when the saints go marching in

the problem with these variety shows is that the audience isnt expecting an hour and a half solid performance. they just dont have that kind of attention span.
---
these moments one would read about in a book, or hear through poetry or music, a mix of all the climatic moments, minor moments, and especially the background stuff that makes the movie interesting. and the ones that just exist subtract the buildup or Hollywood ending...no idea how the story started and most distractingly no idea how it ends. instead the tiniest clip of someone else's life transforms in my mind to be a most tragic or glamorous awakening. God chooses.

A middle aged woman with orange skin and ratty black hair draped down her slouched back sits on the street corner. Her feet rest on a saturated wooden block in front of her. The dirty spitting rain smudges the streaks of shoe polish on her face where she must have itched then scratched with her filthy fingernails. She grips a torn rag in her left hand, tosses it to her right, and squeezes it out. Her head bobs, following the rhythm of the water drips as they drop from the rag into a small, brown puddle next to her humble spot. Three other men, mostly older than herself, crouch beside her in a row, occasionally standing to roll their ankles or call out a price for their service. The woman does all her work on the ground. A young man passing by stops and puts his shoe up onto the first of the wooden blocks, the block of the oldest man. The elder whips out his rag, grins, and polishes, all the while hissing a tune through his rotting teeth. Each of the others watch with sagged shoulders and jealous eyes but the woman diverts her attention to catch a screaming child running from inside the tipped garbage bin behind her. The two are dressed similarly, drab, tired, and dirty, but the boys face is brighter as he holds out a plastic bag with a half eaten bun inside. The woman steals the bag from the boy, takes the bun out, and shoves it in her face tearing off a bite of the bread then handing the leftover chunk to the waiting hands. He takes it in his little fingers and perches on the ground beside the sad woman and gnaws away at the rest of the bread til its gone. the woman, seemingly rejuvenated, wrinkles her face calling out her service price and motioning at the wooden block in front of her.
---
good morning sunshine. every year since i was old enough to understand responsibility even the smallest amount, a little while after my birthday, i recognize that once again im going to have to take on a little more. this year, with the flip and all, its the same ordeal only perhaps more intense. with this coming season, starting now, i can see myself going places that yet again ive only read, heard, or watched in fictional stories. its frightening but here goes: the unavoidable influence the decisions of this year will have on the rest of my life has been hardly welcome so far. but with the recent responsibility recognition im getting used to the idea.
---
can i recognize my own faults? do i pinpoint anyone elses? am i insulted when other people confront me about mine? what are my excuses? how do i justify my sinfulness?
judgement
---
i woke up at four o'clock this morning. im sick and i cant get over the jet lag. a combination i do not agree with.
tarajoy
here's to hoping i dont erase this one.

in china

.
































































































































































































































































































































































.