Crying, silently, among the rainclouds

There are places where everything is oriented vertically and sharp vertical objects spike the horizon as people push their way, forward, backward and sideways under white or rainy clouds, through which a reason cannot be seen.

Here, umbrellas come out when rain comes down and people have to act interested in their shoe laces for twenty minutes to avoid the akwardness of meeting the eyes of the stranger sitting across from them on the T because they forgot to bring a book and they have already read the paper. Here, there are sidewalks and pedestrians are treated as citizens, not aliens. The streets bend in no recognized organization, the congestion of cars and buses encourages one to take into motion on foot for the last three blocks, or sit in their car or cab, imobilized by trafic, and wish they could fly. The bright flare of colors under solid blazers and designer jeans with intrguing shoes designed to walk in flourish as every other person smiles, as every other person frowns.

Boston, Massachusetts: the first American city...town...colony. Everything is historical, it seems: the first public library, the first park, the first massacre of native americans. There is even a phallic symbol in the commons to comemorate the first massacre....with pretty genetically engineered pansises planted neatly around it....it doesn't really hurt to pretend. My eyes gladly suck in the sparkling color of the abnormally large flowers that are looking up at me with yellow eyes.
If I blink once I might miss the truth, it is so heavily decoarated in gaudy distractions.
I know it is not my place to judge, as a human being....and that it is not my right to ask you to sympothize...this is just how I feel right not, and tomorrow I might wake up and laugh.

SILENT MAJORITY:

In the evening glow of a day full of rain and air planes, I stood in my sister's kitchen, listening to air america as Jerry Springer ranted about that state of our country...when Jerry spinger is more intellegent than the president, I thought, that is the sign of a counrty in distress. An idle hand moved to the surface of the refridgerator where it slowly and regretfully, pushed a magnet of the american flag until if hung upside down...waving a signal of distress.
Here in the dark, there in the light, I realized that essentailly, where you are does not make who you are; that if you are happy, than you may be happy anywhere you go, the same goes for anger, sadness, or any permanent mood. In the midwestern pillows of apathy I found a strange sense of being a wildflower and a field of wheat. But in Boston I find myself among a field of other assorted wildflowers and with few strands of wheat here and there I am, feeling quite the same as I had in the wheat field, if not even more overlooked...I am just another fragment of a silent majority. Only thirty-five years ago, I would have been part of a vocal minority...and now I am sitting here trying to decide which is better: If a brainless tyrant went on killing in the name of freedom while most people agreed and few people arose in protest,OR if most people disagreed and silently looked on in disspoaintment and the few people who the war benefitted, or who where brainwashed, ran aroung in loud celebration.
Right now, I am one of those people, looking on in dissapointment, shaking my head at Air America and writing heated blogs that probably no one will ever read....I'm just walking the miles, every once in a while I get a ride...
In an airplane I was high, and looked down to see the other side of the clouds. They looked the same as the bottom side except whiter, puffier...and closer. They seemed alomost inviting, like a sea of foam one could bounce upon for all eternity...if gravity had not taken it's sinister hold upon the atmosphere.