LPCspGa

Feeling Like a Rock!

I am feeling like an avalanche coming.    The smallest tremor to set me off.  Don’t get me wrong,  I am not considering any self-harm, to me or to others.  The shadows are coming again,  slowly,  but steadily.  One or two  of these are in ‘living color’.  Shadows of doubt,  panic attacks, like a Tsunami.   I hear the roar,  waters that creep and fill me,  with pains of high and Low Tides.

I have thought of my new name.  Do you like it? It was pretty racist to behold.  I have shanks of poetry,  misplaced grammar and enough hubris to weigh me down.  But rather I wish to find a copper coin.  I wish to elucidate,  on a lily pad called destiny.  I want to pick away the burrs.  To the Longfellow chaps.   I want to find a nuance and let it work for all of us.  Not a twenty and definitely not a line for ghouls.  I want to make mince meat into pies.  Not lines of craters nor lines of white.  I wish to find… and destroy it.  I wish for them to grow.  Not in some rusty hole.  I pray that these come to pass.

It is the dawn of anxiety,  I see my head floating downstream.  Portable Sinkholes,  elaborating,  roiling downward,  and making life ‘like a buoy’, a respite from the darkest downs.

A song, a note,   reveries with plumb lines,  like spider webs twisted.  Sometimes the emotions are overwrought, with their own insanity, glossed over but not forgotten.  Let us play harpsichords and twing a violin.  Let’s stop the wrong kind of thing.  Planting history with falling leaves.

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Ed_Lynch_Jr

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Dream within a dream 3

Maging masayá sana ang araw mo!

Ang pangit ng Tagalog ko
don't

Waves…

Crashing waves upon distant shores.

Trying to make my song, a love song… Trying to make it, all yours.  The Cicadas dancing at night , over and over, the same song plays, chafing upon tender heart strings.   Violins in  tempest, wrought iron stories,  pinging like,  footsteps on a forest floor.

Like Needles and pins,  the ones that stick in our mind.  Overlapping melodies from time to time.   Crescent songs in the darkness of night,  the dripping of tears, drifting downstream, drifting alright, drifting all night.

My song(s) will never play, not in other’s places, not in here nor in there,  just black letters floating like liquid dreams.  I feel the draft of cold dense clouds.  I feel the heaviness of pain, like songbirds kept  in canary coteries.    Icons push past rich velvet cases.   Inspiration, consecration, conflagrations, these make up our songs, with  grains and coats of irony.   No time for those things now, those that cannot last, until next time,  maybe never or then again maybe,  I’ll so try.

 

 

It all gets confusing,  these songs that I am using.   They double for themselves.  They fold up and spread out again.   Feelings as hard as the words they portray.  No,  many words that follow no path,  at all.  Effigies at best.  But an effigy is profound,  with the right kinds of song.  With the push and pull of chords,  past receivers and expounding alliterations,  we delve into simulacra,  crooning our version of that great song,  feeling we have done something after-all.

Six worded songs,  more than a haiku,  it was more than just fun, more fun, more fun for now.  Years re-pasted in the hallways,  which look all too familiar,  like pounds of upset visions,  blurring fainted paint and changing numbers on doors so thin.

So if you wish to portray what others have said,  that’s okay.   Just give it a new cover and be pleased.

EdCharlotte513

Pain And Hope! Up to you and Me.

Support Disney, Make-A-Wish and Give Kids the World,  and  will be jumping on board of this beautiful,  on-point and mega-talent young woman.   Also, we will be helping people in the Philippines.  Will help more than anyone can know.  My media contacts in the USA, Jamica, Virgin Islands and other associations.

 

SSgt Larry Olson
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The Things that Really Matter

In the next few months,  we will be embarking on a quest to house homeless Veterans.  This will be no easy feat,  but it is achievable.  The biggest and best hope is an informed people, who lay aside political hyperbole and false narratives.  But what are these narratives?  What are the options?

Feeding our own poor,  who truly do need our help.  Not senseless rioting, raping women and girls.  Money that goes to the various social dichotomies,  SAIN kits and policies that help victims of those heinous crimes.  It is the women who suffer the vagaries by deed, police interviews and the court.

Ex-President Obama,  was big on campaign promises (immigration) and short on real initiatives.  The choke point was the Sequester. Well what about it?  Nestled in these obtuse proclamations,  was money that was diverted to (illegals, healthcare reform and the fish that saved Pittsburgh).   None of these were Republican issues per se, but they are real.

Filipino Superstar.  Coming to US  and supporting local and international causes. Video by Wish 107.5. All rights reserved by 107.5.  Listen .

The bargaining chip was the suspension of military pay and benefits.   Paring away needed support and doing an end run.  Two billion dollars which were earmarked for Veterans and to the VA , to pay for illegals.  Americans are watching us.  What are doing,  what is being done?  Nadda and more of that nada.

The people that matter and the funds to get this done.   Not five hundred dollar handshakes, the release sensitive documents and rapes that go unpunished.

More is going is to be said and done. Coming very soon.

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Moribund< out of touch.

There is a false dichotomy spreading across this nation.  Rather than bridging the abyss, the ravine grows colder,  deeper and in disrepair.  Mountains rumble, at  loss.  Time is suspended.   The cloudy white milk pours from deciduous pine trees, while hawks lurk high above in their rarefied air,  sending out notice, to prey.

Fear not the rain, nor the  poles, nor the mighty storms at sea.  They drain and sustain creating rivulets and rivers, of disparaging diversity.    Conditional causes, which do not change matter, but subverts it.  Hollowing trees, scattering bees and bees being boarders in their own land.  baby102

We walk a tight rope and swing from literal AND LIBERAL vines.  We have no time for childish dreams, yet we are the epitome of games and rancor.  We flourish with pens,  inks and blotters, we stutter with jurisprudence.

My own odyssey was  Quixotic.  It started out with being sequestered in a Mental Hospital in Raleigh,  NC.   That lasted about eight days.  The reason for the visit to the ER was a Major Seizure Attack.  The adventure had morphed into a kind of confinement,  a suggestion of mental entanglement.  Upon release, I contacted the hospital and with swift hyperbole,  I mounted their unilateral conjecture,  into a scathing injunction to repartee with a patient.   I MADE MY POINT.  Essentially  saying, “do not condescend to me and patients alike”.

 

I may again at some time during the next couple of weeks.  For right now,  more terrible blogs,   for you to enjoy and me to destroy.   Peace.

 

 

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My Mental Hospital Experience!

This was surely not any agenda of mine, being nullified in expression and seemingly nullified physically.   Near midnight,  I started to have these monstrous seizures.  I probably should have waited this out.  But destiny had other plans in mind. But as I arose to pack for the ER,  I fell.   Many items came down with me.  My corpulent cat was hiding behind the dresser and came out to see how I was.

She has an innate ability to discern disturbances that are emotional and physical.   Her support was at a safe distance.    Alternating paroxysms further enhanced my trepidation and Paramedics offering commands that I could not execute.  When I was aboard, the screaming sirens and ministrations of First Responders, further causing my bafflement.

At the ER,  I was given Atavan to diminish my distress,  moved to a triage area, which must be a kind of waiting room. for the insane,  I guess.   As I arrived there, I became a bit more lucid and a lot more dubious of my condition.  Long story short, the Doctor sent shivers down my spine as I was advised that I could volunteer or be induced too, with athe involuntary fate, much worse for the wear.

Arriving at the hospital,  I remarked to the person at the desk,  that this is surely a jail and he consolingly implied,  that it was not.   I was in fact,  diminished,  limited and just wondering what had happened.

After my entrance,  into the umbilical tether of mental health,  I felt lost.  Like Air Force Basic Training, sans shoe laces and a shave.   Once the skin check,  non-invasive but no less obtrusive, I donned medical garb,  we all have the grasp of that situation.  Flowing rhetoric and mindfulness.

I am sure that my consternation did not make my accommodations any less Bohemian.   A full-sized bed,  with a relatively thin mattress.  The rooms were bare but really clean and er, safe.    After making the bed sleep worthy,  I fell into a fitful sleep,  garnering about 40ish minutes of more slanderous slumber.

Then at 6:30AM,  I thought I was reliving the aforementioned basic training.  One guy in the food line,  kept raising his hands (one-at-a time) high into the air.  His bunk-mates seemed to pay him no mind,  but new admit-tents were a bit shocked .

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Okay the food was decent and rooms clean.  Groups were fairly well run, and actually did gather some useful tips,  with ersatz coffee,  blended and roasted.  As the days passed,  my bewilderment slackened and it was kind of fun.   However, at each crisis, I was becoming more aware at this dichotomy of egress and a curfew of 11PM.   Felt like something didn’t quite fit and yet,  helping others muddle through.

I guess the therapist’s notes, saying my intelligence was very high, was a temporal aphrodisiac,  in a place where spoons doubled as knives and shoes strings were sublimated into lashes.  I did all that I needed,  in the first day.  I actively participated, and read books like a magic carpet ride.  I negotiated around the titular gendarmes and picayune rules meant for us all.  A few dust-ups and a litany of users, getting methadone and other meds.

In the end,  my regular Psych was baffled why I was in there, in the first place.   I pleaded with the ER,  that the information for the Epilepsy and so-called Bi-polar (Manic) congealed and morphed into a misdiagnosis.   When freedom rang,  I pushed for expediency,  with shoes tethered tight,  my personal belongings that were sequestered, in twin bags.   In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, “So, it goes”.   Inside,  we were lodged into a Miasma, with my name on  it.  Now,  I was emancipated with croons and cries and a  bit of dishevelment to boot.

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