Went on Friday to see a pdocuction of My Name is Rachel Corrie at the Unitarian Church in Omaha. The city is coming a long way since the days when it was a stir when Malcolm X came out in theaters. I guess I didn't quite know what to expect from the production as it was a bit vague how you would be able to take scraps of a girl's journals and box them into a play. I have always loved the art form of theater though as an outlet of tremendous emotion and with the ability to allow layers of meaning to stand there like fat strips of bacon for the curious mind to ponder. I feel a bit embarrassed to say my biggest criticism was that it ran too long, but having made that disclaimer, I will say, and Brooke and Kyle both agreed that the play was rather long. Maybe it was the cramped space of the Unitarian pews but even so, you almost have to understnad that the play was in its most unabridged form, and certainly why not? If you've captured the audience long enough to get them to go see a play of curious proportions might as well drive home the nails of discourse. Enough said about that, because what really strikes me about this girl's character is how she was ultimately human. Full of life, full of dreams, hopes, aspirations. She was driven, driven by whatever came to her. She was on the firing line of life. And knowing that that was where she found herself, they sort of bring into play this Christ-like human being... Christ-like in childish wonder, Christ-like in her ability to think outside the box, but still analytical, still working hard to see the bigger picture. That allusion of course is imposed by me only, and actually I would even debate its accuracy. It's just that as time has gone on I see the human struggle as the one in which we are faced with now in the twenty-first century. We have spent long years and centuries tying ourselves to history, religion race, creed, country. Now, in the twenty-first century it seems the fight is to uphold the sanctity of being human and somehow, it seems that that is somehow tied with our continuing quest to understand our relation to the divine. But humans are scared because of their place on this earth, among the animals, the plants and trees. We are special because we survive, because we exist... we have the right to be here in the midst of other human beings. Together, undivided, but individual. I don't know why the image of the farmer tilling his land seems to stick out so drastically, but it's there. A man and his land. A man walking the earth as if simply that he moves over it must be evidence of his worth in being there.

Do we live again? I think it's irrelevant, almost not even worth the thought because if we do not live in this now, do we eever have a cahcnce of living truly living. Silly statement. Look, here it goes. I have moments of terrible doubt about what I'm doing here. About whether my desire to get cable television to stir the fruits of thought a little are ultimately childish because walking around the grocery store, placing various items into my shopping cart with Brooke, I realize that there are many many people who don't have a pot to piss in. So you go back to getting grateful, about starting with the simple roof over your head, looking at the food on your plate, whether you are able to pay your bills and if so, maybe because you have a job to go to and a car that gets you there, hell, even if I rode the bus I might want to look at the fact that I live on a bis line. Start with the simpler things like the people around you, whether you're related to them or not. Hopefully they treat you how you should be treated how anyone would like to be treated and you've got something to be happy about. Not everybody can live in Coeur d;Alene or a Swiss chalet, Boca Raton or the Virigin Islands, and you;d take it for granted or get resentful if you did. Maybe. Not a lot of people with a pot to piss in, but life must go on. If you stay persistent in that, you will be amazed... without doubt.