Emancipation

Flick, flick, flick-fwoosh.
Throw the shrimp on the barby,
Lungs well done, served with a side of crispy esophagi.
I've got the too-many-cigs-last-night brochitus brewing in the back of my throat,
the Cistine Chapel's made from the bones of the Earth and the Mona Lisa's on a dead tree so by my logic that entitles me to a little self-abuse.
Hello all- hope the cigarette's in hand and your mind is primed for a read, because some o' da cuff rambling sounds as delicious as a hunk of Ghirardeli right now. I just got thru with a whirlwind of visiting places and people, and now I'm home.
Home.
Feels.
Good.
So many doors have opened the last few days- I've met a group of artists, actors and roman candles out in the East Bay, and it looks like I'm finally going to get the chance to lay down some music for some indie films- an opportunity I've been looking for for awhile. Then today, after work I took the BART to SF to go see my pop, ma, little brother and sis who were all in the City for a jaunt to the Exploratorium. I talked to my little brother about Lord of the Rings and my sis about drawing horses, and felt like a kid again. All this shit about paychecks and rent can bore the most hyperactive inner child, and I've realized mine has been playing Gameboy for too long now, and needs to get outside awhile.
On the BART ride back I saw all the people sitting in their seats, looking soberly out the window or frantically trying to roam their eyes over the people of their car without making eye contact, and it just made me want to go apeshit and revert to monkey mode. With a quick calculation, I realized I could swing from the convieniently placed handrails, to the map on the wall, trying very hard not to touch the ground (it's lava.) and, after finding out all I needed to know about destinations, come swinging on back to my seat. Maybe throw in a little somersault at the end. The people who watched would clap, understanding my feat of superhuman will, and perhaps my primitive display would let out the repressions of the entire car, the lights would dim, and the car would evolve into a Bacchinanallian orgy of elbows, hands and feet. Alas. Although my desires were sincere, my superego has yet to go into remission, and instead, I simply sat in my seat like a good little drone.
I feel like I need to have a serious heart to brain with the hive mind that controls all the antlike behavior. At least ants, as they pass each other, touch antennae and exchange information, we humans just put up little walls and cones of silence. All of the stares-turned-glances, the accidental eye contact, the looks of sadness and hope, it just hurts me. I wish I knew what to do about it... wish I already knew... was taught from a young age, but... nope. I just have my intuition to rely on in those moments, which is that inner child again, and why is it he feels lobotomized when it comes to that kind of stuff?
My guts tell me a lot of other people struggle with this too. With all of the fucked up shit in the world, I just wish I could help out more, and somehow do it in a way that would be actually welcome. Maybe I'm trying too much to be a knight-in-shinin'-armor over here, too much of a Brother Theresa, and people should really just figure out their own shit- lord knows helping people who don't want to be helped has given me a nice dollup of pain the last few years- but I still think regardless I'm going to stick to my guns on this one. People need to be helped, communicated with, talked to, shown that they are recognized as valuable. I think all this over-population has let familiarity breed contempt, and that the resulting pile of angst needs to be shat out and flushed, so we can move on, and leave the old skin behind.