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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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Were I an individual who finds immense satisfaction in being correct about something, I'd be in great shape right about now - my poem for the Gotham Writer's Acrostic Contest failed to place or win  . The winning entries, all of which are awesome in their own right, can be found at the link below. A hearty congratulations to the First, Second, and Third Place winners, and here's hoping they're all members of Writing.com! Having penned both rhyming and free verse poetry, the winning entries did give me pause, though, I must admit. Part of that stems from my own predisposition for automatically linking the concepts of "acrostic" and "poetry", when, in fact, that is not at all the case. Acrostic writing can embody prose or poetry, providing that the criteria for the first/first and last letters of each line (or the first/first and last several letters of each line) spell out a word or phrase is met. Though the majority of the acrostic examples the Gotham Writers provided, including that of Lewis Carroll's summary acrostic in Alice in Wonderland, were rhyming poetry, a couple were prose-based pieces. The three winning entries all happened to be prose, each an acrostic rich in vivid imagery. But as is ever more often the case for me as modern day writing evolves, I must confess to a certain measure of disappointment in finding no rhyming/poetic offerings nestled among the winners. Poetry, and to a lesser extent, writing in general, seems more and more a mirror of increasing laxness in attitudes, bad habits and sloppiness, and declining standards once considered wholly unacceptable in the field of creative writing. For me, nothing is more distracting and hence, detrimental, to the smooth flow and communicative goal of creative - and for that matter, every other form of - writing than the plethora of spelling, punctuation, tense, and other grammatical atrocities that have infiltrated so much of what we're reading and hearing with ever escalating frequency. (Good lord, even the Gotham Writer's Contest two-sentence posting announcing the contest was closed and entries were being evaluated contained a grammatical goof - and they're a writing school! )In the area of poetry specifically, much of what I've always found so beautiful about works such as those of of Frost or Bronte and their ilk is the meter, natural and non-forced rhyme, measure, imagery, and flowing, almost dance-like cadence with which their offerings are so eloquently penned. Of these, I'll be the first to assert that rhyming is the least important; certainly there is much beauty in free verse poetry that artfully adheres to the structural standards setting poetry apart from straight prose writing. It seems as if we poets are becoming a lax and lazy lot, resulting in an abundance of "poetic writing" just as random, poorly presented, and structurally nonsensical as the kind of "art" created by elephants and chimpanzees armed with paintbrushes and a canvas. Even more amazing - and amusing - to me still is the reverence and zeal with which many alleged writing critics ballyhoo such "poetry" in much the same way snobby, arrogant art critics unwittingly heap accolades upon paintings produced by pachyderms. Yes, I'm a dinosaur... but not one altogether resistant to change. It's just that evolving toward something better is one thing - discarding the rules for the sake of laziness, expediency, or following the herd is quite something else. I believe much of the sub-standard writing we're seeing today - and unfortunately accepting as the norm - speaks volumes of an inexorable, sad progression toward the latter of the two. Hopefully, though probably not in my lifetime, we'll come full circle in this regard. Hopefully, the tried and true standards of excellence will re-emerge in the field of writing... and how we live our lives in general. Only time will tell. |
Well, I didn't plant any silver bells or cockle shells (neither does well in the Texas heat - ), but I'm pleased to report that my garden, finally, is all in a proverbial row. It's a total of 364 square feet - 24' by 16', non-inclusive of the the 40 sq. ft. potato patch. All of it is hand dug, not tilled - my agriculturally-influenced response to to James Bond's infamous "shaken, not stirred" philosophy. What crops did I plant, you ask? (I know you really didn't, but Ima gonna tell ya anyhoo...) potatoes, cucumbers, small, medium, and giganticus decorative gourds (I spelled it correctly this time, Mary Lou Who... !), mini- and maxi-girthed punkins, Indian decorative maize corn (I love this new kind that features earth-tone multi-colors), zuccini, dill, 13 tomato plants (cherry and several full size variety for canning), green and yellow wax beans, lima beans, and green bunching and regular bulb onions. And after all these green-thumbed years, I still run out to the garden first thing every morning in my jammies to see if anything has sprouted yet. Due to health issues, I toyed with the idea of not putting in a garden this year... hence, I didn't actually commence the annual sweat-soaked marathon of digging and planting it until Memorial Day, and just finished up yesterday. I'll NEVER do that again - it's been in the high 90's and extremely humid every day for the past ten days or so, and I nearly succumbed to a heat stroke more times than I can count  . When it comes to hand spading and whacking and unearthing the prolific Texas sized, deep rooted, barbed weeds and copious, ridiculously tenacious and invasive Trumpet Vine so common to this region... I'm gettin' too old for this noise! I'm still glad I did it, though -and darn proud of myself, I must say, given that I'm less than a year away from sixty years of age. Nevertheless, for Garden 2011, I think I'll break down and invest in a tiller.  . I'll post pics of 'Garden 2010, the Early Days' herein later today. (I'm too pooped to go find the USB cord and upload them right now....) On the literary side of things, I entered the Gotham Writer's Acrostic Poetry Contest with the Alice in Wonderland, "wonder" prompt with the below offering. I think they announce the winners tomorrow, and I haven't got a prayer... . But I did enjoy penning this...
Catch you on the flip side, Dudes and Dudettes! |
| It's that time of the year again... only this year, I find myself quite disenchanted with Writing.com and all it purports to represent. The level of hypocrisy has become quite intolerable, indeed, and basically most of the real and decent people here have wandered off, been demoted/kicked out, or otherwise disappeared from the radar screen, perhaps to more fertile ground as far as meaning and a true sense of relationships, fairness, and comraderie go. Those responsible have no one to thank for this miscarriage of justice but themselves. And I'm sure, given how long they've been marinating in their own inflated egos, they'll remain blissfully unaware of the havoc they've wreaked until it comes back to bite their own ungrateful behinds. And then there is Larry - how I'll miss you, beloved and adored KansasPoet.  |
| *gimps in, blinks* I'm back... I think. Wait a minute... I think, therefore I left.  Good Lord - how can it be true? Still more of the same old same old? This place is drowning in the stuff !!! |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** A prophet appeared to the people and spoke of Another to come, healing the blind, lame, and feeble... our Savior and God's only Son. Humble, yet wise beyond measure, this Man with God's Light in His eyes; offered to us as His treasure... abused and by many despised. His soul infused with God's own breath, on the earth to a virgin born, villified, cursed, and put to death... shunned and spat upon, bruised, and torn. But He broke free of death's steel grasp to walk in our midst once again... 'twas only then that man at last repented and set out to mend bartered faith's wounds, piercing deep the heart of the only true King; gifted to earth and mankind's keep, of Whom angels then and still sing. Fleeting, though, our promises made; how quickly forgotten, His ways... withered and spent in Evil's shade; less heeded with each passing day. And what will we say of our actions, of all the wrongs done in His name... we who pronounce ourselves Christians condemning, inflicting such pain? There comes a final reckoning when souls stripped of earthly concerns will hear The Master beckoning... what was taught and from it ~ what learned? |
| The longer I continue kicking around in this old world, the more convinced I become that a gene for establishing pecking orders lurks somewhere in every strand of human DNA. Good GAWD, what I wouldn't give for the energy and wherewithal we homo sapiens devote to the task of keeping up with the Joneses... and making absolutely certain that as many fellow human beings as possible know we've somehow surpassed them. Spend an hour in any elementary school and you'll soon realize that even our young are already worshipping at the altar of The Haves vs. The Have Nots. We're not just talking about the more affluent among us... in fact, The Society of the Grand Pecking Order boasts card-carrying members in every conceivable niche where one than more person gathers. It's a multi-national way of life... even here at WDC, a significant amount of judging and meting out of esteem is contingent upon with the color with which the little rectangle to the right of your nickname is hued. And the pity of it is, we get so hung up on the yardsticks by which we chose to measure others' talents and value that we overlook the very best by doggedly applying standards that mean the very least. When all is said and done, what really matters when held up to the test of time? What currency can we carry with us beyond the grave? What treasures make our lives truly meaningful and worthy, even after we've slipped beyond earth's grasp? You won't find it in a bank account... you won't find it in escapism... you won't find it in misappropriated prestige nor any other of the spoils of falsehood. It shines, instead, in still, small voices... those of people who quietly shun the concept of "what's in it for me?" in favor of the credo of "what could it be for all of us?" |
| ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Hush... do you hear it? Take a moment to listen... Earth is whispering. Her babies near term; awake and gaining first grasp with unseen tendrils. The bravest siblings risking icy, furtive peeks at snowfairies' artwork. Soon it will be they who dance in sun-kissed breezes ~ Spring's blossoms reborn. Swollen with promise, burgeoning, soon to labor... Mother Nature's womb. Hush... do you hear it? Take a moment to listen... Spring's voice is singing. |
| I believe in people. I believe in their potential. I believe we live an earthly life as part of the soul's journey to different planes, and how intensely we strive for growth and betterment at our spiritual core determines whether we attain a higher plane, remain spiritually stagnant, or lose ground. Sometimes - far more often than I wish were true - I look at we humans as a species and wonder where on earth our strength, courage, and humanity has gone. Rarely does a day go by when I don't hear someone bemoaning their circumstances... and laying the blame for the state of their lives at the feet of everyone but themselves. Casey Anthony blubbering on about how "everything has been taken away from me", even as her two year old murdered daughter's body lay mouldering in a swamp. The Octo-mom lashing out at her own mother for speaking up on behalf of her fourteen selfishly conceived grandchildren. Countless other allegedly adult men and women whose children are left to emotionally fend for themselves in the wake of their narcisisstic parents' abandonment, indulgence in addictions, or demonstrations of withdrawal, rage, and/or violence... all in the name of wallowing in their own victimization, self-pity, and pain. There is absolutely no disputing that many, many human beings suffer through horrible events in their lives... countless of them in childhood. But there comes a time when we have to make a conscious choice to lay it down and walk away; to cut the umbilical cord by which we tether ourselves to those who've done us wrong... and through which they'll suck away the very marrow of our being for as long as we grant them the liberty. Yes, the task of amputating them is painful and bloody - but the alternative is exponentially more gruesome still. Nurturing such symbioses infects our children and those who love us with the cancerous offspring of the root malignancy we cannot or will not excise from our own existence. It matters not that we were suffering and meant no harm to others... it only matters that we at least passively subjected our children and loved ones to fallout that will keep the cycle of devastation unendingly snowballing on. There will forever be evil deeds, and people will forever fall victim to them. But if we continue handing over the reigns of our lives, our future, and all we have the potential to be over to the doers of such deeds, we grant them power that was never before and should never be their due. To surrender your own life over to them, regardless of our reasons why, is sad in and of itself... to sacrifice our childrens' destinies in the same manner is a travesty. |
| A few weeks, I witnessed a quiet, wholly unassuming study in heroism. It didn't take place on a battlefield. It didn't happen at the scene of a horrible accident. I suppose most would conclude it wasn't even a matter of life or death. It happened, of all places, in a grocery store. And the hero was a man no more consciously aware of or self-absorbed by his stellar impressiveness than fly through the air. It was quite evident by his demeanor that he deems himself "just an ordinary guy"... and that, in and of itself, bears witness to the fact that he is anything but. He caught my attention as I entered the store behind him and his two daughters, one of whom appeared to be about five years of age and the other, perhaps eleven or twelve. He was fully engaged with both, chatting away and discussing various topics of keen interest to young ladies of their age groups with a comfortable ease indicative of his unvarnished love for them both. Their conversation covered a variety of topics ranging from an "A" on a spelling test to who sent who the prettiest Valentine cards to which decorated Band-aids would grace the five-year-old's newest Bigwheel-accident-inflicted skinned knee. As happens in grocery stores, my shopping list led me away from the little threesome several times... and then right back into close proximity with them. So involved was Dad with his little girls that he was oblivious to our repeat encounters... this all-American guy next door was focused on one thing and one thing only - grocery shopping with his two precious daughters. And the wonders his vested love and nurturing are bringing to fruition are already evident in those two little girls... they are intelligent, polite, genuine, sweet-natured, and amazingly considerate of others, even at their tender young ages. In an era where men are abandoning their children in droves and cowering from commitment to anything of greater substance than a plump-lipped, balloon-breasted blow-up doll, this unsung hero father towers heads above the rest. What he is doing day by day is a matter of life and death... that of our future as a society, a country, and members of the human race. |
| If clowns are susceptible to black eyes, Ronald McDonald must be sporting an award winning shiner right about now... At an Arkansas McDonald's restaurant last August, the vestibule video surveillance camera captured a male customer assaulting a female aquaintance of his in what is being described as a domestic incident. McDonald's employee Nigel Hacket physically intervened, tackling the suspect and bringing the assault on the woman to a screeching halt. The male suspect, now facing a far more equally matched opponent in terms of gender and physical capability, reacted as most such cowards do... he beat foot. Unfortunately, again demonstrating cowardice of the utmost kind, the creep went to his car, obtained a gun from therein... and shot Mr. Hackett multiple times. For Mr. Hackett, there followed months of hospitalization and a long and painful battle for his life... a battle in which he, with the same degree of bravery and heroism he displayed so admirably that violent and terrible August evening, has apparently thankfully triumphed. Now, at the hands of his annual multi-billion-dollar revenue employer, the minimum-wage paid Mr. Hackett faces another massive skirmish... one that must surely inflict pain for him exceeding that even of the bullets that pierced his flesh. Attorneys for the insurance company that represents McDonalds have decreed that Hacket's accrued $300,000.00 in medical bills are "not eligible" for coverage by Workman's Compensation because Hackett did not comply with McDonald's policy that employees are not to involve themselves in disturbances on the premises during working hours. Whether that is true of Arkansas' laws governing Workmen's Comp or not, McDonald's has remained silent on the issue of why they can't man up, fire a couple of the bigwig attorneys who've undoubtedly cost them a few million in P.R. damages in this matter, and pay Hacket's medical bills themselves with the canned barristers' salaries. That's the biggest bunch of McBullshit I've ever heard. |
| Bunkie's dear, dear mother passed away on February 12th, less than a month after I got the chance to see him once again after more than seven years apart. I utilize the word "apart" only in terms physical separation... we'd continued to be closest friends, confidants, and soulmates throughout the first six of those years, yacking on the phone every few days ~ for hours at a time ~ and sharing almost everything with one another. But on Valentine's Day of last year, our relationship ongoing by then for some 15 years or so, I could no longer deny that something about its dynamics was changing... shifting in subtle but nevertheless discernible ways that I needed to confront head on and deal with. As I wrote about here nearly a year ago, last Valentine's day brought full disclosure... primarily because of my insistence upon the whole truth and nuttin' but da truth... that Bunkie never really fell out of love with a girl he'd known and broken up with quite some time before meeting me. A year into our relationship, this gal, who'll I'll call "Penelope" to protect the innocent, apparently broke it off with another man and made an encore appearance in Bunkie's life. Though I'd never met her, I sensed her presence insinuating itself in our relationship, and being one who holds dear the philosophy, If you truly love something, you must let it go. If it comes back to you, it is yours, I opted to give Bunkie space... and time to make a decision for himself. For years we operated on a "no strings attached, free to date others if you wish" basis, neither of us demanding exclusivity regarding who, if anyone, the other might be seeing. Until about seven years ago, I'm certain that Bunkie was seeing Penelope, but I was, by my own choice, remaining true only to him. That's the way my heart wanted it, and I listened to my heart. I never then and do not now hold that against Bunkie... it was a choice that I willingly made. What prompted that choice was that I was wholly and completely in love with Bunkie, and though I looked 'em over a time or two, no other man could fill his shoes. But as Bunkie grew more and more distant, I did meet a fellow who seemed to be the next best thing. He was a psychologist, very romantic, charming, very handsome, and not allergic to the concept of commitment. After the passage of two years I decided, at his urging, to pull up stakes and move to his home state... Texas. The relationship between he and I did not work out, but I was hardly devastated by that fact. I'd grown to love the Texas seasons, was well on my way to a Nursing degree, and had once more settled into a pretty comfy life credo of if I ever meet another Bunkie AND he's in love with and willing to commit to me and me alone, then MAYBE... just MAYBE... I might pair up with him for the remaining years of my life. Believing at that time that the chances of that happening were slim to none, peace again returned to my valley. Except that Bunkie still called faithfully... and we still had the bestest times pallavering on the phones and laughing like loons and sharing all kinds of stuff during our frequent and lengthly conversations. And though he only rarely imbibes, once in a while Bunkie would get about half schnockered while we were on the phone... and speak with passion about a number of romantic notions that made my heart sing, inclusive of me returning to Ohio and even moving into one of a couple of country homes he'd spotted for sale near where he was building Bunkie Manor. I have and will forever guard Bunkie's confidences with all my heart and soul, and for that reason, it has always been understood between us that what he may disclose while "quite in his cups" is never held against him at a later time... .But when he started becoming distant again... almost aloof, I'd say... about this time last year, I pursued the issue, and in a conversation that took place on Valentine's Day of last year, we more or less agreed that Bunkie loves me but is in love with Penelope. What was different at this particular crossroad in our relationship, however, is that I'd grown less willing to remain a loving and devoted third wheel for the rest of my natural life. I would always love him, but I began the painful process of falling out of love with Bunkie. Sooo.... Last September, I decided to check out eHarmony.com. It takes me a looooong time to decide I want to take a swim, but once I do, I'm not much for sticking just one toe in the water. After scoping the site out for months, I plunged in, filling out their extensive personality profile as boldly and honestly as anyone could ever expect. To my amazement, I was matched with and contacted by many quality men, several of them in very successful fields, and enjoyed a number of very pleasant experiences as a result. But I let my membership lapse after only a month, realizing that I still was not fully prepared to finally and completely walk away from Bunkie. Just after Christmas, though, I strongly felt I was ready. I renewed my membership. ...And met three truly special men. One is a web architect/designer, one is a nationally known expert in antique car resoration, and one is a practising physician. Each knows that I am a free agent and each is persistent and patient. Each is not only physically attractive, but also extremely impressive in his own right on a plethora of far more meaningful and lasting fronts. But right after I saw Bunkie this past January, during one of his more or less inebriated phone calls, he spoke again of dreams I keep in the deepest, most closely guarded recesses of my heart... and within three weeks or so of that conversation, his mother's health took a sudden decline. During the ten days that followed and eventually culminated in her passing, Bunkie and I spoke daily and prepared for what we knew was coming. As a result, we'll be able to look back and know that everything was done just right; that all that needed to be said between son and mother was said ~ and all that needed to be demonstrated was shown and known between them. Her passing was very peaceful and even though we both have wept and will do so again and again, the grief is tempered by earnest celebration of an earthly life beautifully lived... and the huge comfort of knowing that she forever lives on, united with Bunkie's dad after thirty long years. But now that the services have been held and the crises have passed, it feels as if Bunkie is yet again distancing himself... and I'm realizing that the prospect is not nearly as disturbing to me as it once was. I shouldn't have to wait for the rare times he's been drinking or have to resort to prompting him for the expressions of love my heart so cherishes... if they are not spontaneously offered ~ and uttered while stone cold sober ~ they are inherently robbed of their significance. I grew more aware of that when I found myself experiencing an overpowering feeling that his mother was passing on the evening of February 11th / morning of February 12th. I'd been unable to sleep all that evening, and at 2:57 AM Texas time had this overwhelming feeling that she had passed ... only to later learn from Bunkie that she passed away within a minute or two of that very moment. And I think I realized it most of all as I wept uncontrollably after the news of her death... even though he has never once introduced me to her or any other member of his family ~ or ever even told them of my existence. I loved her because she was his mother... and I'm grieving her loss for the same reason. This Valentine's Day, only two days after her passing, a dozen salmon pink (my very favorite color) roses with baby's breath arrived at my workplace with a Valentine card that was noted, Here's to possibilities...no signature of any kind. I made no mention of it when Bunkie called that evening, primarily because he had too many other issues on his mind. Because it never occured to me Bunkie wasn't the sender, by this past Monday, I wanted to at least thank him and not have him think I'd taken no notice of his sweet gesture. Fortunately for me, at the very last instinctive moment, I prefaced my anticipated expression of gratitude with the inquiry, "With everything going on in your life, you actually took time out to observe Valentine's Day?" He replied that no, he hadn't, and I, of course, deftly changed subject and managed to avoid an embarassing (and disappointing, I must admit) disclosure. But less disappointing... and FAR less painful... than that attendent to Valentine's Day last year. And, for me, anyway... that's progress. In a way, I think that I, too, am preparing for a death... and weaving together any loose threads I may have otherwise looked back upon and regarded with regret. Bunkie will have the final say in the matter... but I'm ready now to hear it spoken. He'll have given up a great thing, but I gave it freely and it is his to sacrifice. I'll be able to look back and know I did everything possible... to the utmost of my ability... no misgivings and absolutely no regrets. Finito. |
~ QUOTE FOR THE DAY ~ " The geometry of judgment is a circle. Hate is a snake that turns to consume itself from the tail; a circle that diminishes to a point, then to nothing. Pride is such a snake, and envy and greed. Love, however, is a hoop; a wheel that rolls on forever." ... Dean Kootnz, The Darkest Evening of the Year |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The above is a photo I took of the Dallas International Airport at 3:00 AM while on an unplanned sleepover on my return from my trip to Ohio... I had no idea such a huge, bustling airport could morph into such a vast, deserted, spooky place by night ! But on to far more important things... below find my newly completed photo album of Bunkie Manor. The tagged photos therein are pics that Bunkie took last summer. Those not tagged are digital photos I snapped during my January, 2009 visit. Bunkie's Dream come true... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **
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| I'm not at all proud of it, but sometimes I get so frustrated with professional victims and/or full time responsibility shunners I wanna shake them 'til their teeth fall out. Casey Anthony, whose tiny two year old daughter's murdered skeletal remains presently lie in a paper bag in a funeral home, whines that she's the victim... even as pictures emerge of her partying and dirty dancing on a stripper pole days after little Caylee's "abduction" by a nanny no one can even prove exists. Days after Caylee's body is found gagged with duct tape, placed in two plastic trash bags and discarded like so much garbage, her mother is ordering snacks and beauty products from the jail commissary and smiling flirtaciously at men during her court hearings. A veritable parade of addicted individuals go by on A&E's "Intervention", most of whom, in the throes of their addiction, boo-hoo about a past horrendous experience even as they victimize, be it emotionally and/or physically, those who love and care about them AND innocent, complete strangers having the misfortune of sharing the roadway with them or otherwise crossing their paths. Their outlook seems to be, "I've been wronged and deeply wounded, and I don't give a damn who pays or how great the price they pay for my pain - and my 24/7 devotion to running away from it." The last such "victim" featured in the reality presentation had been drugged and date-raped several years before, but had been so voluntarily intoxicated and involuntarily drugged at the time that she had absolutely no knowledge of the crime until police in Nevada, after identifying her as one of several such victims on a video tape found in the suspect's home, contacted her in her home state . Never mind that she'd been hooked on heroin and a host of other illegal substances - and routinely placing herself in risky situations - prior to the rape... years later, her excuse for outrageous alcohol and oxycontin abuse is that she was raped and "nobody understands her pain". A trait you almost always see here is that such folks proceed through life sporting wholly efficient blinders to the suffering of others - thousands upon thousands of them - who have or are presently enduring agonies that very often leave their own pain in the dust in terms of intensity and impact on their daily lives. Many are even facing their own imminent, painful, premature demise - and yet no heed is paid to them in others' obsessive pursuit of celebration of victimhood. For a myriad of dark reasons they steadfastly refuse to acknowledge, a truly frightening number of people these days make a choice to live as victims... and pass on their misery on to anyone willing - or coerced by happenstance - to bear their burdens with them. Yes, I do believe addiction is a disease - but in many instances,a disease process quite similar to an infection arising from improper wound care. If you keep a wound open and raw and seeping, it cannot heal and will soon become purulent. To cure the infection, you have to stop picking the scab and find the courage to let the wound truly heal. Life is fraught with pain and injury and suffering... but also abundant with joy and peace and serenity if we set a course to seek it out. There comes a point when you must make the choice to take control away from the wrongdoer, disengage from his or her grasp, and truly fly free - or forever grant them malignant influence over every aspect of your life. The time inevitably comes when you must choose to allow their misdeeds to continue ruling and ruining your existence - or take back the reigns and stand firmly at the helm. Like it or lump it... that's life's bottom line. |
My workplace nest... see the WDC mug on the left side? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I've never cared much one way or the other what color my portfolio was - beige, black, yellow, blue, chartreuse with pink polkadots, etc. But I recently realized that there is one thing here at WDC I cannot participate in due to black case status that I truly wish I could. And since many who visit my Blog are "Portfolios of Color", I'm opting for the next best thing - call it wish fulfillment by proxy, if you will.... Consider being a Sponsor for a Rising Star! This phenomenal Group, founded by the amazing GabriellaR45   , is comprised of a plethora of dedicated and immensely talented members, all of whom have achieved a yellow case or above. On a monthly basis, Rising Star Sponsors select various black case members they feel have potential as writers, enthusiastically sponsor them, and nominate them as Rising Stars. Sponsored black case members then receive the immeasurable benefits of Rising Star Member reviews, support, and encouragement. I know how wonderful an experience being sponsored by this marvellous collection of human beings and fellow writers truly is, and encourage all my "Case of Color" friends to join the Group and become a Sponsor. Given how fulfilling having been sponsored by them has proved to be, I can only imagine how great an experience it would be to be able to mentor/sponsor other writers in such a manner. So, my vividly hued-case friends... howsabout giving it a go? 
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| Munchkin and I are safely home, and given that I hadn't flown in thirty-plus years, what an adventure retrieving her happy little butt proved to be! Those who know me are well aware that I can get lost in my own walk-in closet... which accounts for why, this Monday past, after locating the correct exit for the Midland International Airport, I managed to get hopelessly lost somewhere between the exit and the airport itself. Eventually, though, I muddled through - and then proceeded to circle the whole darn thing about three times before figuring out how to enter the &^%($*@! parking lot. I wanted the covered lot, but given that it took me twenty minutes to gain access to the Economy Lot, decided settling for second best would be most to my advantage - .Then came the Midland Airport security checkpoint. Who knew they expect you to run around with hundreds of other hapless passengers in bare feet until you clear the walk-through scanner? Sheesh!  . I'm still waiting to see if I aquired any tiny foot livestock after that particular escapade. Furthermore, I flunked my carry on bag scan - seems liquids like hairspray and cologne and gels such as a tube of toothpaste have to be in 3-ounce or less quantities in the post-911 era. Resultantly, I had to put my shoes back on and hotfoot back to the Economy Lot to stow the offending items in Annie Laurie, then scamper back to the airport for yet another barefoot tiptoe through the scanner. No biggie - despite the fact that the U.S. was in Orange Terror Alert status for the duration of my trip to and back from Toledo, the airport security personnel, upon learning of my newbie flying status, were very kind and gracious in the face of my numbing level of naivete. I successfully located the correct gate well in advance of my flight, and my next close call did not occur until the time came to actually board the plane. Our plane being a turbo-prop, puddle-jumper-workhorse-type American Eagle aircraft apparently dictated traversing on foot down a winding, enclosed ramp which, though overhead signs warned of uneven flooring, also threw in a few additional surprises just for sport. These included an extremely steep downward pitch that, combined with the force of gravity exerted upon your body and baggage, involuntarily escalated your pace to a frantic quickstep culminating in first yanking you crazily off into a sharp, right angle turn at the exit end of the ramp, careening you sideways into the right cubicle wall, and then catapaulting you back to the left, where, unless you paid very close heed, you'd be hurtled out of the open air exit like a human cannonball and sail over the steps descending to the tarmac. Once you did - one way or the other - wind up on the tarmac, you trotted about half a football field over to the steps leading right back up and into the plane. The flight from Midland to Dallas was fairly uneventful, though I quickly realized that take-offs, landings,and those pesky, heart-arresting, mid-air stalls-and-tilts that immediately preceed turns are my least favorite part of the airborne experience. Following close behind these on the Major Annoyance Scale scale are passengers who completely obstruct the 2-foot wide aisle instead of stepping into the seat section while loading their gear into the overhead bins and people who yack their brains out while you're trying to listen to the Flight Attendants' safety instructions. On the Dallas to Chicago flight I had a regular jet, which, I must say, I much preferred in terms of roominess and the advantage of ingress and egress via fully enclosed ramps that weren't nearly as reminiscent of tumbling carnival funhouse tours as my earlier Midland to Dallas boarding and de-planing had proven to be. The only two challenging aspects of the Dallas to Chicago venture were that my eardrums were trying very hard to explode throughout the final half hour in air... and the come-to-Jesus moments another jet nearly T-boned us as we were taxi-ing to our O'Hare gate, even as I was still endeavoring to regain my auditory accuity. From O'Hare I flew to Toledo in a smaller jet, and at the Toldeo airport... there stood my handsome, beloved Bunkie. Seven years melted away like clouds in a sunrise... he'd not changed the tiniest bit. He whisked me off for a wondrous reunion with my little buddy, Munchkin, a grand tour of his spanking new home (more of a magical countryside castle than merely a spacious and beautiful house), and a sumptuous home-made dinner comprised of all my very favorite dishes. I've many pictures I'll share of Bunkie and his gorgeous diggs in later entries! Because the weather was due to get very ugly the next evening,(it was only 8 degrees with 5 inches of snow on the ground in Toldeo, with a plummet in temperature to minus 10 degrees and 6 additional inches of snow in the next evening's forecast), I decided to head back home the following day. Having winged my way so expediently from Midland to Toledo to begin with, I didn't want to risk any hitches in my git-along for the return trip. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride... My flight out of Toledo was delayed for over an hour and a half due to weather conditions in Chicago, which resulted in missing my connection at O'Hare. And though I got out of O'Hare later that same day, I also missed the last plane out of Dallas. Because the missed connections were due to weather and not mechanical problems, I was not eligible for hotel accomodations, but was offered a discounted room for $55.00 for the night. Given that I now had Munchkin in tow and was uncertain if the hotel would allow her... and that I would have to be up at 4:30 AM the net morning in order to catch the 7:45 AM flight out of Dallas to Midland, I opted to sleep in the aiport. Security found me a Coleman cot and after 11:00 PM or so, I was amazed at how swiftly the huge, incredibly crowded and bustling airport disgorged its contents and powered down into a relatively serene state of hibernation. My natural pioneer spirit kicked in and by the time everything shut down for the night, I had laid in and organized foodstuffs, beverages, blankets, my luggage, and my little furry travel companion and set up my cot in a little niche formed by a wall at its head and a large electronic merchandise vending machine alone one side. The wall even sported an electric socket which enabled me to re-charge my cellphone while I snoozed! Even with security and housekeeping folks running around, Munchkin and I both slept like rocks. I woke at around 5:30 AM, scooted off the the Ladies Room for my morning ablutions, fed and watered Munchkin, ate a quick breakfast, and caught the 7:45 to Midland with no further ado. After gassing up and washing Annie Laurie, Munchkin and I made a beeline for home and spent the rest of the day napping and basically just piddling around. One final surprise remained, however... During our initial nap, the phone rang. It was Bunkie. He wanted to tell me that for the first time in seven years, a commercial aircraft had crash landed. In the Hudson River. During the same window of time that I and Munchin were mid-flight. Later watching the coverage of the mishap on CNN, I was not the least bit surprised. From the moment I'd entered the Midland Airport for the first leg of my flight to Toledo, I'd experienced a powerful, gut sensation that there would be an in-air airline mishap before I got back home to Texas... and for some strange reason, I was certain there would be no fatalities and the accident would be caused by a bird strike in an engine. I hate when that happens... |
| You won't believe this... it's actually happening to me and even I can't believe it. This is a Christmas tail tale with every conceivable extra topping... magic, miracles and mayhem wrapped in enchantment and enigma. To fully comprehend this matter, one must first acquire at least a passing acquaintance with the players. They consist of Bunkie, my multiple-decade, long-distance Significant Other, myself, and a very diminutive little cat who goes by the handle of of Munchkin. Most of you know me and therefore have at least heard a thing or two about Bunkie, but Munchkin, methinks, is a feline of another color. Actually, she happens to be a miniscule little long-haired blonde, who, though now at least a year old, weighs in at appromiately 3.75 pounds and is no bigger than a 5 month old kitten. I found her in dire straights nearly a year ago to this very day... even tinier than she is now, abandoned and alone on a frostbitten, moonless night, suffering from malnutrition and a terrible respiratory infection. I heard her plaintive, weak cries as I was coming in from a trip to the store, and followed them to her location... her wee, weeping nose and eye adhered to the frosted tundra in my back yard much as one's tongue sticks fast to frozen metal. After freeing her by pouring lukewarm water on the ground around her little face, I gathered her up and brought her inside, where I was horrified to behold not just her emaciated state ~ but that her eye had suffered irreversible injury by means of disease, frostbite, or a combination thereof. Her eye could not be saved, and for weeks I feared she, herself, might very well die. And yet, from the moment I took her into my arms, cold, wet, shivering, and deathly ill... she began to purr even as she lay, too weak to move, in my embrace But Munchkin defied the odds. Though she never attained full size, she did gain weight, her coat grew long and lustrous ~ and her dear personality grew ever more unwaveringly loving and loyal with every passing day. Even with only one eye, she is one of the purest, swetest, most endearing little souls in all the the world. Fast forward to the present... (in nore ways than one... )...Two weeks prior to Christmas day last, I'd finished wrapping all of Bunkie's presents, and packed them in three large shipping boxes. A couple of his gifts were unusually shaped, and I'd utilized decorative gift bags bedecked with handmade bows to prepare them for shipment. Those of you who know and love kitties are likely familiar with their perpetual curiosity ~ and, as with child-proofing the home when a new baby arrives on the scene, one becomes proficient at similar safety measures when in comes to our feline friends. I never close refrigerator, washer, dryer, oven, closet, cabinet, dishwasher, etc., doors without doing a visual sweep to insure one of the furbabies has not secreted themselves therein, and I keep one bedroom entirely off limits to all when doing things like... well... packing boxes to be shipped from Texas to Ohio for Christmas. After filling all three large boxes, I visually checked each and every one before sealing them with shipping tape and affixing hand decorated mailing labels. Approximately four hours later, I carried each to my trusty little Tempo, loaded two into the back seat and lashed one into the trunk, then unloaded all three and carried each into the local Post Office, where I stood in the Christmas crush lines for at least an additional half hour before finally reaching the counter. Each box was weighed, the appropriate postage affixed, and then off-loaded from the counter to the floor behind the Postal workers stationed at the counters. During this entire time, not a single out of the oridinary sound or circumstance occured. I left the Post Office quite pleased with myself for having gotten everything done and mailed off in plenty of time to make the four day Priority Mail trek to Ohio and still be there in plenty of time for Christmas morning's dawn, came home, and shortly thereafter fell fast asleep, given that I had to be up at 4:00 AM the next morning for work. After working a ten hour shift the next day, I returned home to discover that Munchkin was doing one of her famous disappearing acts... she, like her mother, relishes her occasional "alone time" sessions, always choosing off the beaten path locations in which to spend them. And (also as is true in her Mama's case) these sessions can last a couple of days. Nevertheless, on the second day that Munchkin made no cheery appearance to greet me on my return, I proceeded to turn the house upside down searching for her. My panic grew as scrutiny of her past haunts proved fruitless... she simply was nowehere to be found. By the third day, I was heartsick, certain that she'd somehow slipped out the door while I was entering or egressing the house for work. I was certain that something terrible must have happened to her once outside; the strength of the bond between she and I is far too great for her to have simply run off. The following evening, my phone rang. Upon answering, I was greeted by Bunkie's rather tenous inquiry... "Kelly, are you sitting down?" Bunkie lives in a rural area, and on the third day after I shipped his gifts, the rural postal worker left a card on his door saying he had parcels to pick up at the Post Office. He'd sojourned to the Post Office the following morning, loaded the three boxes into his blazer, and bounced them over the river and through the snowy woods back to Bunkie Manor, where he off-loaded them, carried them in from his attached garage, and left them on his kitchen floor for several hours with the intention of unpacking them that evening. Nothing untoward occurred, nor was a sound heard, in that entire time period. Upon opening and removing the initial few gifts from the first box, Bunkie related, he noticed protruding from one of the as yet unpacked gift bags what he assumed to be a stuffed animal. Though a bit puzzled as to why I would gift him with such a thing, Bunkie knows me well enough to deftly manage the curve balls I've a penchant for throwing him, and reached toward the stuffed animal and it's bag... ...at which time Munchkin's head popped out, regarded him with one eye, and meowed a quick, "hello, there!" Bunkie, of course, jumped a country mile, at which time Munchkin followed his lead, catapulting out of the box and prancing down his great room hallway as if she owned the joint. Neither of us has recovered from the shock... but we have come to a conclusion reagarding what must have happened. Months ago, Munchkin did gain access to my off-limits bedroom by gliding under the door, but she'd grown since then and not repeated the behavior in quite some time. Apparently, though, she still can...  She must have gotten into the box, tunneled down through the upper packages, and then hid in the gift bad at the bottom, making herself a little nest in several pair of thick thermal socks tucked therein. And there she remained, never uttering a peep or making any attempt whatsoever to escape... for four long days in several postal centers, in a Tempo, a Blazer, and several over-the-road semi trucks and the belly of a transport plane in the holiday freight-filled skies ... and finally in Bunkie's cozy country kitchen, until Bunkie opened the biggest Christmas surprise of his entire life. Munchkin emerged unscathed from this, her second Christmas Cat-tastrophy ~ Bunkie and I, however, may require months to make a full recovery. Now that we know she is safe, we can laugh about it... so much for homeland security when it comes to what is criss-crossing the country by mail. And so it will be that I'll board a round-trip American Airlines flight headed for Dallas Ft. Worth -> O'Hare -> Toledo International next Tuesday to retrieve my precious little friend. It'll be nice to see Bunkie again, too ~ . |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Sleep, my precious babes, nestled deep within my soul... still secrets, held close. Touched not by iced hands, suckling a warm, hidden breast... close to my quiet heart. Cradled in slumber to dream of your awakening... your birth approaches. Protected for now; safe from the pale sun's neglect your promise unseen. You'll soon enough stir, my womb surrendering you to May's tender care.... beauty your dowry, life anew your miracle... your breath that of Spring. |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Blessed Baby, born to us so very long ago, only to be torn from us by those who did not know the power of the word You brought for every heart to hear ~ redemption in the lessons taught to any who draw near. Born in our midst a common Man, to sleep on only straw, Your star shines bright throughout the land as shepherds kneel in awe. Sleeping with the creatures low, the Son of God above; to all mankind You soon will show the meaning of true love. Tiny Infant, basking in the glow of Mary's love, God proclaims unto all men His promise through this Dove. Over all there falls a hush as witnesses draw close, naught is heard save for the rush of chorused Angel Hosts. As guided by a Heavenly light, three Wise Men sojourn long... a journey that will span twelve nights before they look upon this Babe, awaited long by man ~ the promised Prince of Peace, Who'll wrest our souls from Satan's hand and bring us sweet release. Through this Lamb, our God on High, Himself sets foot on earth, gathering us unto Him nigh to witness virgin birth. Against this Child, though foes will stand and goodness seek to crush, naught will stay God's mighty Hand; the blessing of it's touch. This first of many wondrous sights that mankind will behold ~ the human spirit buoyed to heights the Prophets long foretold. Look upon His radiant face as peacefully He sleeps, divine and filled with Heavenly grace as word of His birth sweeps... throughout the land and past this birth ~ centuries beyond; the few years He will spend on earth ~ long after He has gone, all the world shall know His name, both wealthy men and poor; the Son of God, who rose again to live for evermore. Symbol of the pact between Almighty God and man; beginning in a manger mean ~ eternity to span. A holy Covenant of faith, signed in His shed blood, salvation for the human race... redemption understood. Born to this end, so soon to make the final sacrifice; sin so deep will never bend God's will of fire and ice. Satan vanquished, Hell denied, and risen from the grave, to comfort all who for Him cried, and in their tears be bathed. In turn, our very souls He'll cleanse ~ our sins He'll wash away, and with His death, give life again no evil force can slay. Salvation fought for on a cross through suffering untold, as we, in all our Savior lost, find treasures beyond gold. The gift this Child bestows on man, through tears and pain and strife, bringing us to God again ~ and everlasting life. So sleep, Thou tiny, wondrous Child ~ naught on Thy dreams intrude, in the arms of Mary mild, here in a stable crude. Soon enough the time will come to carry out God's plan, before Your wondrous life is done and You sit at His hand. On this, the Holiest of days ~ that of our Savior's birth, let us offer up our praise, and Heaven's peace rule earth. Let us not shed tears for now ~ instead, let us rejoice... join together with heads bowed, to pray in one clear voice; giving praise to God above, the loving, mighty One, beneath the Holy Star of Love that shines for His dear Son. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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