Ghost Rider and Other Revelations

everyone has a blog these days. it's just like tv only everyone gets a chance to be the star of the show.

i wouldn't normally have a blog. always thinking writing in a litlte window that was waiting for me to publish it would somehow fuck with my creativity.

but then i got to thinking, something to do everyday. a place to go and just think openly might be a good little routine. as with all routines in life, there are good ones we call by that name. and bad ones we refer to as 'habits'. and i find myself in need of a good one or several lately to counterbalance all those bad ones.

i've had this other site dark poetry and sad art for a while. that has been my answer to the blog craze, but doing it the old fashioned, making the web pages by hand way. and lately i feel a little disappointed with it. i put a lot of effort into having the search engines favor it, but all i get are mostly a bunch of broody teenagers. and while i understand what they're going through, i don't really wanna hear much about it at this much later stage of my life.

also used to tend to a site called totally useless information, where i'd post various and arbitrary opinions and such. and this blog thing seems the better alternative to doing it the 'old fashioned way'

just finsihed reading Neil Peart's very long book (four hundered fifty some pages) "Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road". it was a good read. as i expected of Neil. what a talent he is, what with the drumming and the poeticizing and the novel writing. he's the man i'd always hoped to be, except that i'm a girl.

the weird thing about this book was though, that it was about his enduring after great tragedy. i mean really great tragedy. first his daughter dies, then not long after his longtime wife, then his dog, and believe it or not, then his best friend goes to jail.

so he runs off on his motorcycle on this cathardic journey to heal himself. encountering all kinds of misadventures along the way.

but what really puzzled me about this book, was the fact that, since it was supposed to be a really sad story. i mean, have you ever heard of a sadder story. all that loss, all clumped up together like that. and yet, after the first few chapters, aside from the ocassional bout with grief, he seemed, almost cheerful. or if not cheerful, at least optimistic. not at all what i expected to be reading from what i'd heard of the subject matter.

maybe it's just me. the eternal pessimist. growing darker night by night. unimpressed by the optimist's suffering, because their's will eventually end. and mine cannot.

for who would i be then?

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