Nomadic Tribe Soup

“Should our military kill bad people, or help the good ones?” reads the gore colored billboard, violating my peace of mind on a sunny, crisp afternoon. It is Sunday. The stray clouds are hued in that deep red you see when you roll your index finger and thumb into an aperture pointing at the sun and you release just a bit of sunlight in and out and light and dark and blood red and white light and black again. Violating my intelligence, violating the desolate sadness of the railroad tracks and the immense stretch of sky that background it. My mind goes numb as I delve into the underpass.

Not knowing where to start is how I start because I cannot start otherwise. I turned and tossed the idea of patch-working my life, that of others, collecting stories, sound and images here and there into a blog. The idea was so well executed that I did nothing to actually begin anything concrete. In its nebulous form the 'feeling' of the blog was just so cool. Really cool. And what if the words did not do it justice? What if my idea sucked? Terror. Then I said to myself, 'if you have sore throat, eat ice cream' and precisely after a year or two of attempting to create this blog, here I type away with no basic plan, no structure, no purpose really. Welcome.