No such thing as bad press, right? I'm fairly certain that there's a weekly meeting in the White House where governing and politics AREN'T discussed. And Trump isn't the ring leader. He's merely the vehicle for the circus act. What IS discussed is how to make sure that he and the administration are the most talked about news item. Let's not be naive; the president (not only Trump) is the figure head for whatever legislation the people with the most money want to enact. Want to deregulate some current business practices and really start putting the hammer down on free press? Then elect someone who's perfectly comfortable playing the role of the bad guy and have him orchestrate what he's actually good at...getting attention. Without any research of the subject, has there been a president elected whose first foray into holding political office is the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES?? Can't imagine so. But...lots of average Americans don't use their brains (or aren't capable of) and settle for voting for the most recognizable and entertaining candidate. And we get what we've had over the course of the last few months.
So the meetings for the soap opera each week consist of, "ok this week so-and-so will be fired. We'll rearrange some duties and swap jobs. Oh, and so-and-so...make sure to say something completely outrageous. Like accuse so-and-so of trying to perform oral sex on himself...it'll be fantastic."
Sports media personality Colin Cowherd has a mantra; you don't have to be good or right, just be entertaining." Clearly that's been adopted at the highest levels of American government now.
Friday, July 28, 2017
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Dreams of Bones (and Guilt)
I hardly ever remember dreams. It's so unusual, in fact, I've often wondered if there's something wrong with me. I've used the statement, "I don't dream," but I know that's not true. However, I had a dream this morning that seemed pretty real. I scribbled a note in my phone so I could write about it before the details vaporized in a haze of the morning's activities like dreams do.
I remember walking through a winding hallway of a building, almost like a school. I find a door and walk outside to a driveway surrounded by tall chainlink fence. I sit in the driveway and a movie begins on a screen that's like a memorial of a handful of people's lives. I now realize these people are dead. I feel nothing since I didn't know them. While sitting in the driveway, a man from inside the building comes outside and places in front of me pieces of the dead people's jaw bones. The bones are fragmented and of varying sizes and colors, like some had been in the ground and some had been bleached by the sun. The man resembles someone I knew. He had wavy strawberry blonde hair, weathered skin, and not a tooth in his head. He tells me to recreate the dead people. I look at him and with a feeling of remorse I tell him I can't do that. He says please try it. He goes back in the building and I sit in the driveway fondling pieces of jaws. The door has a window and the older man peeks through it to watch my progress. The movie continues to play and I pick up and inspect each piece of jawbone and wonder how to put the people back together. The bones are misshapen with sharp jagged edges that stick to the skin of my fingers. I hold pieces up and pretend to give a look as if to imply there's progress to be made, even though I know there's not. I know the man is watching me and I want him to have hope for the reanimation of those he's lost. The task is hopeless and I feel guilt for not being able to help.
Then I wake up.
I remember walking through a winding hallway of a building, almost like a school. I find a door and walk outside to a driveway surrounded by tall chainlink fence. I sit in the driveway and a movie begins on a screen that's like a memorial of a handful of people's lives. I now realize these people are dead. I feel nothing since I didn't know them. While sitting in the driveway, a man from inside the building comes outside and places in front of me pieces of the dead people's jaw bones. The bones are fragmented and of varying sizes and colors, like some had been in the ground and some had been bleached by the sun. The man resembles someone I knew. He had wavy strawberry blonde hair, weathered skin, and not a tooth in his head. He tells me to recreate the dead people. I look at him and with a feeling of remorse I tell him I can't do that. He says please try it. He goes back in the building and I sit in the driveway fondling pieces of jaws. The door has a window and the older man peeks through it to watch my progress. The movie continues to play and I pick up and inspect each piece of jawbone and wonder how to put the people back together. The bones are misshapen with sharp jagged edges that stick to the skin of my fingers. I hold pieces up and pretend to give a look as if to imply there's progress to be made, even though I know there's not. I know the man is watching me and I want him to have hope for the reanimation of those he's lost. The task is hopeless and I feel guilt for not being able to help.
Then I wake up.
Monday, July 10, 2017
This is how much I love you
Do you know how much I love you? I'll try to put it into words.
I love you so much I would only shoot you once, right in the heart.
I love you so much if your head fell off I would keep it, and brush the hair out of your face as I put flowers in your eye sockets.
I love you so much if they hung you from a bridge I would hit you with a wooden stick instead of a metal pipe.
I love you so much I would stab you in church only when we said "Amen."
I love you so much I'll dress you in the nicest dress when you're being a scarecrow.
I love you so much I'll only hate you instead of being indifferent.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Second floor -Adult content
Adult content/trigger warnings: depiction of being held captive
There is a room. It is on the second floor. The floor and walls are plywood. There is no finished ceiling. There are exposed 2x4s above with one work lamp attached in the corner. Sound carries and echoes. It is hollow and void of feeling.
There is a room. It is on the second floor. The floor and walls are plywood. There is no finished ceiling. There are exposed 2x4s above with one work lamp attached in the corner. Sound carries and echoes. It is hollow and void of feeling.
You find yourself in the center of the room with your hands attached above your head to a beam. You have no clothes. The only thing touching your skin is the rope around your wrists and feet. The panties you used to have on are now stuffed in your mouth and duct taped over. You've been here for what seems like forever. Your shoulders are tired from being above your head. Your legs ache from standing in one spot.
You hear a door close on the floor below your room. Then you hear the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the wooden stairs...
Thump...thump...thump
Closer and louder...
Thump...thump...thump
You begin to squirm and worry...
Thump...thump...thump
Figit against your restraints...
Thump...thump...thump
Tears well in your eyes...
And the foot steps stop. The shadow steps through the doorway and drops a bag with a loud thud. He slowly walks to you with a sneer on his face. He stops as close as he can to you without touching you. You feel his breath on your neck. You feel the heat from his skin. He leans in and his whiskers drag across your ear...
"I'm sorry I have to do this, but I can't help myself."
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
41 vs 21
I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. As we age, sometimes you forget that you aren't the finely tuned physical machine you once were. I have a hard time shutting the switch of my 21 year old self's line of thinking off. In fact, 21 year old me routinely argues with, and tells terrible lies to, 41 year old me. This is how some of those arguments go;
21 Me: Hey, its lunch time. We should eat.
41 Me: It's only 11:15 a.m. We can wait a while.
21 Me: C'mon! We're hungry!
41 Me: Fine, we'll get a burrito.
21 Me: A burrito?? That's it? How about two and a taco?
41 Me: Good lord, no!
21 Me: Just sayin'...we'll be hungry again soon.
41 Me: Shutup
Walks into Taco Villa and orders two burritos.
21 Me: We're gonna play in that softball tournament, right?
41 Me: Tournament?! Hells no! They play 5-6 games, some don't start until midnight. That's way past our 9:30 bedtime.
21 Me: C'mon! We used to do that every weekend! I bet we're still better than plenty of those younger dudes.
41 Me: Shutup.
Plays in tournament, legs and back hurt for a week.
21 Me: Hey, let's get some new shoes!
41 Me: Yeah, I saw some Toms that I like.
21 Me: Toms?! You can't run fast in Toms.
41 Me: We're not running anywhere. We're 41 years old.
21 Me: Just sayin'...you never know. Remember that time at the bar? That guy challenged us to a race in the parking lot...think we would have won if we wore Toms??
41 Me: Shutup
Walks into Cardinal's and picks out Nikes.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
A Rant
150 years ago...which is a split second on the Cosmic Calendar...you were doing well if you lived to 60. Life was hard. HARD hard. If you weren't born into privilege you usually had to build your house out of the materials around you. You defended it with your life from native groups (whose territory you were encroaching on to begin with), thieves, wolves and grizzlies and a number of other animals most Europeans had never laid eyes on, and wild funnels that dropped from the clouds that made the wind blow unlike anything you'd ever seen. You grew and harvested your food. Shoes were a luxury. You had children to increase your labor pool. Medicine wasn't an option. If you got sick, you either got over it...or you didn't. If you got hurt, you either got over it...or you didn't. You didn't strive for luxury, you strived for sustainability.
Jump ahead to today. We gladly pay the equivalent of $14/gal for soda in 20oz bottles. We buy pre-cut firewood. Know what sodium acid pyrophosphate is? Me neither, but it's in a frozen waffle. Anymore, you can't stand in reasonable quiet at the gas pump as something called "Gas Station TV" now makes sure you're marketed to in the 3-4 minutes you stand and fill the tank.
Now I'll be the first to recognize the irony of me using my cell phone and wifi connection to post this babble. But I'm conscious of it. Many aren't. They think this is how it's SUPPOSED to be. Starbucks and Facebook and Netflix and car loans and taxes.
I guess it's not SUPPOSED to be anything. It just is. It developed into this. And I can either like it...or not. I can merely hope that in my grandchildren's lifetime they can still get their hands on a book, with pages made of paper,and read about how we got here...once it's delivered to them by a drone from Amazon.