just some stuff

omar is sleeping. so is mary alice. april is trying to tell me something, but i can't understand what she is saying. somewhere far away, people are dying for their country. i don't understand that either. there's alot that i don't understand. i don't understand why dennis does crosswords all day, i don't understand why every day is hotter than hell in kansas, and i don't understand why girls always tell me that i'm just like them. bri does. she says we're soulmates. marissa does; she says we're "kindred spirits," whatever that means. holly does; that's how she introduced me to her mother--"mom, this is joe; he's like me." i don't understand catholicism, i don't understand scientology, and i don't understand rascism. perhaps they're all the same thing. a little group to fit into--a team--so you can slap each other on the ass and say "go team," and also have a group to oppose, the other team--the WRONG team. same as politics, you got the elephants versus the donkeys. i don't understand politics either. perhaps it is that simple: draw up imaginary borders, call yourself a "nation," one group wear a cross around your neck and the other group put towels on your head and BAM--you have a game; you have a war. makes life exciting. what team do i belong to? i need an identity. the poets? no. i'm too sober to be a real poet. the artists? no. i'd rather not. i guess i don't have much of an identity. the chamelions. that's me. but we don't really have much of a team, do we? no, we just take whatever side surrounds us--more for our own entertainment than convenience. instead of drawing up war plans or drawing up peace plans, we can be spotted sitting on our asses in front of country streams, or sitting out in the rain thinking, or lying on our backs watching the stars, and writing it all down in little notebooks. and that's another thing i don't understand. i don't understand why i write; i just do. it's just something i've always done. i never one day up and decided "hey! i wanna be a writer!" no, i tried other things first. psychology, then communications, music. i failed bitterly at them all. writing is something i've always done, always been pretty good at. so i figured what the hell. it'll be years before i'll be able to tell whether or not i've failed bitterly at writing. maybe i will fail, and then just drink all the damn time. maybe then i'll call myself a poet. people are aksing me what i am doing; i tell them "i don't know." and i don't. shouldn't i be making a novel or something?