2001-10-11 - 3:23 a.m. - this is all ours.

They forgot we were out here driving faster than we have ever driven before. Singing songs louder and more poetic than any icon of the 1960s could ever dream of. Screaming along with radio songs we have never even heard before. taking everything that belongs to us, and it all belongs to us, and putting it in our pockets tot ake out and examine and press against our chests and cherish at a later date. our mother fucking pockets!

Right now I am driving listening to "blonde on blonde'" the best Bob Dylan record making it one of the best records by anyone ever. driving 75. 80. 85. South on interstate 75 going home. to be with so many people i love who i haven't seen since this bizarre inheritance of ours. wondering how they feel about my cameo appearances into their lives. is it like i never left? is it like i am a burden? i don't want to be a goddam burden. its like i never left. its all part of this new deal. the deal where we own everything, and did i mention that by everything i mean nothing? and nothing really is everything isn't it? and im driving so goddam fast listening to the amazing fucking bob dylan record. smoking so many cigarettes i am expecting to have caught cancer by tomorrow morning. if one could catch cancer that is. you can't catch cancer. it just doesn't work that way. and singing along:

"little boy lost, takes himself so seriously

dadadadadada...he likes to live dangerously

and when bringing her name up still speaks of a farewell kiss to me

he's sure got a lot of gull

to be so worhtless and wall

dadadadada...small talk at the wall...while im in the hall?"

and then the harmonica. that mothercuking harmonica bending screaming moaning. and my new harmonica is in my shirt pocket and so i take it out. i am driving south on interstate 75, going home, 80, 85, 90 miles per hours playing a motherfucking harmonica. and this is when i know im alive. and this is how i know that everything outside of this car belongs to me. its all mine for the taking. this city is mine.

and soon i am at my parents house crunchinc those sweet fall leaes as i walk up the driveway to the front door. and then i am embracing my parents while thinking about how fucking sweet those leaves were. like somehow up north the leaves haven't really fallen off the trees yet and it makes fall so unbearable not to have leaves all over the ground and rake dinto piles. how can that bitter flatland wind not knock every leaf off of every tree within a million miles of that fucking city. that wind that can rip skin from bones. that skin that can remove the marrow right out those bones. that wind can redefine topographical maps and instigate the deconstruction of intellectualism. all in one foul swoop. and then i am at the doughnut shop. and we talk about how everything is boiling and make veiled references about "quadrilaterals" (ya know, because a pentagon can't be a pentagon with only four sides), and "what's up"(not the world trade center), and "did united have an office in the world trade center?" (they do now). and we are so fucking ironic and insincere masking all of the pain and fear and apocalypse anxiety in jokes that if told to the right people would result in our severe pummeling. free country? tell that to Bill Maher. We are the Seinfeld generation maybe? So afraid of what has happened, what is happening, what will happen, so ashamed of how immature and irresponsible our country is handling its immense power in the face of tragedy that the only way we can breathe with each passing second is by telling ourself that nothing really matters. that none of it means anything. that its all a fucking joke and we're going to drench all of the hatred and burning and rubble in irony. what's the deal with those airline peanuts anyway? right? nobody seems to mind when people make jokes about dropping bombs on afghanistan right? innocent people are dying there right? (if you don't believe they are then you have serious issues of denial). and who's going to stop us from making our jokes. from hiding our anxiety and shame in dis-tasteful mirth. nobody. because this whole fucking state, this entire motherfucking country belongs to us. it belongs to nobody. especially not us. and since it is not ours. we can do in it as we please. we can shoot spit wads at the bullies and smoke cigarettes in movie theaters. we can march in peace rallies. we can drive as fast as we want and sing along as loud as we can to whatever songs are on the radio, even if we havent heard them before. no ones going to stop us. nobody cares. we are the disowned. the disillusioned. the disenhcanted. the disenfanchised. the disgruntles. the distinguished. the dismembered. and every other word both positive and negative that begins with the prefix 'dis-' we are zero. the rule of opposites as applied to positive and negative numbers. 7 + -7 = 0. that is what we are. we are everything and all is us. we are voiceless and misunderstood. we are branded as outcasts and left for the wolves. yr wolves ain't comin sister because we howl louder than they ever dreamed possible, making them think that we are bigger wolves, angrier wolves, more efficient wolves. really we are just people.

beautiful fucking people who want nothing more than to live through all of this. to mourn tragedy (which i still haven't had a chance to do as a result of my being flung into political mode by the rapidly implemented hatred i felt it so important to speak out against, cuz hey, anti-racist sentiments mean something coming from a white boy, and don't even call me a motherfucking race traitor or ill play my harmonica extremely loud into yr ear.) And i want to hold on to someone and tell them i love them. and i want to hear it back. and i want to remember what its like to be human. to own everything and give everything and be owned by everything within a small world. a world created only for two or four or however many people you love either romantically or platonically. i want to sleep without my conscience making the sounds of bombs falling in my skull, telling me i could be doing more. i could quit school and walk across the country preaching peace and love. i could be the second coming of jesus. tell everyone the beatles were really bigger than me. that pop culture is bigger than me. and who's going to stop me? not you. not anyone.

this whole country belongs to us. we are young. we are running faster than we have ever run before. doing everything within our power not to trip on untied shoelaces. doing everything concievable to kiss strangers and hold hands with all the people we love.

i don't care if this is the end of time, or the beginning of new times. its all the same baby. its all rock and roll to me. its all side one of Born to Run ending as i type and listening to the constant hiss and crack of a needle against the dead area, the soundless portion of the record.

it's all over now baby blue.

but these visions of johannah kept me up past dawn.

keep it alive. keep it all alive. don't back down. you are still alive. we are all still alive. remember, we are not responsible for any deaths. we are not responsible for the acts of our government in bombing innocent people just like those innocent people weren't responsible for the fucking ridiculous fever dream of 9/11. there is no guilt. nothing any of us could have done would have stopped a single inch of any of this. and it is that. it is that my friends. that made me realize that all of this is mine. is ours. that this life is ours for the taking. to dance through. sing through. dream through. breathe through. maybe on the other side we'll take all our clothes off and make out. our sighs ringing louder than bombs. and then maybe. just maybe. it will all dissappear. and we can sleep with ourselves. in peace.

xoxo

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