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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Heart Wrenching Expository

It is Christmas time and agreeably it has become about gifting, regifting and black Fridays. So the expections are more about the big tickets like items, a diamond ring or a brand new and expensive car.

And then the neighbors pining through a kitchen window,  about that car.   But we know that that is not the feeling we wish.

It is not even the Christmas classics but the cookies, the fudge, mistle-toe and Holly.  And it is about ….. the stocking.   Not much fits in it,   but it’s relatively small size,  belies,  its intrinsic value.    The handmade ornaments, made of construction paper.  It IS all about the intrinsicness of childhood,  free of spending money on things,  you can do without and a lot of which,  are returned.   Like regifted fruitcake and leftover meals.

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Due to a loss of the stocking, a large space is left and then it becomes adult recreation that fulfills the void left by wrapping paper and bills that make matters worse.

There are incontributibutable tales, of years of real peace,  that continues and that manifests itself in an acceptable drama and a welcoming catharsis, that even Christmas cannot fufill.

Rather than an escape,  but an admix of pleasure and release.  A moment or moments, that seem to outsiders as bizzare and even sociopathic.

Is there anything more sociopathic than Black Friday, that can be done online?  So,  I muse over muses like in Xanadu,  the rekindling of escape and solicitude,  giving and receiving the very need that seems to slip through our fingers.

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 The silk of sin and pleasureable moods never leaves and the fulfilment, exotic to a fault, but that is the pleasure and romance one needs.   Total abandonment and reclusive release.  The corporal silk of the sensitivity of the skin and the control  over it.  Never to subsist,  but growing in confidence.

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Image result for subs in sex

Incomodious Odes

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It is pleasing to be pleased AND more than desirable to be desired.   To be desirous of being another one is  better than being a Kate in the Bush or rather two Kates or Phoebe Cates is a conundrums or two out of a pool.

Does the smell of a sagacious skunk offset it’s perspicacious  nature and esoteric wit?   Does the dying flower die to be on it’s own grave?   Is Willy Wonka a policy wonk or a Hershey’s kiss desired?

Every rose has it’s scones and every Knight has his flower,  so by that are we to assume,  that a stinky rose’s prick a knife?  Just wondering my friends….   I guess that makes me wonder what I am not sure.

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Detroit. The Real Decay. Ourselves?

“The attraction of horror is a mental, or even an intellectual, excitement, but the fascination of the repulsive, so noticeable in contemporary writing, can spring openly from some rotted substance within our civilization …”
Ellen Glasgow

Think about it.    We have a form of pornography that is almost passe.   It is a horrible sin to show a nude butt or breasts but we let psycho-social imagery of young girls provocatively dressed and then brutally assaulted and maybe beheaded or otherwise violated.

We yawn if someone is brutally murdered.   And then talk about sexual deviance and ignore the greater sexual smut.    It is…   misogyny.    It depicts nubile young women as sexual objects and then murder them in a frenetic bloody massacre.    We then try to figure out why children and young people become so perplexed.   A sociopath sees a target rich environment and apologists make every excuse for that aberrant behavior.

When the truly horrific happens,  we were far too busy talking about help,  charity and sponsorship.    Where were we when a poor bullied child is sobbing and sitting on a floor in the middle of the school?   Do we call it teen angst or do we analyse the problem and get that confused person some help?

Then stories like Casey Anthony (talk about a sociopath) or Tanya Harding happen,  or Tiger Woods,  OJ Simpson and The Fish that Stole Pittsburgh and when we can’t get enough of the slanderous,  especially the sexual,   we go even further and become transfixed over the almost cult-like feel of one of these scandals.

At the same time,  sexual and physical abuse go unchecked.   We moralize,  we rant and we talk about justice and let the poor bugger die of exposure  to the cold because we were too busy with Foxy Knoxie Amanda Knox.

Yet do we try to understand and fix the root of the problem?   Do we get the person convicted of sexual deviancy a way to get better?   Or do we release these people back into the mainstream to do what they do?

Where has mercy and love gone?  We talk of no tolerance but we arrest a kid using a banana as a gun and missing that AK-47.   Teens mug and kill a feeble 90 year old and then spend weeks on a questionable murder,  in a time with potentially sociopathic cops, charlatan evangelists and parents more eager to settle out of court than helping the victim.

People say there are no rehabilitating murderers and sexual predators and yet we leave unstable people to roam the streets and they don’t even need a gun to cause a lot of heartbreak.    What do we do for the victim and why the victimizer did it in the first place?   Many times the perpetrator was hurt in the same way.   If we are consistent we realize a huge problem.    That easy fixes usually are Hollywood fantasies.

As soon as the hype dies down,  the victims are virtually forgotten by the media.   Trayvon Martin is still dead.   The poor old 90 year was yesterday’s news.   Media has become a breeding ground for narcissistic and delusional circus freaks.   They exploit the story and then do absolutely nothing.   The killer continues to kill and the sexual deviant continues his or her deviancy.

No solutions, no ideas of when some relief may come and just waiting for a chance to editorialize even more.

Seeing Nancy Grace huff and puff about the latest scandal or crime,  one gets the feeling that these crimes are the highlight of their day.

That we can talk about tolerance (or the lack of) for opposing ideas even if they are in the majority.   Wrong will always be wrong but we lack the courage to call wrong wrong and right is really right.

Past Midnight. It’s a Beautiful Morning!!!

The prince of darkness and a highlighter pen.   Marking his victims one through ten.  Studying his quarry he chuckles and chortles,  oh how he loves the mere mortals.   The sun on hiatus in a full moon dark,  which gave us our peculiar spark and gave our paths original names,  in honor of men called errr.  Peter and James.

His quarry are gathered,  some of the best and the brightest, or so they think,  he’s getting ready to show them and throw at them,  even the proverbial sink.   Pretty soon the ten became thousands… finally much more.

Pretty soon the gavel smashed and the room quivered in fear,  why did our friend call us here?    Why does this place has tall fiery gates and pictures of all their victims?  Wait?

A sonorous laughter filled the great room,  as the chandeliers began  to shake and fill them with doom.    Pretty soon it was all for themselves,  as their allies wore signs and epitaphs from many wars.

The choir was assembled,  not hastily though,  it was time for the revenge of the primate doe.    Fear coursed through body and their much troubled brains,  is this what happens just before the holidays.

Now the penniless pauper with his nubile daughter look directly into the eyes of of.. new found doubt.    The King’s crown looked a bit withered and dithered and the jewels now gone replaced with inscriptions.     The writings now were in many languages but still just one,  there was going to be no room for interpretation, no not one nor drinks of ale or the fattest of quails.    This was their requiem for filling the jails.

The horny magistrate with his pointed tail,   was giving them remorse with the whip of his tail.     Suddenly they wanted to cry but none of that,  they were going to eat envy with silent wails.     All the former slaves laughed with glee and the sting of the whip could never cut so deep as the sting of a trapped conscience.

So bullies beware,  an election or coop lasts for a few years only and then my fearful one,  all is done and made right.

The Monsters Among us.

GADChild

The sudden storm blew in.   The tumbleweeds rushed by and the howl of the wind pushed them like unwanted stepchildren.    I was one of those unfortunate souls,  who prayed for darkness and heavy rain.  The gloom seemed to cheer me up,  the low clouds compacted the world and the heavy snows further reduced the shrapnel of ugly words and harsher correction.

Even better was the icy and snowy weather that kept the devil at bay.    The whiteness like a signet made it official and angry ice cycles crashed from atop the roof of our house.   At night I would sleep walk,  perhaps to walk into the road or fall upon the broken glass.  One night in my dream state I decided the camper window should be a punching bag.   The echoes of anger that permeated my realm.

In my heart I cheered the removal of my anxiety.   The sound of the engine and in it’s wake a measure of relief.    On one occasion we had two cats.   For some reason that one day would harbor a death penalty for one of our cats.   With seventeen acres of land,  my father determined that one should die.

My brother took at him and with a thud,  my heart filled with pity,  anger and disillusionment.  Unbearable voices led me to the scene and the grave of soft ash an ethereal tomb.   Suddenly the Raven appeared and that poor cat with blood on it’s side to my astonishment that poor gray cat seemed to be begging,  hoping for some kind of reprieve and a tear or many fell.    My brother finished the task and that thought and an attempted or threatened murder of my mom at five,  congealed into an unholy miasma of doubt and uncertainty.

Like the gales of a winter,   this inclement weather was a well-timed respite.  Revenge against the Tsunami that always lain in wait.   A patient wraith with a two-edged bite and like a small warrior I tried to turn away that wrath,  especially for a mother whose esteem in our eyes was stunted.

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Maybe the rain was a song of sadness reaching out for love,  surely such wrath would pass but never did.  As I grew up the mixed messages closed in around me.    I made my peace with that person I called dad and seeing his own tragedy I gained perspective about him.   Unable to justify he reached out.  Forgiveness?  Without a doubt and an unlocked toolshed seemed so unimportant now.

I did not glory in his sickness but I did look back and realized the good that was hidden from plain sight.   No one can justify abuse but a humble heart finds a way.  Gasping for breath all I could do is hold his hand.   This warrior who too late for himself never really enjoyed the fruits of his ambition until the very end.

He and my sister found a common ground and her fear was not being able to be loved by him.   In all that,  that is my special moment with Dad.   The cold aloofness and rage was dulled by the medication and softness of a pillow.     As he drew his last breath,   I felt release in him,  the devils vanished in a bright light and the shadows cowered.

The lesson is never give up.   As  bad as life can be,  we can survive.  I survived a certain hell which has led to my OCDs and fear of random violence.   I have several panic attacks every day but I am learning to get well and move on.   One rung at a time.

Never Ending Story – We can all make a difference.. now.

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NukeitDay After

   Bob Dylan – Rainy
Well, they’ll stone when you’re try to be good
They’ll stone ya just a-like they said they would
They’ll stone ya when you’re tryin’ to go home
Then they’ll stone ya when you’re there all alone
But I would not feel so all alone
Everybody must get stoned.Well, they’ll stone ya when you’re walkin’ ‘long the street
They’ll stone ya when you’re tryin’ to keep your seat
They’ll stone ya when you’re walkin’ on the floor
They’ll stone ya when you’re walkin’ to the door
But I would not feel so all alone
Everybody must get stoned.

They’ll stone ya when you’re at the breakfast table
They’ll stone ya when you are young and able
They’ll stone ya when you’re tryin’ to make a buck
They’ll stone ya and then they’ll say “good luck”
Tell ya what, I would not feel so all alone
Everybody must get stoned.

Well, They’ll stone you and say that it’s the end
Then they’ll stone you and then they’ll come back again
They’ll stone you when you’re riding in your car
They’ll stone you when you’re playing your guitar
Yes, but I would not feel so all alone
Everybody must get stoned.

Well, they’ll stone you when you walk all alone
They’ll stone you when you are walking home
They’ll stone you and then say you are brave
They’ll stone you when you are set down in your grave
But I would not feel so all alone
Everybody must get stoned.

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We’ve got
Police Brutality- Murder in the Streets
Right vs Left
Political thieves – Ali Baba
Crips/Bloods
Oultaws/Angels
Sharpton/Westboro
Kennedy/Reagan
Bush/Clinton
ACORN/KKK
Tea Party/Black Panthers
Rap/Death Metal
Fire/Rain
Blood and Steel
You can’t be real.
Lots of talk/no action
Food Kitchens/Billionaires
Heinz/Koch Bros
Getting rich,
No wonder Life’s a bitch.
Black,  white
Asian and Cree
Political Correctness
D AND R.
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We are in this together and the politicians and representatives represent and stop playing the race card because we are people and that is it.      We have the future to consider and changes that are not political as much as pragmatic that will benefit us all.     You see people excluding others in the name of a cause, whether it is abortion, guns, abuse, race,  etc and we need to act now.   Volunteer,  help and make the world a better place and forget slogans.  Do this!