An Unexpected Direction

So, I had some more thoughts on the snow. I have noted before, perhaps not on this blog, that humans generally hate each other and wish to kill one another. I realised this on the bus one day when people were being especially brutish to one another. I wondered why people don't just kill each other. I concluded that people get their latent hate for one another out by focusing all of their anamocity towards prominent figures such as presidents and actors. Take for example the frequent and unrelated references towards George W. Bush everytime something bad happens. eg. "George Bush made hurricanes kill black people". Although much anger towards Dubya is also pent up sexual attraction, which I will someday expand on in my novel "Fuck George Bush: The Modern University Student's Hard-On For Dubya", my point that people release their anger for one another on prominent figures stands. Furthermore, as I watched many snowball fights and the intense facewashes which often come with them I realised something further about human nature. We play war, we have snowball fights, wrestle and often use hyperbolic phrases like "I'm going to kill you". These things, I have observed, are done for the same reason as our focused hatred of prominent people. We hold deepseated hate for each other and seek for relatively non-lethal ways of expressing this hate.

I suppose that I have entirly absorbed a Freudian way of looking at life. I havn't even read much Freud. I don't know whether I have absorbed it diffusely or whether I have thought this stuff up on my own. Probably a bit of both.

I have been feeling a lot of anger lately. I blew a gasket on an old woman who treated me with extreme disrespect and imposed herself on my individual rights and freedoms. I have spent my life being ignored and silenced. It is rather like Lord of the Flies, where the one kid who knows what to do is inevitably crushed. This world, civilization, is run by the murderers and megalomaniacs. I could jump out right now and get into this, but I have turned a post that began as a light hearted comedic observation about how humans behave and now it is treading into my darker side. We don't need to go there.

The joke of a comedian is always supposed to make you weep and laugh at the same time. All I can do is either make someone weep or laugh. I can't tell a good joke unless I can elicite both responces at the same time. I cannot find the subtle tragicomic dusk of human communication.

This post has taken a rather unexpected direction...

Of Snowmen and Timberwolves

So, it is snowing in the land of Vancouver, and I am actually enjoying life. The phenomenon of snow in Vancouver brings out many odd things. In the endless suburb of Surrey life springs from the white smoothering blanket of snow. Couples tromp through the snow as if they have an obligation to walk in the rare snowfall. Neighbors who never talk chat while they shovel their driveways. Kids and teenagers are dragged behind the family truck on sleds or snowboards. Snowmen and snowwomen, and I guess snowgendermixedbeings abound. Snowball fights are intense and joyful. I have two comments to make about snow.

1. taking a snowmsn into a hot tub is the best thing in the world, his last moments would be glorious and then he would return to the liquid from whence he formed--all snowmen are buddhists.

2. the only thing that could make snow in the suburbs better is if packs of timber wolves appeared every time that it snowed--life is only worth living if one has to battle timber wolves once in a while.

If only I could live in my imagination. Perhaps I already do...remember to fear yet respect timber wolves and snowpeople, they are our only hope to redeem the human race.

Forty-Second Street Station

Three blocks west of Forty-Second street, and about thirty feet below, there are twentythree people huddled together around three tile posts, waiting for the train. One is a short, jaunty man, with thick eyebrows and a cap, and another is an older woman, wearing a long, thin evening dress, on this otherwise cold day.

The short man is a gambler, probabally not wealthy. He's wearing a grey cap that makes him look like a Sam. Or maybe a John. His briefcase is probabally filled with apples. It's black leather, like every other suitcase, but has several suspicious bulges on each side. He's wearing two suede shoes that almost perfectly match his cap. He just strikes me as a man named Sam.

The woman's the one I can't quite figure out. She's not very attractive, but tall, and thin. She has thin eyebrows, and very dark hair. It looks almost black where she's standing. She probabally argues with her husband about the price of tinto's, or salt, or something. It's a very long dress. Her skin is very white, the mans is dark.

There's only two others sitting on the benches. A woman with a two year old daughter, and an elderly man with a beat up homburg, pretending not to notice the child pulling at his shoe laces. Everyone else is standing. It's perfectly silent, save for the little girl, and the two lovers whispering to eachother. It's so quiet. You can just hear the high wistle on down the line. Everyones head turns left. Only the two lovers remain captivated in eachother. Even the child looks up from the old mans shoelaces.
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