it would be a matter of time before a battle presented itself; snarky insults beg retort. I could not remain mum under false civility and the impending threat posed by all administrators; then there are the politics involving, principals, parents, and finally, students. And then there is me, a rookie teacher with a bad attitude at, if my math is correct, 57/ 58 years old. The insanity of the situation came brutally into focus.
Check this out:
I’m a poor speller, the first of my earned F’s was in third grade spelling; rules with a whole lot of exceptions don’t seem rules, suggestions maybe. I never got the ‘hang’ of spelling. In class that night I could see myself as teacher, I’m writing on the board, I’ve misspelled “arachnid”, there is a titter of glee from the young scholars’, embarrassment flushes my face, with no success on repeated retries, with a quarry full of chalk dust, with the class laughing like mad with frustration hitting me like a black-jack I’d say the magic word, “Fuck.” Magic because I’d disappear. Or like in Latin America I’d be ‘disappeared.’
So I’m out $2,600 and change and I’ve learned a lesson. I learned that teaching isn’t a passion in me that crowds out all other considerations. I learned what I’ve always known; ignoring prickly things it is to my detriment; if the thorn is sharp now, time won’t wear it dull. Sure, I’m passionate about reading and writing, I’m oddly passionate about art, truth, citizenship, and civility. There might have been a time, long ago, when I could have shucked off the thorns rudeness and administrative pricks for some perceived greater good; that time has passed, the greater good is to avoid the briar patch in the first place and in being honest and true to the self.
Experiment over. Does anyone need a used bricklayer?
I tried, no, really, I tried. I tried to be good. I tried to put a new kink in the misshapen arc of my life and be part of the solution. Upon inspection, the solution dissolved my resolve. Casting aside vagaries, I quit the credential program therefore not become a high school teacher. I ascertained that there is no way for me to sink root and flower in the layers of administrative pavement of any high school system. I can’t blame the California school system.
In the first credential class of the fall ‘09 semester, after one full semester learning pedagogy, I discovered that I needed two years of a foreign language, I fact sidestepped repeatedly by the credentialing program director. In the first credential class of the fall ’09 semester, I was hollered at by the instructor (a former San Francisco Unified School principal) for attempting to remove a copy of the syllabus from his desk; a thing that hasn’t happened to me since I was in high school (class of ’72). Unpleasantly shocked at being made an example, I recovered and forced a chuckle as my classmates nervously laughed. Ha, ha, ha, the teacher is making fun of the oldest person in class.
His rudeness set me to thinking about years of insults from false gods; ego maniacal persons in positions of authority in school and at work and how over time I’d renounced these gods. Long ago I began fighting back; this does not lend to career building. Later I learned to pick my battles. In class this night I saw quite clearly that if I were teaching it would be a matter of time before a battle presented itself; snarky insults beg retort. I could not remain mum under false civility and the impending threat posed by all administrators; then there are the politics involving, principals, parents, and finally, students. And then there is me, a rookie teacher with a bad attitude at, if my math is correct, 57/ 58 years old. The insanity of the situation came brutally into focus.
Check this out:
I’m a poor speller, the first of my earned F’s was in third grade spelling; rules with a whole lot of exceptions don’t seem rules, suggestions maybe. I never got the ‘hang’ of spelling. In class that night I could see myself as teacher, I’m writing on the board, I’ve misspelled “arachnid”, there is a titter of glee from the young scholars’, embarrassment flushes my face, with no success on repeated retries, with a quarry full of chalk dust, with the class laughing like mad with frustration hitting me like a black-jack I’d say the magic word, “Fuck.” Magic because I’d disappear. Or like in Latin America I’d be ‘disappeared.’
So I’m out $2,600 and change and I’ve learned a lesson. I learned that teaching isn’t a passion in me that crowds out all other considerations. I learned what I’ve always known; ignoring prickly things it is to my detriment; if the thorn is sharp now, time won’t wear it dull. Sure, I’m passionate about reading and writing, I’m oddly passionate about art, truth, citizenship, and civility. There might have been a time, long ago, when I could have shucked off the thorns rudeness and administrative pricks for some perceived greater good; that time has passed, the greater good is to avoid the briar patch in the first place and in being honest and true to the self.
Experiment over. Does anyone need a used bricklayer?
Monday, June 22, 2009
6/22/09
I’m in this now. I’d be insane denying fear of the future I’ve launched. I’m in evening summer school classes with a group of thoughtful, attentive, smart people. My fear is that I’m in over my head, my classmates somehow already look like teachers. I’m one of two in the entire class that has no, or very little, teaching experience. I’ve begun quizzing classmates on how they secured teaching gigs without credentials. But my point isn’t how they got the gig it’s more of an opening to find why, after teaching a little why do you want to make it permanent. They all seem to be old hands at navigating classrooms from the helm whereas my main position for over two decades has been at the oar’s.
Ahaaaa fear and feelings of inadequacy are with me always and a comfort in days of despair – with them I’m never truly alone. So it was last night as I rode my bike home from school.
The last forty-five minutes of class we watched a video on the lack of funding due to Proposition 13 with as its consequences the horrible, dare I say sinful, disrepair of the California public school system. Other than a brief portion of the tape that had accidently been recorded over showing elk swimming across a river, the video held no good news. I looked at a classmate, Math and Sciences, and asked, “So, what are we doing?” He replied with shock, “I don’t know.”
I know what all of us are thinking, at least I think I know. I know what I’m thinking, I won’t end up in a poor school without parental involvement. I won’t be reduced to baby sitter in a space without classrooms or chairs or even books. The hope is that by the time our class of hopefuls get our credentials and into the classroom we’ll all be saved by Uncle Barak. Somehow. We have to have hope. We have to. We prospective teachers have to hope against hope that some sanity will come to Sacramento in a form yet undiscovered in California politics. We hope. We have to have the blind faith and luck that sustains survivors ranging from layoffs to Auschwitz. Some of my classmates might want the challenge, they might be itching for the fight but I imagine that the Quixotic among us as with the population at large are few. We idealists have signed on for a crazy-making job that even in the most halcyon of settings is rife with challenge. My classmates and I are buying into a system that from what we saw on the screen is almost beyond resuscitation. We’re like those wrinkled brown desert people in the casino of Searchlight, Nevada, dully plunking rent money in the slot hoping for the payoff. Not the big payoff, the million dollar, end of work payoff but the, I’ll be able to pay the rent and have a little left over payoff. And maybe the other kind of payoff, the thing that makes you feel good about yourself and the world in which you live. One of the things that I’ve seen from my teacher friends that have stayed in the profession is that they seem content. They are tired but at peace with themselves. A teachers peace, I have to believe, is the result of right thought and right actions, they know, although few say this often, that they are helping the human condition if only a little.
So my fear is the same as yesterday, and the day before and the day before that, it’s a fear of the thing that hasn’t happened yet; my automatic default position trips to this, “My future is going to be hell.” But, maybe right thoughts might follow right actions and with the action taken, with the credential process in motion, maybe just maybe my fear could be nothing but smoke.
I’m in this now. I’d be insane denying fear of the future I’ve launched. I’m in evening summer school classes with a group of thoughtful, attentive, smart people. My fear is that I’m in over my head, my classmates somehow already look like teachers. I’m one of two in the entire class that has no, or very little, teaching experience. I’ve begun quizzing classmates on how they secured teaching gigs without credentials. But my point isn’t how they got the gig it’s more of an opening to find why, after teaching a little why do you want to make it permanent. They all seem to be old hands at navigating classrooms from the helm whereas my main position for over two decades has been at the oar’s.
Ahaaaa fear and feelings of inadequacy are with me always and a comfort in days of despair – with them I’m never truly alone. So it was last night as I rode my bike home from school.
The last forty-five minutes of class we watched a video on the lack of funding due to Proposition 13 with as its consequences the horrible, dare I say sinful, disrepair of the California public school system. Other than a brief portion of the tape that had accidently been recorded over showing elk swimming across a river, the video held no good news. I looked at a classmate, Math and Sciences, and asked, “So, what are we doing?” He replied with shock, “I don’t know.”
I know what all of us are thinking, at least I think I know. I know what I’m thinking, I won’t end up in a poor school without parental involvement. I won’t be reduced to baby sitter in a space without classrooms or chairs or even books. The hope is that by the time our class of hopefuls get our credentials and into the classroom we’ll all be saved by Uncle Barak. Somehow. We have to have hope. We have to. We prospective teachers have to hope against hope that some sanity will come to Sacramento in a form yet undiscovered in California politics. We hope. We have to have the blind faith and luck that sustains survivors ranging from layoffs to Auschwitz. Some of my classmates might want the challenge, they might be itching for the fight but I imagine that the Quixotic among us as with the population at large are few. We idealists have signed on for a crazy-making job that even in the most halcyon of settings is rife with challenge. My classmates and I are buying into a system that from what we saw on the screen is almost beyond resuscitation. We’re like those wrinkled brown desert people in the casino of Searchlight, Nevada, dully plunking rent money in the slot hoping for the payoff. Not the big payoff, the million dollar, end of work payoff but the, I’ll be able to pay the rent and have a little left over payoff. And maybe the other kind of payoff, the thing that makes you feel good about yourself and the world in which you live. One of the things that I’ve seen from my teacher friends that have stayed in the profession is that they seem content. They are tired but at peace with themselves. A teachers peace, I have to believe, is the result of right thought and right actions, they know, although few say this often, that they are helping the human condition if only a little.
So my fear is the same as yesterday, and the day before and the day before that, it’s a fear of the thing that hasn’t happened yet; my automatic default position trips to this, “My future is going to be hell.” But, maybe right thoughts might follow right actions and with the action taken, with the credential process in motion, maybe just maybe my fear could be nothing but smoke.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Blog post. 6/14/09
A spectre is haunting San Francisco – the spectre of Waveinism. None of the powers of old America have entered into any kind of alliance to exorcise this spectre; Pope or Czar, President or Mayor.
Where is the party in opposition to Waveinism? Where is the outcry?
Two things result from this fact:
I. Waveinism is already ensconced in the motoring fabric of San Francisco.
II. It is high time that Waveinists should publish their views their aims their tendencies and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Waveinism with a Manifesto of its self.
It’s origin I believe, came from the ancient misplaced Californian activity of waving the opposing driver through the intersection, ostensibly in an attempt to show how neighborly the waving driver is. This activity usually has no relevance to the simple rules of conduct as laid out in the licensing permit driving manual. In an attempt to cover lack of established traffic pattern knowledge the opposing driver would just ‘wing it’ and wave a motorist into some life threatening mishap. As a pedestrian, I’ve had numerous drivers attempt to wave me into oncoming traffic. I wave back, a polite, “Screw you dummy.”
Recently, within the last year, I’ve noticed a new slant on the wave. Now the drivers wave as they continue to motor through a stop sign, thus combining the Hollywood stop (non-stop) with the San Francisco (I don’t know whose turn it is) wave . Occupied with waving drivers abandon the break pedal and completely ignore the turn signal lever thus setting up a new exciting paradigm in surface travel.
So in the spirit of, gulp, fairness, a portion of the sales of the Waveists Manifesto should fund either through financial aid or grants, those of us who venture through the city on foot or on bike with course work in telepathy and mind reading. When a driver leans over his steering wheel and opens his cell phone as he ploughs through a stop sign, does that cell phone beam signal a warning or does this mean something else such as he’s spilled his latte while driving while talking on the phone? If I’m in the middle of an intersection, within the protective white lines of the crosswalk and a driver swings a turn through the stop sign scaring the Bejesus from me does she wave the hold-your-horses, wave to warn me away or is she trying to snake charm a potential target. God forbid the driver take the time to signal an intention to turn or to push down gently on that large horizontal pedal directly beneath the steering wheel.
I can pretend the waving salute is an intended restraint on horn blowing, and though delusional at times not even I really believe this true. But what is the truth? With so may questions about the nature, cause, and intent of drivers waving from behind the protection of crash bumpers, steel impact panels, and air bags, I request the explanation of Waveinists. I wait for your answer in the middle of an intersection, I’ll be the one standing in that provisionally sacred space, unarmed, confused, and terribly afraid for my life.
A spectre is haunting San Francisco – the spectre of Waveinism. None of the powers of old America have entered into any kind of alliance to exorcise this spectre; Pope or Czar, President or Mayor.
Where is the party in opposition to Waveinism? Where is the outcry?
Two things result from this fact:
I. Waveinism is already ensconced in the motoring fabric of San Francisco.
II. It is high time that Waveinists should publish their views their aims their tendencies and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Waveinism with a Manifesto of its self.
It’s origin I believe, came from the ancient misplaced Californian activity of waving the opposing driver through the intersection, ostensibly in an attempt to show how neighborly the waving driver is. This activity usually has no relevance to the simple rules of conduct as laid out in the licensing permit driving manual. In an attempt to cover lack of established traffic pattern knowledge the opposing driver would just ‘wing it’ and wave a motorist into some life threatening mishap. As a pedestrian, I’ve had numerous drivers attempt to wave me into oncoming traffic. I wave back, a polite, “Screw you dummy.”
Recently, within the last year, I’ve noticed a new slant on the wave. Now the drivers wave as they continue to motor through a stop sign, thus combining the Hollywood stop (non-stop) with the San Francisco (I don’t know whose turn it is) wave . Occupied with waving drivers abandon the break pedal and completely ignore the turn signal lever thus setting up a new exciting paradigm in surface travel.
So in the spirit of, gulp, fairness, a portion of the sales of the Waveists Manifesto should fund either through financial aid or grants, those of us who venture through the city on foot or on bike with course work in telepathy and mind reading. When a driver leans over his steering wheel and opens his cell phone as he ploughs through a stop sign, does that cell phone beam signal a warning or does this mean something else such as he’s spilled his latte while driving while talking on the phone? If I’m in the middle of an intersection, within the protective white lines of the crosswalk and a driver swings a turn through the stop sign scaring the Bejesus from me does she wave the hold-your-horses, wave to warn me away or is she trying to snake charm a potential target. God forbid the driver take the time to signal an intention to turn or to push down gently on that large horizontal pedal directly beneath the steering wheel.
I can pretend the waving salute is an intended restraint on horn blowing, and though delusional at times not even I really believe this true. But what is the truth? With so may questions about the nature, cause, and intent of drivers waving from behind the protection of crash bumpers, steel impact panels, and air bags, I request the explanation of Waveinists. I wait for your answer in the middle of an intersection, I’ll be the one standing in that provisionally sacred space, unarmed, confused, and terribly afraid for my life.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Am I okay?
5/27/09
Okay, okay clock’s ticking. Now comes the first hurdle. The money. Oh the money. Actually the money isn’t the first hurdle. Thinking about the money is the first hurdle. Thinking about what I’m going to get for the money. After all, this seems like a lot of money. Two semesters will equal a third of the cost of all of my four years at SFSU. Jesus, I could buy a car, well, a used car. But a real good used car for this kind of money. And then if I spend this money, and if I get my teaching credential, am I going to find peace and contentment? Fulfillment maybe?
I don’t know, but I want to know. I want to know is that I’m making the correct decision, I want to know… what? Hell, I want to know the future. The future. My future. All of a sudden, really this is sudden although I’ve thought of a version of this for about twenty years, I’ve made this pretty big decision. If you know me, you’ll know one thing for sure, I hate what I’m doing for work now and if you’ve known me for a long time you’ll know that I’ve disliked my trade for many years. This decision to become a high school teacher and bail on the trade that I feel has abandoned me so many years ago isn’t really so grand. So why does borrowing money to follow an idea that just might work seem so daunting?
So far, I’ve run this insanity past a few friends of mine, the only reply I’ve had so far is unequivocal. I respect my neighbor Scott, he’s smart, and a decision maker and when I run what I think is this huge dilemma past him as he’s pulling out of our apartment buildings garage he doesn’t hesitate, “Do it.”
“What?” I believe I’m looking at him in the pose of the RCA dog.
He does an exaggerated head nod, and speaks more slowly this time. “Do it.”
“Really?”
He laughs, “Jesus, are you serious?”
I nod dumbly, “Ugh huh.”
“You’d be happy, you’d be a great teacher.”
Of course I think he’s doing the guy thing and jiving me – but maybe not.
Okay, okay clock’s ticking. Now comes the first hurdle. The money. Oh the money. Actually the money isn’t the first hurdle. Thinking about the money is the first hurdle. Thinking about what I’m going to get for the money. After all, this seems like a lot of money. Two semesters will equal a third of the cost of all of my four years at SFSU. Jesus, I could buy a car, well, a used car. But a real good used car for this kind of money. And then if I spend this money, and if I get my teaching credential, am I going to find peace and contentment? Fulfillment maybe?
I don’t know, but I want to know. I want to know is that I’m making the correct decision, I want to know… what? Hell, I want to know the future. The future. My future. All of a sudden, really this is sudden although I’ve thought of a version of this for about twenty years, I’ve made this pretty big decision. If you know me, you’ll know one thing for sure, I hate what I’m doing for work now and if you’ve known me for a long time you’ll know that I’ve disliked my trade for many years. This decision to become a high school teacher and bail on the trade that I feel has abandoned me so many years ago isn’t really so grand. So why does borrowing money to follow an idea that just might work seem so daunting?
So far, I’ve run this insanity past a few friends of mine, the only reply I’ve had so far is unequivocal. I respect my neighbor Scott, he’s smart, and a decision maker and when I run what I think is this huge dilemma past him as he’s pulling out of our apartment buildings garage he doesn’t hesitate, “Do it.”
“What?” I believe I’m looking at him in the pose of the RCA dog.
He does an exaggerated head nod, and speaks more slowly this time. “Do it.”
“Really?”
He laughs, “Jesus, are you serious?”
I nod dumbly, “Ugh huh.”
“You’d be happy, you’d be a great teacher.”
Of course I think he’s doing the guy thing and jiving me – but maybe not.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Darkness Visible
What the hell was Milton saying? We who are never without light, electricity, car horns, alarms, cell phones, thump-thumping war wagon rap, the straining diesel bus, the siren, the light, light, light with little illumination and less heat. What do we know about Darkness Visible? Viscous blackness, the void, the place we dare not go, the Fall. Not just into the abyss but to Hell's fired furnace without light. Oh, isn't that something? This is from a man who lived without television, without radio, or ipod. No earbuds for John Milton. No. Just a working belief in his fearsome brutal god and the ability to imagine it. And the Devil. All other imaginations of Satan pale or sample Milton. Take for instance the corporation.
I love, fear, and hate his Satan, the first grand thief, perched in the Tree of Life like a cormorant. I imagine Milton with a quill and candlelight and unimaginable dreams imagined when I open the envelope from Wells Fargo, the corporation, the thief whose smooth soft hand easily guides to the garden. I know not the Tree of Knowledge, bought dear from knowing ill, I'm a hick from another time and place and lack the capacity for such evil. I'm a sucker for the corporate Satan who has maddening phone sentinels, and layer upon layer of fallen Angele's to obfuscate and confuse a simple man easily confused.
Milton believed in his god and imagined a seething fallen angel to push against that god and goodness. We're of a different time and believe in little. How do you push against apathy? Create a new god in plastic and steel that gives a little and takes more and does its business in the dark.
I love, fear, and hate his Satan, the first grand thief, perched in the Tree of Life like a cormorant. I imagine Milton with a quill and candlelight and unimaginable dreams imagined when I open the envelope from Wells Fargo, the corporation, the thief whose smooth soft hand easily guides to the garden. I know not the Tree of Knowledge, bought dear from knowing ill, I'm a hick from another time and place and lack the capacity for such evil. I'm a sucker for the corporate Satan who has maddening phone sentinels, and layer upon layer of fallen Angele's to obfuscate and confuse a simple man easily confused.
Milton believed in his god and imagined a seething fallen angel to push against that god and goodness. We're of a different time and believe in little. How do you push against apathy? Create a new god in plastic and steel that gives a little and takes more and does its business in the dark.
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