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 |  Mulling, culling, and musing the confusing... in Blog format. |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I stand in awe of life's predisposition for imploding, swiftly morphing into a churning, perilous vortex that mankind is hard-pressed to navigate, let alone survive. Maintaining a foothold and emerging from the gales unscathed seems wholly contingent upon survivors' personal philosophies, capacity for tolerance, and coping skills. Without these, the vortex becomes the portal to a toxic black void, and man stands naked in the spiralling eddy, awaiting the final flush.** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Monsters Evil incarnate to their kind gives rise, their nourishment found in blood-curdling fear; horror-swept dreamscapes they stalk in disguise, unleashing terror, they draw ever near. Defiled wombs in hell to their kind give birth to seek symbiosis with souls in need; in lost and rejected spirits on earth ~ on their very marrow, such monsters feed. Iced are their fingers and vacant, their stare, black are their hearts, sustained by putrid breath; sucking the lifeblood imperilled souls share to spew forth their spawn of hatred and death. But they may not linger where Faith abides... for Hope's children fear not their raging tides. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The mission of this journal is to examine life issues that precipitate the storms and seek out the balms that soothe the wounds they inflict. It is my fervent hope that philosophically autopsying life issue outcomes will provide comfort in the midst of chaos and a keenly longed-for measure of inner peace. Bear in mind, dear Reader, that the thoughts to follow are only musings and by no means assertions of right or wrong. They are but a reflection of one soul's yearning to ascend from the roots of life to its flowering branches and taste of the fruits found therein. How, if at all, savory their flavors are deemed to be and whether or not they become a staple in one's spiritual diet is left to each reader's own palate. The journey thus begins...
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| Political commentators get on my last nerve - particularly when they enter pre-presidential election feeding frenzies like the one in which they're presently gluttonously participating. No matter where you turn, particularly in the cable news genre, there they are, avidly dissecting every last morsel of candidates' campaigns, scrutinizing, pontificating, and measuring every aspect against some nebulous set of arbitrary standards with which the vast majority of American citizens are unfamiliar and wholly unconcerned. Like high-brow food, art, and movie critics, the Sages of Mount Politico issue proclamations and predictions, relying upon little more than their self-appointed status of 'political expert' and confidence born of arrogance to lend credence to their words. Thankfully, as in the cases of cusine, art, and movie critics... most Americans with a sound head on their shoulders provide the Politicos' opinions with unobstructed passage in one ear and out the other. Lately, political commentators have ratcheted the term "audacity" to all new heights. After a mystical consultation with some political abacus to which only they have access, they've crunched the numbers and decided Hillary Clinton should abandon her bid for Democratic nomination for President... "for the good of her party". In a whirlwind flurry of "expert" dissection, critiqueing, predilection, and fractured logic that would make Einstein's head spin, suddenly Mrs. Clinton's standing her ground until the voters determine whether she or Mr. Obama would make the best President is "detrimental" to her Party - and simply not the politically correct thing to do. Stick it in yer ditty bags, guys. America loves healthy, informative competition and a good, clean fight. The proof of the pudding lies not in whether such competitions are won or lost - but how spiritedly, honorably, and well the effort was undertaken. Furthermore, if you "experts" had a clue, many of the best Presidents in our history would never have made it to the Oval Office. Presidential hopefuls need to worry far less about "the good of their party" and far more about "the good of their country". And if they genuinely feel they're the best candidate for leading us through the massive difficulties and tasks we presently face, then they stand their ground and slug it out until the last vote is tallied. Facing the monumental adversities looming on the horizon, I want a President in office with just that kind of fortitude. At this most crucial juncture of our history, America need leaders - not game-playing politicians. The only purpose that "critics" admirably serve, to my way of thinking, is to prompt me to examine for myself those things they soundly condemn. In the vast majoraty of such situations, I find myself responding to their "thumbs down" with an opposing-view-expressing, "digital gesture" of my own. Hopefully, they possess sufficient expertise to 'read between the lines'... |
Lord, lord, lord... I guess it truly does take all kinds to make the world go 'round.  If someone offered me a million dollars to go through my portfolio here and name the one endeavor within it most likely to earn a "1" out of "5" Rating, the very last one I would have picked would have been "Invalid Item"  . But I'd have been wrong. I earned the "1" rating for The Olive Branch C-Note Shoppe from a Registered Member who joined Writing.com yesterday. Accompanying the rating score was the following single, terse, and entirely unconstuctive comment: you lost me at "this marvelous writing community". Do tell, Milady Lena   . You managed to deduce that Writing.com falls ruefully short of being a marvellous writing community... within only 24 hours after becoming a Registered Author here? I've been a WDC member for quite a bit longer than that and find it to be the best in its genre the Web has to offer. And why? Because of its Membership and all they strive to make this community for everyone.If you are so soured on our Writing Community so soon in the game, I suggest you pledge yourself to doing your part to better it. (Pssst... brace yourself, sugar... it may take a bit longer than just one day). WDC is what it is because we, its members, are who we are. If we fall so miserably short of your expectations, then it's incumbent upon the Membership to work toward making it a better place to be. You go first.  |
| Funny thing about love... you cannot will it, command it, conjure it forth... or even, for that matter, "earn" it, per se. We've no control over true love's genesis... perhaps that's why folks requiring unyielding control over all things at all times rarely find and/or are able to maintain the loving ties that truly bind. Though the most essential staple in the spirit's pantry, love also tends to be the most elusive to acquire and preserve. It is born when it choses to be, entirely impervious to controlling efforts or influence exerted by the one who is loving or the one who is being loved. And once it does draw first breath, love can just as easily breathe its last if not diligently nurtured and protected above all other things when life's gales blow hardest. Love is a study in juxtaposition - at once an avenue for establishing tensile strength human bonds, yet also consumately delicate and vulnerable when neglected or abused. When it's gifted to us, love can easily wither and perish before full flower if its roots are not sunk deeply enough in fertile soil - or if we, its givers and recipients, fail to vigilantly nurture its bloom. Maybe the concept we most crucially need to grasp - yet seem so resistant to recognizing - is that it is loving, not necessarily being loved, that allows the soul to soar and find full measure. There is no failure or shame in loving openly and honestly... whether that love is returned or not. When the person to whom we give our love - and with it, a part of our being - fails to recognize the gift as a treasure to be cherished, accountability for the failure or loss of a loving relationship rests solely with them... and is exclusively theirs to shoulder along with the rest of their baggage in life. Yes, there is a sense of loss and bereftness when you honestly and selflessly offer love and the gift is neglected, abandoned, or sullied. But the gain of having loved another far surpasses these... the old saying, "It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all" is a truth that will endure for all time. Receiving love is a far easier thing to do than giving love is. The latter, perilously fraught with risk, often requires mustering all of our spirit's stength to hurtle our intrinsic fear, as a species, of rejection. But, as is true of any act of courage humans 'go against the grain' to undertake, we are bettered for having done so... whether the investment pays off in the manner we'd hoped for or not. |
| I'm a funny home video junky, and my all time, grand-slam, Best-of-the-Best, Most Hysterical Home Video for the Ages was just featured on America's Most Shocking Videos. This young male zookeeper is sweeping out an elephant cage, his head down and concentrating on sweeping right behind a ten thousand pound pachyderm. A fellow zookeeper, a young female, is spraying the cage floor with a hose nearby. The male keeper, who'd been slightly hunched over while sweeping, straightens up, raises his face from his work, and swivels his head... all in a swift and fateful succession perfectly in sync with the elephant backing up a step and lowering it's backside, apparently with the wholly non-malicious intent of defecating. A very considerate act on the elephant's part, given that people were there tidying up anyway... Unfortunately, like two ships ka-blamming in the night, the elephant's descending anus pops right over the man's entire head. For one, time-stands-still moment, the man whose head is now colonically challenged all the way down to his shoulders AND the elephant so rudely interrupted in the course of its biological ablutions both freeze. The female zookeeper throws down her hose, rushes over to the man now flailing away in utter eclipsed darkness, and frantically begins trying to extract her co-worker's head from the elephant's anus... by pushing against the pachyderm's butt cheeks with the palms of her hands. The lady zookeeper was extremely petite, and seeing her trying to push a stunned elephant's ass off a panicky, fecally blinded co-worker's swallowed-up head unfailingly renders me a rolling-on-the-floor, tear-spurting, stomach-clutching, hysterically guffawing mass of quivering protoplams. When the male zookeeper's head finally pops back out, his hair and entire face glistening with slimy elephant poo, gasping and gagging and groaning pitably, narrator Stacey Keach comments... "He's learned all too well just how unpredictable and dangerous wildlife can be." Oh my GAWD, Keach! Ya think??? I don't which is funnier... having seen the video again or the thought of Dee reading this entry and promptly barfing into her bowl of breakfast bran. (She's not exactly known for her prowess and skill in reverse peristalsis control when confronted with such situmagations...  )Either way - perhaps this day is salvageable, after all... |
| Aw, sheeeeeesh... I was gonna leave the smartass post below and call it a Blogological day, when what to my narrowing eyes should appear but a Sponsored Review Forum of some kind, the name of which I instantly forgot the moment I read the Forum's byline. Paraphrasing, the byline announced: Looking for members... Yellow and above. 'Yellow', of course, refers to "Preferred Author" status here at Writing.com. The 'and above' part indicates that we, the nameless rabble of individuals constituting the ranks of the Black and/or Beige Portfolioed Persuasion, may consider ourselves... un-invited. I'm not penning this post in Sour Grapes Mode... in most cases, visiting the Ports of Preferred Authors here supports and well upholds WDC staffers' decisions to promote the Ports' owners to that "rank" within our numbers. However, an appreciable number of "Yellow Case" Ports I've stumbled across are nowhere near as impressive and reflective of talent and content as many upon many more "Black Case" Ports I've had the honor and pleasure of visiting. I've learned that being promoted to Preferred Author here apparently is not at all solely contingent upon writing skill, dedication to the Site, and/or outstanding performance within our writing Community. Upon realizing that, such "promotions" became far less a goal I cared to pursue. My point is, Writing.com should be one place that is an oasis from the backstabbing and pecking order propensities so virulently rampant in the realm of real time human interactions. We are majorally a Community and Family of creative spirits, our ranks dedicated to written and visual expression, sharing thoughts, the free and unfettered exchange of ideas and concepts, and the enlightement and growth to be found in all of these. Just for once - right here in this most special and unique, virtual Zion for all souls creative - can't we dispense with the pidgeonholing, jealous maliciousness/gossip, and trampling of others in the mindless pursuit of "status" and "prestige" so prevalent in the real world around us? As is true of meeting folks in real time, I've learned to look at character and content - not color - where fellow Authors' portfolios are concerned. Confining my meanderings and/or affinity to 'Yellow and above' here constitutes denying oneself the privelege of exposure to some of the most outstanding character and talent to be found within this site. WDC is no place for cliques and eliticism - gawd knows they've gained enough of a foothold in everday life. |
| Due to inordinately high apathy levels, today has been cancelled. Tomorrow's status is in guarded condition. |
| I had the most horrific nightmare last night. I'm still troubled beyond measure over it, hours after awakening in a cold sweat. It started with me in an office, seated before a man whose face I cannot recall... all I can remember of him is that he had dark hair and was fairly handsome. He was arranging for my return to work, which involved a great deal of negotiation and red tape. He had my confidence that he was in earnest, that he sincerely regretted all I'd been put through, and that he was entirely dedicated to making everything right again. We'd had numerous such meetings over a period of several months and were at the juncture where everything was to be made right again in toto, and by now, he'd gained my full trust. To celebrate the reversal of all the wrongs, he invited me out for a lovely dinner, and by evening's end, we confided in one another that we felt a strong mutual attraction. Though entirely out of character for me, we culminated the evening with lovemaking, and it was unparalleled with any experience I'd ever before known, because, I felt, of the immense trust I had come to place in him. Now I was back in his office, just a day or two away from returning to work with all back pay, seniority, and benefits restored as agreed. More importantly, he'd made me feel that I could return to work and enjoy performing my duties with excellence, just as I had before, without any further concerns about continuing deceit, harassment, and retaliative measures on my employer's part ever again. I thanked him sincerely for all the effort he'd put into my situation, and expressed concern that since my employer was also his, I worried that he might be retaliated against by our employer for having vigorously and successfully defended my case. He stood up, came from behind his desk, tenderly took me into his arms, and drew his face close to mine to kiss me, and I remember his eyes conveying this beautiful, seemingly purest expression of love. Just as I was about to return his kiss, he shoved me away. His eyes snapped cold and hard as granite, and he hissed at me never to let this happen between us again, or everything we'd accomplished would fall apart. Then his expression softened once more, and he told me he'd call me later that night at home. He did call, and asked me to meet him at a residential address. I expressed my reluctance, telling him that I felt very unsettled and uneasy about his behavior earlier on. He assured me that he'd only done that because he didn't want to place me in a position of fatal vulnerability with my employer. Again, entirely in opposition to my nature, I went against my better judgment and "gut feeling" and drove over to meet him at the address he'd given me. When I arrived, another car, a dark color Cadillac, was parked there, and I parked Annie Laurie, my little white Tempo, beside the Caddy. I paused after getting out of the car when my attention was drawn to the amazing aurora borealis displays that were coming one right after the other in the heavens. They were breathtaking shades of shimmering blues and aquas against the backdrop of an almost starless, midnight blue night sky. I remember thinking that the celestial lights were trying to tell me something, but for the life of me, I could not discern what it was. It blanketted me with a sense of foreboding as I finally broke my gaze, approached the side door of the house, and knocked with a growing sense of dread. He answered the door and invited me in. The living room was beautiful, with many lit candles situated on various pieces of beautiful furniture and a phenomenally lovely fire burning in the most beautiful fireplace I'd ever seen. Just as I turned from the fireplace to say something to him, another woman entered the room, beautiful and young and attired in a gorgeous full length evening gown. He took her into his arms, and without breaking eye contact with me over her lovely shoulder, embraced her and kissed her tenderly. I remember thinking, "I'm supposed to react in a certain way to this", but I had no idea how. I only knew that the sole avenue available to me for extracting myself from this dangerous situation intact was to keep my wits about me and not react at all. As they continued embracing and kissing, I backed up slowly and reached behind me, my hand finding the doorknob. I quietly turned the knob and opened the door, and never turning away from them, backed through the threshold without making a sound. But instead of it leading me back outside where I'd come from, the door opened only to the steps leading to the basement. As I stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, I felt something soft brushing past my ankles, and looked down to see Peanut and my kitties circling and rubbing lovingly against my feet and ankles. I had no idea how they gotten there, as I had not brought them with me when I drove over. As I stooped to gather them all up, they scampered away and down the basement stairs. I softly called to them but they did not come, so I reluctantly began descending the steps to retrieve them, thinking perhaps we could escape through a basement window. As I got roughly two-thirds of the way down, I was horrified to see that everywhere on the basement floor, there were dead kitties. They were all different colors, some long haired and some short, and all different ages, from newborn kittens to adult cats. Some were lying on their sides and some appeared to have died mid-stride; some were still standing on their two front legs as if trying to pull themselves to their feet and flee. None of the deceased kitties were any of my own, nor was Peanut's body among their number... but none of my kitties or Peanut were in sight, and none responded to my terrified, whispered calls. I spotted a basement window and stood up on an overturned metal bucket to look through it. The window was coated with dust, but I could make out the man and woman standing between the Cadillac and my white Tempo. I was sweating profusely - I can even remember "feeling" the sting of the salty drops of perspiration that rolled into my eyes. The woman dumped her purse on the ground and pawed through the contents, and when she told him she couldn't find the Caddy keys, he pulled her up and slapped her several times, so hard that her knees buckled. A wave of terror swept over me that he might find the keys to Annie Laurie in my abandoned purse and steal her instead. I still could not find Peanut or my kitties, and weeping uncontrollably in these huge, silent, racking sobs, I picked my way through all the dead little bodies, went back up the stairs, and re-entered the house through the basement door. I'd decided I'd have to escape on foot while they were still outside arguing and bring the police back with me to find and rescue my pets. But as I was tiptoeing through the house to locate another door, he stepped from the shadows and grabbed me, clapping his strong hand over my nose and mouth to keep me from screaming. I tried to fight, but could not break his hold, and could not breathe because of his hand blocking my airway. Then I saw the woman he'd been kissing and then arguing with lying, horribly beaten, on the sofa, her eyes wide with terror. Seeing her that way and realizing he'd kill me if I continued trying to fight, I went limp, and he threw me on the sofa beside her. He started for the door, and I remember thinking he was going to flee in Annie Laurie. I offered no protest, tried to signal with my eyes for the other woman to do the same, and remember thinking maybe he was going to flee and not kill us after all... but also silently admonishing myself to stay alert just in case. Just before he reached the door, he picked up an antique, cast iron clothes iron-type object from the fireplace hearth and hurled it at us. It struck the other woman's head with a stomach-turning thunk, and the thought that she must surely be dead was crossing my mind when a fireplace poker he'd hurled struck me in the throat. I remember praying he might not realize he hadn't killed me, given the dim candlelight, and trying to play dead. But my heart was beating furiously against my chest and my lungs were screaming for me to breathe, though I feared he'd either spot my pounding pulse or notice my fluttering eyelids or my chest rise if I tried to sneak in a breath. I was teetering on the panicky brink of involuntarily being forced to draw in air when I awoke. I know that this nightmare was triggered by the real life situation I'm enduring with my employer right now... Goliath has once more reared his ugly head and is backpeddling six ways to Sunday on the good faith agreement we had. The deceit and unethical slights of hand in last evening's nightmare mirror those of Goliath and every single one of his representatives I've spoken with in an effort to reverse this unlawfully created mess for several months now... each and every one of them has been deceptive, callous, arbitrary, and passively, if not openly, rude. Yesterday, Goliath escalated an already pinnacled level of arrogance to the point of intimidation/harassment in written form. Now, because of this last minute about face, I can't even cash my back disability checks because I'm apparently going to have to take legal action against the Corporate Goliath to expose his "policies" and unethical/unlawful practices so that a judge/jury not blinded by the monumental greed he feeds upon can show him the light regarding right, wrong, ethics, and the law of the land. For a corporation as massively dependent upon the "little guy" as this one is, and one that purports to embrace the concept that "The Customer Rules"... when it comes to how many unlawful and unethical ways in which the little guy not only doesn't rule, but gets his legally protected rights abused and violated on a variety of fronts at Goliath's behind-the-scenes hands, the Giant's pants are down around his ankles right now. The veneer of his artfully masked malice is far from impenetrable, though... it's all been fastidiously documented for presentation in a court of law. I've always been a huge believer in the "Come, Let Us Reason Together Philosophy" of human interaction, and Goliath damn well knows that. I've tried to resolve this nightmare of a situation amicably at every juncture since it all began... even before it began, each time I heard the distant rumble of the locomotive barreling down the tracks. But apparently, despite his earlier promises, Goliath will have none of it. Fine. Never let it be said that I sued his socks off at the drop of a hat - he's forcing the issue, not I. Very few things in this life terrify me and/or seriously rattle my psyche. But when I dream, even whimsically, it never fails that the dreams bear messages and/or lessons that eventually come to fruition in real life... and that many years and life experiences have taught me well to heed. I'm fairly certain I know what the remaining symbolism the nightmare set forth portends, but will refrain from putting it into words here - mostly out of the kind of fear your mind declares is unfounded but your heart insists is probable - that to do so would help in some way to make it all come true. |
| For a long time, I used to think that as peculiar as so-called "fringe element" fellow men had become - and given the swiftness with which their numbers were growing in the world - if Jesus were to return in my lifetime and walk among us, how would we ever recognize him and not write him off as some kind of "kook"? Cognitively ascending from the root system and sturdy trunk upward into ever less weight-bearing branches of that particular adventure in contemplation always forced me to the unproductive, prematurely reached and frustratingly arbitrary conclusion that God would figure out some way to make us see the light... and leave it at that before I fell out of the tree altogether. But time and life teach us lessons of infinite value, and both have led me to several less nebulous and impedimentary conclusions. Perhaps Jesus already walks among us, and recognition of that fact is a gift from God readily within the grasp of anyone willing to extend their open hand. Perhaps He, upon His return to our numbers, is embodied by many among us rather than in only one man, as before. Over the years I'm certain I have witnessed Him abiding in a rare and precious number of spectacular human beings... those who leave me in awe for having drawn near to them - and whose beings are touched by even the fall of a sparrow. Perhaps, given what mankind has become, Christ will not identify and announce His presence among us as He did in biblical times, knowing full well that our collective - and in this day and age, sadly well-founded - cynicism would be too great a barrier for the human heart to surmount. Perhaps our assumption that God no longer renders biblical-era-magnitude miracles for man to behold is inherently flawed, for if you think about it, even bolder miracles happen before our very eyes daily. Infants weighing less than one pound live and grow to healthy adulthood. People are alerted to pending disasters - and their lives spared - by animals or other phenomena/circumstances we're at an utter loss to explain. Cold and hardened hearts deemed unsalvageable are once more warmed and breathe new life. These are but a handful of the millions of miraculous events that happen all around us on a consistent basis... if only we'll open our eyes to see, our minds to recognize, and our hearts to embrace. Is this not an incredibly simple task to undertake when one considers the riches to be gained from the effort? It is our unwillingness or flat out refusal to do so, regardless the reasoning giving rise to it, that renders us disenchanted, feeling somehow cheated and incomplete, and hopelessly spiritually in bondage. |
| Okay, Mr. Obama - now you're seriously starting to scare me. I've always been uneasy about your lack of crucially essential experience in the overall scheme of things when it comes to viable candidacy for the Presidency of the United States. Then came word of your longstanding, 'spiritual mentor relationship' with Reverend Wright, a man who's made no bones about embracing the concepts of 'payback racism' and anti-Americanism from the pulpit. Following that, we learned of your close ties and apparent at least passive alignment with a second, and possibly a third, pastor/spiritual advisor who share(s) Reverand Wright's socio-political mindset. Meanwhile, Mrs. Obama is flitting about assuring Americans that you and she can certainly understand and empathize with the financial and cultural plight of the common man, because, for one thing, the two of you are struggling to pay off your student loans for your Ivy League college educations and the kids' piano lessons. And the icing on the cake thus far in your campaign seems to be your assertions in a speech last weekend that present day economically challenged Pennsylvanians and other like U.S. citizens are so disenchanted with our Government's failures and deceit that it's no wonder they "cling to" guns, religion, violence, etc. Any one of these faux pas, standing alone, would have created a significant blip on the radar screen for me in terms of Obama's race for the Whitehouse, but most of them, I do believe, I could have singularly come to terms with. Collectively, however, they are profiling ever more clearly a decidedly elitist, inexperienced, and woefully out-of-touch societal, cultural, and political outlook on Mr. Obama's part that has absolutely no place in Presidency and could, in fact, spell serious setbacks, if not utter doom, for our country on a variety of fronts. Let's just say that I'm less comfortable now with the idea of an Obama Whitehouse than I am even with Mrs. McCain's declaration that that she'll emulate Jacqueline Kennedy if she becomes First Lady, because Jackie personified everything a First Lady should be. Good gawd. I'm not saying Barack Obama could never be a viable candidate for the Presidency. What I am saying is that he has much to learn - beginning with an honest, no-holds-barred inventory and tune-up of his own biases and ethical, cultural, and sociological mindsets - about serving capably and honorably as a powerful Leader of the Free World. Unless and until he earnestly embarks upon that long and arduous task - one which by necessity will require years to effectively undertake - he cannot hope to measure up to the level of character required to responsibly and honorably carry out the solemn duties of Commander in Chief. Predjudice, bias, racism, and elitism are ugly and lethal to the human spirit... in all colors. |
| You can take an older gal out of Ohio, but you can never completely eradicate the Buckeye from the soul of an older gal. Fortunately, the "Ohio-ality" that still courses through my veins is not impaired, but instead enhanced and in many ways even facillitated, by such meteorologically accomodating areas as West Texas. In Ohio it is around this time of year... mid-March to early April, that my annual "burning yearning" to break ground and plant the coming year's flower and veggie gardens earnestly gains a foothold in my psyche. The problem is, though a gardner's heart is kindled to blazing warmth around Easter time, Ohio's weather seldom follows suit until late May to early June. By the same token, Ohio is fond of throwing in premature killing frosts that wipe out even the most established plantings - only to then thumb its nose at bereft gardeners by bestowing three or four weeks of Indian Summer upon their now frost-blackened crops. Had I remained an Ohio resident, a greenhouse would have become a mandatory necessity for preserving my sanity throughout the Buckeye State's bleak, ever lengthening non-growing season. I used to get depressed every time the Jerry Lewis Telethon aired, viewing it at the grim forebearer of decidedly anti-gardener tidings. Here in West Texas, lack of rainfall and high winds are the greatest forces to be reckoned with... both induce Mother Nature's adaptive creativity to retaliate with so-called "weeds" and prickly succulents that could give a full-scale atomic blast a run for its money, plus hoards of gargantuan, aggressive, voraciously marauding critters of the reptilian and six-legged kind, capable of levelling an entire planting of new seedlings in a single bound. Fully fifty percent of a gardener's time here must be devoted to watering and battling pests on their own parched turf. Every once in a blue moon, Mother Nature amuses herself by granting us moisture in early Spring - but often opts to hurl it at us in a variety of unsettling ways, including the side-sweeping, window shattering, automobile-denting hail such as that was catapulted at us to the tune of nearly an inch deep two evenings ago. And because we are so arid, when it does happen to rain here any more than a quarter of an inch or so, half the town's property and intrastructure flash floods and floats off toward the lowest valleys it can find. Nevertheless... compared to what Ohio laughingly refers to as "Spring", February and March meteorological tribulations in this area of Texas pale by comparison, and the same is true of Autumn. Here one can actually successfully garden for nine and sometimes even ten months out of the year, inclusive of heartier crops such as spinach, kale, peas, and hardier flowers like mums, pansies, etc. Furthermore, even when the leaves of the deciduous trees here do get around to falling in mid-November or so, we've a plentiful supply of conifers and hardy groundcovers that keep us green year 'round. The gardener's heart rejoices! As you may have gathered, my 2008 "gardener's itch" is in full bloom - and I'm scratching like a mad woman. I've already found my marigold, coleus, pansy, tomato, swiss chard, cucumber, and zucchini seeds for the year at a bargain, Dollar Store Price, and ordered Autumn craft-making seeds such as ornamental maize corn, field pumpkins, decorative gourds, jack-be-little pumpkins, and broom corn online. I'm hauling out my planting trays and turning over soil in preparation for the miracle of nurturing them all to full awe-inspiring sprout. I'm reveling in the feel of mother earth in my cupped hands and the heady aroma it releases when caressed. Once the seedlings are transplanted and/or established, I'll begin assembling my canning jars, seals, parafin, and canning/drying/freezing recipes in preparation for my autumnal, "Little Red Hen" kitchen activities. In a frenetically stressful world of technology, costly pursuits and pastimes, and pervasive, blanket boredom/dissatisfaction with life in general, nothing beats the simple pleasures... and little else, to my way of thinking, proves to be anywhere near as satisfying. |
| I've long held an ardent belief that adversity builds character... and swiftly sifts the chaff from the wheat where human behaviors and outlooks are concerned. Take, for example, poverty... First of all, what we in U.S. society regards as "being impoverished" is a picnic in the park compared to the true, stark poverty millions upon millions of our fellow human beings endure each and every day of their imperiled lives. The closest thing to this type of catastrophic impoverishment that we have by comparison in this nation are our homeless people and people eeking out a borderline starvation existence in remote areas such as stricken Appalachian regions. Even though in my childhood Momma, my siblings, and I "qualified" six ways to Sunday as "poor" by American standards, we never saw it that way. Even if we had no gas or electricity and certainly never a telephone or a car, we had a roof over our heads, a place to grow a garden, and most of all - each other. As far as we were concerned then and to this day, these things made us wealthy beyond measure. Now, staring hard at 60 years of age, I still regard those times as foundational for developing and honing ever-improving coping skills, perseverance in the face of adversity, true independence, and exceeding resourcefulness in exploring alternative options when slugging your way through hard times of any kind in adult life. You see the same phenomenon in the now elderly generation who "made their bones" by soldiering through The Great Depression even as their far wealthier counterparts leapt from Wall Street skyscraper windows. When it comes to the "Have" vs. the "Have Not" people in life, I see the former, on the whole, as decidedly more disadvantaged - in a vast number of the most humanitarily and spiritually crucial ways - than the collective latter. When it comes to true adversity, be it in one's personal life, relationship/societal interactions, and/or financial state of affairs, my money's on the "Have Nots" being more likely to stay the course and cross the finish line every time. Bunkie got a good laugh the other day when, after sharing the above thoughts with him, I asserted, "Take the coming economic recession, for example. We poor people aren't all that concerned about it, save for the higher food and gasoline prices, because we're so damn resourceful and adaptive. It's the well-heeled folks who'll 'suffer' the most... the only way we financially challenged folks realize we're in a Recession is when we see more rich folks in the Dollar Store!" Even if I ever do hit the Lottery or otherwise back into wealth, I'll never forget where I came from. And that will keep me a decent human being. |
| Well, I spoke with the Supervisor of a Supervisor of the Supervisor of the Supervisor of the Case Manager who mis-managed my disability claim just in time for the holidays last year, resulting in me being wrongly terminated by an employer who makes billions annually and could care less about the welfare of the dedicated employees upon whose backs it stands in order to rake in such profits, particularly given today's economy. Goliath came to the battlefield armed with vast financial resources, monumental arrogance and indifference regarding honest and ethical standard operating procedures, and supreme confidence that he could stomp all over the little guy and get away with it, as has always been true for him in the past. David's arsenal, however, included even more powerful weaponry... the truth, Irish bulldog tenacity, and indisputable evidentiary documentation of each and every violation of the law, deceit, and other assorted underhanded tricks Goliath had up his sleeve. This morning, there came the crash of the giant falling to his knees. My Disability Denial is to be overturned, with full restitution of all back benefits. My termination from employment, I am told, is to be reversed, with restitution of my salary, benefits, and seniority status retroactive to the date of the unlawful discharge. I'm told I'll receive written verification of all of this via Fed Ex shortly. Having endured this horrendous nightmare for nearly a year, I'll believe it all when it actually comes to fruition, but I chose to believe sufficiently enough in human decency to accept for now that the things promised today will indeed come to pass. If not, it will be Katie bar the door in terms of tort action against all involved parties. Back to work. Wow. I'll not go back with an "attitude"... I'll not go back gloating, any more than I feel like gloating even at this moment. All I feel, even if all parties do the right thing as they have promised to do, is a profoundly deep disappointment in how willing my employer and its minions are, in the name of the Almighty Dollar, to wholly sacrifice the trust and well-being of the dedicated employees who make it the hugely successful enterprise it is. The trust I once had in my employer based upon the high ethical standards it purported to espouse has been forever compromised, and the pain inflicted along the way defies adequate description in this context. And that doesn't even take into consideration the financial, emotional, and physical toll this protracted ordeal has wrought. Yet, as tends to be true of adversity, there is a valuable harvest to be reaped. I've survived the storm, remaining on my feet and swinging the entire way. I tapped into my own reserves of inner strength, resourcefulness, and ability to think things through and rely upon my Creator, the truth, and standing up for what is right to see me through even the darkest days. There is intrinsic value in all of these that surpasses even the pain I still feel, and it is to that that I will cling until the sun once more peeks through the clouds. |
| The movie, Carrie " is playing on A&E right now, and for some inexplicable reason has donned the gossamer robes of Milady Muse for the Day... When I first read the book, Carrie, and each time I see the movie, I'm always transported, to some extent, back to my own Junior High and High School days... I was every bit as nerdy and out of the loop as Carrie, but instead of telekinesis, my youthful "cross to bear" was one of enhanced intuitiveness and premature maturity. I spent the bulk of my Freshman and Sophomore years wondering what planet I was really from and how I'd managed to fall off the cosmic bus at such a foreign and seemingly hostile depot. The kids I went to school with worried about whether or not Mom and Dad would lend them the Cadillac to drive to school or doom them to taking the family station wagon, whether or not they'd make the grade during Senior High Fraternity/Sorority rushes, and who would say what about whom at the weekend mixer. I worried about getting to school and work on time, given that our family had no car and my primary mode of transportation was my own two feet - and working as many hours as possible in order to keep our utilities paid. I must admit, I bought into the whole popularity "status" thing for awhile, and spent a significant amount of time secretly longing to be included as a member in good standing of the "in" crowd - or at least not the girl everyone else viewed as wholly out of sync with the normal scheme of things and a scrubs- or hand-me-down-attired Nerd of the Consummate Kind. I'll never forget my merciful reprieve... my Epiphany of Epiphanies... the Eureka moment that freed me from a decaying orbit around Planet Popularity and gave me wings to forever soar above and beyond its gnarled, perverse grasp. Near the end of every school year at my High School, the current class of Seniors-in-Waiting would hold student body elections and choose their Senior Class President, Vice-President, Secretary, and Treasurer for the coming year. The outcome of these "elections" was inevitably contingent upon who commanded the most financial resources, popularity, and influence-peddling skills, which is why I'd never even considered throwing my hat into the ring in during The Class of 70's Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior years. And then, walking to work at Dr. Edward's office following a particularly deflating, Card-Carrying-Member-of-the-Nameless-Nerdy-Rabble, dog day afternoon at school, I had a scathingly brilliant idea. So what if I couldn't swing buying fancy-schmancy novelty items urging classmates to vote for me? So what if having fliers printed up was a luxury in which I'd never dream of indulging at the expense of my Momma and siblings? So what if I didn't stand a rat's ass chance in Pittsburgh of actually winning a student body election? What I did have was sufficient creative prowess to make my own damn posters. I also had an excellent command of communication skills, a long, abiding, heretofore unexpressed list of personal observations about all the things I believed the High School could be as opposed to what it actually was at our school... and 15 reserved minutes of gloriously unfettered podium time before a captive faculty and student body audience in which to air them. I ran, boys and girls - I ran. At first, I'd planned to run for Secretary or perhaps V.P. Generally, the position of Senior Class President always went to someone who'd served in a lesser office in their Sophomore or Junior years. But then it occurred to me that I had about as much of a crack as an ice cube in hell at getting elected to any office anyway, so why not go for the brass ring? My posters, I don't mind saying, were the best of the bunch. I didn't bother with fliers or novelty items, and my wallflower status emancipated me from the frenzy of cut-throat "political" B.S.-ing, back-stabbing, and butt-smooching to which my opponents devoted themselves in the ensuing three weeks. While they were blotting their brown lipstick....* heh, heh, heh * ... I was writing my speech. Election Day finally came, with all its attendant hustle and bustle. Second Period was dedicated to a full student body Assembly, and the Auditorium was standing room only. Our speeches were delivered in order of ascending levels of Office, which meant that I and my two opponents running for Class President would be heard last. A draw of straws amongst the three of us relegated me to the position of "last of the last" to speak. And speak I did. Not angrily... not resentfully... not negatively - but openly, quietly, and completely. I simply told 'em like it was. At the end of the speech, I heard the words, "If you want to elect a dedicated Class President, vote for me. If you want to elect a monarch... don't. Thank you." come out of my mouth... followed by several agonizing seconds of dead silence. I remember looking out over a sea of faces, the vast majority of which appeared to be stunned into silence. Then came a sprinkling of applause, followed by teachers and even a few students rising to their feet. As I walked away from the podium and back to my seat on stage, the applause grew louder and louder. Both of my opponents' mouths were gaping as they openly gawked at me, and I clearly recall staring back at them with a "Don't look at me - I don't get it, either!" expression on my own befuddled countenance. Just before school let out for the day, the new Class Officers were announced over the Public Address system. I had not won, of course... that came as neither a surprise nor even a disappointment. What did come as a shock, however, was being served with a pass to report to the Principal's office just before the bell rang. Oh, shit. I hardly EVER misbehaved in school, and certainly never beyond the boundaries of a teacher or guidance counselor level of review. Catapulting to the conclusion that my public remarks had rocked the boat sufficiently to earn me the epitomically dreaded Principal's Pass, I fearfully contemplated the horrible fate that surely awaited as I headed for Mr. Purcell's office... and worse yet, what punishment I'd face at home when Momma got word of this. Three decades later, even as I type these words, my palms are as moist and my heart is racing nearly as fast as it did for the ten or so angst-ridden minutes I waited outside the Principal's door, utterly defeated and eternally doomed. GAWD, teenage hormones are a bitch! In my day, the relationship between teachers and students was never as informal as it has apparently become nowadays... and the Principal stood right behind God and Jesus at the head of the lunch line. By the time Mr. Purcell called me into his inner sanctum, I'd mentally fleshed out a hasty draft of my Last Will and Testament. "Kelly?" "Yes, Sir?" "That was the best damn speech I've ever heard. You have a fantastic future ahead of you. I'm so proud of you I could bust, and I'll remember you at that podium until the day I die." With an unvarnished "Say WHAT?" look on my face for the second time in a single day, I sat before the man in deer-caught-in-the-headlights silence, finally squeaking out a tentative "Thank You, Sir" while fervently praying I'd not wholly misunderstood what he'd just said and offered a monumentally inappropriate expression of gratitude in response. Apparently I had not, because, after swearing me to secrecy, Mr. Purcell confided one more bit of information never before or since disclosed in the history of my school. I had lost the election by only two votes. Until this moment, I've never revealed that to a single other soul. I thank you, Mr. Purcell, for entrusting me with that information. It proved to be one of the crowning jewels of my youth - and 38 years later, still occupies a special place my spiritual treasure chest. Even during during life's stormiest, most overcast interludes, its glint illuminates my path to this very day. |
Quote for the Day " He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house." ~ The Book of Proverbs |
| This is better than a sketch pad, artist's chalks, colored pencils, AND fingerpaints! I'm having more fun than a barrel of monkeys learning about creating graphics with PSP. To that end, come celebrate the Grand opening of my newest C-Note Shoppe! (I'm particularly tickled with the 2nd to the last, " Bay Window" C-note... I took the real life sunset-at-dusk-Texas-sky photo that's seen in the C-note outside the front of my home. ANYhoo... click on the logo below iffin ya wanna check it out... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
" Abraham, Martin, and John " Music and Lyrics by Richard Holler Anybody here seen my old friend, Abraham? Can you tell me where he's gone? He freed lotta people, but it seems the good, they do die young You know, I just looked around... and he's gone. Anybody here seen my old friend, John? Can you tell me where he's gone? He freed lotta people, but it seems the good, they do die young I just looked around, and he's gone (brief instrumental interlude) Anybody here seen my old friend, Martin? Can you tell me where he's gone? He freed lotta people, but it seems the good, they do die young I just looked around, and he's gone. Didn't you love the things that they stood for? Didn't they try to find some good for you and me? And we'll be free... Some day soon, it's gonna be one day Anybody here seen my old friend. Bobby? Can you tell me where he's gone? I thought I saw him walkin' up over the hill... with Abraham, Martin, and John. ~ Rest in peace, Dr. King. Someday we will get to the Promised land... |
| It shouldn't have surprised me... God knows it's becoming an ever more pervasive social phenomenon... Seems super model Naomi Campbell got herself arrested in a busy London airport for disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and assault on a law enforcement officer. The reported "trigger" for this, Ms. Campbell's FIFTH charge of criminal assault upon another person since 1998, was the fact that she was permitted only two pieces of carry-on baggage instead of the three she was demanding. Despite the fact that she was rude, insulting, and combative at the gate, airline officials permitted her to board, undoubtedly in deference to her "celebrity" status. However, Ms. Campbell continued being so disruptive aboard the plane that she was ultimately deemed unfit to fly, her boarding pass was retracted, and she was asked to disembark. She refused to comply and continued to menace and threaten the onboard staff, prompting them to summon police. After defying their requests that she leave the plane voluntarily, she physically resisted and assaulted them during the course of her arrest... culminating in spitting on at least one officer. Proof positive that one can be incredibly outwardly beautiful... yet inwardly uglier than an STD-infested garden slug. GAWD, I'm sick of the rampant "diva-ism", arrogance, and seemingly impenetrable, whole conviction of complete entitlement that seems so on the rise in our society... and no longer just among the ranks of "celebrities". Not only do we tolerate it - we celebrate it, as is evidenced by the immense popularity of cut-throat reality shows like "Survivor", "Bridezilla", "The Apprentice", and countless more of their dog-eat-dog ilk. Having worked in law enforcement and later the medical profession, two things I learned well in my youth that have been been upheld time after time in adulthood are are these: 1. Without our masks, we're all on the same level, and: 2. Money talks and bullshit walks. It's nights like this that make me want to scream, "Stop the world - I wanna get off !"  I hope they throw the book at you, Naomi. Sweeping subway bathrooms is too good for your high-falootin', Diva-in-your-own-mind behind. Try duking it out with fellow inmates for a change and let's see how big and bad you really are when push comes to shove. |
| WOW! It must have been a busy Autumn past, 'cause babies are arriving or due to arrive everywhere I look! To that end, you're all invited to the Grand Opening... |
| Many I know are absolutely shocked to learn that I am pro-choice on the abortion issue, and always will be. They often ask how I can be so fervent a child advocate and spiritually steeped in Christianity-based faith, yet not wholly condemn a woman's right to chose to abort a pregnancy. Actually, my pro-choice stance stems from and is supported by both. I do believe wholeheartedly in the omnipotence of a single Creator I happen to call God. I also believe in the Holy Trinity of God in three forms; God, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Furthermore, I'm absolutely certain that children are God's greatest gift to us and should be cherished and guided as lovingly as God cherishes and guides all of us. But in today's world, at least in American society, it seems that our children are growing more and more collectively the victims of abuse, neglect, cruelty, and horrendous predators who subject them to unimaginable criminal acts. Of these, one group of helpless victims being targetted more and more are children put up for adoption. Before you undergo a complete meltdown, let me assure you that I regard adopting youngsters, if your motive is to take a child into your family and love and nuture them to healthy adulthood, as a beautiful, beautiful thing. In fact, I often reassure a child who has been adopted that they are so special and their parent(s) love them SO much that they chose them to be their very own child. But I do have reservations - serious ones, indeed - about the fact that so many adoptive parents want only a completely healthy, non-challenged infant or toddler... leaving thousands upon thousands of older children or children with health and/or disability issues to languish year after year in the adoption and foster care systems. Whether referring to a child born to them or one they wish to adopt, any time I hear an individual say, "I want a baby SO badly", a red flag goes up for me. Often, I have to wonder if they truly want a child... or just a baby. For with passage of an incredibly short amount of time... the two become entirely different things. In more and more instances, once the "baby/toddler/pre-schooler years (or fewer still) have passed, people who "so badly" wanted "babies" fall by the wayside in terms of responsible parenting, and it becomes quite clear that wanting a baby and wanting a child are not necessarily one and the same. I'm much more comfortable hearing someone say they want a child... it signifies that they have at least given some consideration to the fact that parenting is a full time job and the singularly most crucial of responsibilities one human being can take on toward another. You must be willingly and lovingly embarking upon the holy mission of parenting for the long haul... not just through the "terrible two's", but right on through the "terrible teens" and early adulthood. In today's world, even as challenging and difficult as it clearly is to "parent" an infant through its pre-schooler years... that's a snap compared to the troubled, potentially lethal waters they'll have to help the child navigate from that point on. And the fact of the matter is - this is the juncture at which more and more alleged "parents" are dropping the ball. If a woman for whatever reason decides she does not wish to carry a child to term, and opts to terminate the pregnancy instead of placing the child for adoption, I do not believe she is "murdering" a human life, particularly not in the first trimester. Human life is not simply cells, organs, and flesh... these are but the housing materials for the soul God breathes into our existence. I believe that when God is determined to send a new soul into our midst... He or She will do just that. I also sufficiently trust in God to believe that He or She would not condemn a woman for honestly acknowledging she is not ready to nurture that soul to adult fruition. And even if I'm wrong about the latter, I still regard her ultimate choice as being between she, God, and no one else... and God alone should be her judge in that regard. |
| Some believe dreams are meaningless bits and pieces of imagination that manifest themselves in sleep and have no meaning to offer the dreamer. I'd agree that dreams are assimilated from innumerable fragments and often well guised, but I'm also convinced that nothing stored within and/or revisited in slumber by our subconscious is ever without significance and/or meaning. I think, instead, that dreams are our minds' avenue for sorting and resolving... it is only that the facets which comprise them often flit past our conscious minds so swiftly we fail to take full notice that renders their resurrection in dreams so mystifying. The human mind is fascinating in that regard... not one of the billions upon billions of interfaces brought to it by any or all of our sensory messengers goes unnoticed and/or unrecorded within the confines of its conscious or subconscious memory banks. Were each and every such bit of sensory input to insist upon and be granted front row seating in the conscious mind, our brains would soon short-circuit and experience a total meltdown. Oddly enough, complete sensory deprivation can produce a very similar outcome in astoundingly short order. In both instances, the subconscious mind steps in as a protective backup system. Dreams, I suspect, are constructed from all of the materials our subconscious stores when our conscious mind is too busy to deal with them; they are the progeny of orphaned input initially denied a conscious "say" in the matter of life. However, for a plethora of possible reasons, they demand to be reckoned with... most often when the conscious mind reposes in quiet surrender to somnolence. Whether they come to us as nightmares, seemingly nonsensical scenerios, or sweet ventures of the unconscious kind, every dream has a story to tell. Each, I believe, is a manifestation of desires, pleasures, pain, fears, etc. of which we're not consciously fully cognizant. When any of their number recur, be they good dreams or bad... is they that are most insistent upon conscious recognition and some form of reckoning. My most frequently recurrent good dream is that I can fly. I don't have to "flap" my arms or use wings... I can simply concentrate and will myself to rise above my surroundings and navigate wherever I wish to go. Often, I retreat to a corner of a room and observe others interacting below... sometimes, I simply mosey about on the winds in a woods or meadow or over bodies of water. I always wake from such dreams feeling wonderful... and convinced that on some level, our souls can leave our physical bodies for a time and fly free with no fear of not being able to return. Oddly enough, one of my most regular nightmares also involves flight. I'm always an emergency responder of one kind or another in such dreams, and actually stand transfixed watching a commercial airliner plummet from white, puffy-clouded, sun-kissed skies to earth. On responding to the crash, there is absolutely nothing I can do for any of the hundreds of victims of the tragedy. I've had both of these dreams many, many times since young adulthood... and I've come to believe that they represent the alpha and omega of my greatest pleasures and joys - and most epitomical fears. In the case of the first... utter freedom, answers to troubling questions, and inhaling sheer beauty with every fiber of my being. In that of the second... ineffectuality, helplessness, and despair. Neither of their events has ever truly occurred in my waking life, and likely never will. Both, though, are bearers of messages my spirit must heed... and from them, learn. |
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