Children are the message we will send to a time we will never see.

If Jesus had been killed 20 years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses.

The introjection of symboling into primate social life was revolutionary. Everything was transformed, everything acquired new meaning; the symbol added a new dimension to primate—now human—existence. An ax was no longer merely a tool with which to chop; it could become a symbol of authority. Mating became marriage, and all social relationships between parents and children and brothers and sisters became moral obligations, duties, rights, and privileges. The world of nature, from the stones beside the path to the stars in their courses, became alive and conscious spirits. “And all that I beheld respired with inward meaning” (Wordsworth). The anthropoid had at last become a man.

Instructions on how to cry

Putting the reasons for crying aside for the moment, we might concentrate on the correct way to cry, which, be it understood, means a weeping that doesn't turn into a big commotion nor proves an affront to the smile with its parallel and dull similarity. The average, everyday weeping consists of a general contraction of the face and a spasmodic sound accompanied by tears and mucus, this last toward the end, since the cry ends at the point when one energetically blows one's nose.

In order to cry, steer the imagination toward yourself, and if this proves impossible owing to having contracted the habit of believing in the exterior world, think of a duck covered with ants or of those gulfs in the Strait of Magellan into which no one sails, ever.

Coming to the weeping itself, cover the face decorously, using both hands, palms inward. Children are to cry with the sleeve of the dress or shirt pressed against the face, preferably in a corner of the room. Average duration of the cry, three minutes.

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I am a weblogger.

I am a man. I am an authority. I am hieratic. I am a drinker. I am a Canadian. I am an expatriate. I am somewhat inebriated tonight.

I am a spice without a sauce. I am a singer, I am a writer. I am a lover. I am man who loves. I am happy and I am unsatisfied. I am content and I am angry. I am actively ignoring the present continuous in favour of the possible future. I am alive. I contradict myself.

I am growing old. I'm farting like a Captain of Industry. I'm hurting every goddamn day. I'm present perfect linking my patchwork history with this moment here, where the glass is in my hand. I've abused this strong big body of mine. I've moved people to tears. I've made them laugh. I've been completely wrong. I'm squeezing out the pus.

I am uncertain. I am defiant.

I am buoyed on foamy waves of ancient guitar. I am tired of the bullshit. I hope for the best. I'm averting my eyes.

I'm wasting my life. I'm in the moment. I'm teaching people that English has no future tense. I'm pretty sure there's no point. I am happy about that.

I am thirsty. I am hungry. I am so full of shit my blue eyes are brown.

I love. I rear up in anger. I love.

I need another beer.