so tired, the battle wages everywhere, fresh blood is spilled, in these battles everyone is stained, you either kill or be killed, it's the way massive bureaucracies work, they crush and destroy passion, pulling us in to vortex of bleak houses and sleepless nights. everything reduces to just two components in the human game, power and control. one persons power and control issue effects hundreds of others, one psychotic episode casts ripples across the whole and the ripples manifest waves and waves have force, and force is energy, and energy is the substance of the universe and creation so wield energy with thought, conciousness, whatever that means, do no harm unless you have to, harm to heal, it's a massive responsibility but some one has to do it, i mean how does that work?
a just war?
there have been just wars, there's very dangerous people in the world, to ignore them is perilous but the just need to be aware they stay just because it's a thin line, a thin line. 
i don't like conflict, i will avoid it like the best of them, i've been called a coward, by cowards, i been in situations where i keep my lips closed. sometimes though you gotta speak out, you gotta know when you're 'just' and know when to slip back into obscurity, that's a fucking strength.
so choose your battles, make em just.
i guess you gotta know your own power and control issues first, that's what i do, identify my own peculiar traits, they are simple, i don't like being controlled so i have a secret weapon, contra control. it's like urban warfare man, i'm a guerilla in my combat zones, wearing fake fur boots and a tiger hat, carrying a moon powered zap gun, pow! ka- pow!
the knights of old seemed to have this kind of chivalry, a lost art, the warriors are really kind and gentle, they look clumsy and awkward most of the time, until it's 'just.'
gore vidal died, i never really liked him, he saw the future as a bad thing, a poisonous infection, whereas it really should be celebrated, our folly, our ridiculousness, washington dc is not the human spirit, he was as nationalistic as his enemies, he took a left wing approach while he lived in opulence and luxury, he could afford to. he was clever and witty but mailer was by far the superior mind. yeah well have you read 'ancient evenings.'
you won't make it past chapter one, you will hate it and throw it down as vile and disgusting as your mind is fragmented by the souls transmigrations, by the divisions, by the dying light of history, gore vidal knew how to critique, he wrote the script for ben hur but mailer wrote the 'naked and the dead.' 
gore vidal lived on the amalifi coast with his boyfriend while mailer lived in brooklyn, hanging out at the ring, going a few rounds with some clowns from the streets, he could kill for a just cause making history alive, while vidal pondered history dead. 
anyway's i am rambling, my words are just words, they spurt out like a one night stand, leaving some sort of white stain on black sheets. 
who knows anything, what do i know, i wake up and there's a dead blue whale at the end of my street floating in the swimming pool. that's a strange thing, i mean it's surreal. that's the way it is most days, dead whales, dead friends, sex and death, i guess that's the formula for the trip i'm on, what happened to sex and life, i guess that's when you're on the other side of fifty, the vital side. mmm, my old friend ross the artist is dying, he has a few days left. dementia has hit him hard, he's already dead really, the ross i knew has gone. i don't need to say goodbye, i never felt like that was important, goodbyes. death and sex have arrived halfway through the year. do they cancel each other out, i mean sex is good right, death bad?
i guess sex and death always share some magnetic force, le petit mort. these two forces seem to be a visiting, it's enough to make me philosophical.