After taking a gander into the immense production line of identical objects it struck me that individuality to purchasable items still lies in the narrow tradition of boutiques... crafts... putting glue to useless junk. Yet there is still some beauty to the ways of the needle work, the single carpenter, the faux florist, the basketweaver, or the gardener. Could any of us believe a single individual could made an automobile by the very use of his hands and a number of tools? Perhaps not, but it's been done.

It occurs to me that so many of us are sitting around being bored because any talent that our ancestors had that was essential to survival, tradition, or just plain relief and play is so lost in we that are used to having everything done for us. No wonder we feel we've something to gripe about when many of todays gripes come from a source we have no inkling to.

The idea that our hands and minds could put together each and everything we own, although in a different manner than how it is now, is staggering, and in many cases disbelieved... this is the point of my monologue.

Do we do anything now that we love just because we love it? The best question is are we allowed to when just to have a pot to pee in goes along with many "mandatory options". An even more profound and remarkable thing to ponder on is: Do you *know* what you love?

So many of each generation in the last three are completely without the direction or calling that is wandering aimlessly in the parcels of their very beings. How can twelve grades of distraction and blinders bring forward the unique and true inspiration by which we could prosper?

I don't mean prosper for money, but prosper for wholeness in the individual, and that doesn't exclude him or her to a single occupation either for we could have many. But what opportunities are there for anyone to taste enough and gain and proper understanding of any calling? Well, it takes money, it takes time, it takes a slow hour a week with an instructor who wishes she or he could instruct and still eat once in a while.

I wonder why is it so difficult to have these opportunities and when they're there to take them? Too tired after six to seven hours of fatiguing, restless, relentless mind-numbing, (not to mention butt-numbing,) cascades of tedious chapters in dry books that seem to bring nothing to life?

I tell you, after the semester and a half of high school when nothing seemed to reach out and glimmer a fleck of interest to me, I looked back on the two years in junior high and the seven years in elementary school and thought: "This really is it isn't it? I thought it would change after all this time. It hasn't."

Unfortunately, I was out of there too quick to understand that at least in some cases it does change and sometimes it can give you some opportunity. I wasn't going to get any all the same, but it's good to know there is an occassional exception to the proceedure. God... what a senseless waste, come to think of it; nine and a half years with poor math and reading skills and that's it. That really blows.

Basically, we cannot be happy. We can't learn what we love, we can't do what we love, we can't even know what we love. Why is that?