this is only a test. in the event of a meaningful piece of literature.....

i feel as if a dame is about to walk through my door, asking for a lighter, it's about 10 at night on a mild September Chicago evening. She's wants to talk, business......miles davis' trumpet sets the mood for this film noiresque scene....the audience sensing the sexual tension between she and I, private eye, sipping a bourbon, contemplating the murder of her husband, a former CEO of a major financial firm in the city. Could she possibly have carried such an atrosity out on her own? Surely they were happy together. She's the type of blonde any man could love, sultry, a slight baratone to her voice, an air of laissez faire underlying a scent of french parfume saturated with sexuality. The millions in life insurance wouldn't motivate this innocent belle to........and I'm completely mesmorized lost in a reverie, such an elegant distraction.....

it's amazing what a little miles davis can do to the imagination.

i bid you all adieu, whether or not you've read this far (although I'm not sure how you couldn't have and still be reading?) practice is supposed to make perfect, discipline is a supposed key to some type of personal level of success.....my writing is never disciplined, and I hardly practice. Confucious say, every long journey begins with the first step. Well I'm at about step 10,000 and have realized this is going to be a long fcuking walk.

"Finding the heart of your soul and chasing your dreams is a welcome pain in the a$$ when you're hyped up on enough happy pills to make it through the fog and see the inherent value in accomplishment," my cousin once informed me over stale coffee and soggy omlettes. In yoga, I'm learning empowerment, a state of being foreign to me. At an early stage in my life, I had mad xenophobia of empowerment. Empowerment was responsibility. To obtain any sort of empowerment meant perpetual fatigue from attempting to chase a thousand runaway dogs at once, forever having an a$$ that ached from being violated by the corporate shaft.

And yet in simply focusing on my breath, contorting my body into pretzel like shapes, blindly believing in my Yoga teachers advice that the process itself will lead towards a type of enlightement, I'm coming to realize that I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about in this life. None of us have any definite answers as to why we're here, what our purpose is, where we came from and what it all means. Many either completely ignore all those questions or are so full of themselves to stop and wonder and discuss. Others are so sure of their way towards salvation that they close their minds and push their agendas on vulnerable victims, seekers, and people looking for a positive social outlet.

I choose to read and write, to ask questions of my friends and family, search for clues in the serendipitous events that have befallen in my wild existence on this f'd up yet majestic world I call home.

So what, where, when, why, and how?

Do tell.

seeking for answers, enjoying a soft buzz of dry champagne, overlooking the skyline of my sweet home, Chicago.

whoisjobe?