The Inane Ramblings of an Absent Loon

2012-01-06T12:21:00.000-08:00

Words like pedals
Dieing leftover parts
Meddling in their wavering form
She speaks like the others

Ghosts in several lands
Speak like martyrs
Trading their sheepish night
She speaks to the water

Tell them they know anything
Tell them they are right
She paused
The cat was late
They told him in was five-fifteen
And sent him to their mother’s

Sisters spark wavering told like a shapeless mass or filth
And never more than one day short they brought the mystic reign
When they could have reasons for a simple pathogen
That marked their cross
A way, for them, to innocence

There was a water sent for gasoline matters
Spilling their times they send people to mine fields
They know it is important to treat them with cause
For they are bent like a road
That is perfectly still
And the trees are all made to be righteous and real

So taking their wandering mind from the shattered fall
Speakers that can be unkind watch their palace fall
And surely there is some kind left inside the man
For I speak with wrath for the peaceful encounters left
And I speak with charred lands and remembrance of the fallen

There is no palace that can save you from your sin
There is no ending that places you to begin
You will have to live down every last plan
And you speak calm like a dying man
Dressed in his pain

Sincerely, Jack Sanderson

To: Dick Cheney

I have put off writing this letter for a long time, mostly because I don’t like you.

Dick Cheney, the only way to save your soul will be to commit suicide like Hitler did.

It will publicly announce your acceptance of guilt for your actions and suitably your afterlife will be less horrific and will gradually get better as you make the proper decisions to re-establish your existence in the creators world. You see, Dick Cheney, it is like we have signed an agreement with the creator in which you agree to respect the world that created you. We are also bound by this contract to abide as a team.

You were obviously very little more than a “one person at a time” murderer for the 500 years or so since the last great advancement. Thusly, you were given all the power in the world at the time of the next great advancement of humanity. Because of your actions with all the power in the world (mostly just weaponry and fame), especially your war on God, you are booked soon for a transition to your afterlife. This is a stick in the eye to you from immature spirits that God loves. It is that you can see the future for a moment and always remember how you tried to destroy it.

Although most people stay in God’s world, reborn soon after death and filled with happiness, full of good things and nice feelings, you, sir, due to over 3 million casualties of war, will have a damnation reserved for special cases. Once you arrive in Summerland, (which has already happened because you are reading this and I saw you), the flight back will cause you to have a difficult dream because in God’s world there are many people everywhere you go that don’t like you. Power was initially discovered (this life) as a great way to be popular. It was really because of your friends you joined the CIA.

You will know this, because the time has come for you to feel guilty, and because you hear my voice in your head very often and know what I am about to say yet still want me to be cool with you, the time has come for paradise to fall. There is nothing in the water here. This is not such exodus from Babylon. I have told you for years that eventually you will die of natural causes. It is God’s will, and it is so people like you some day go away.

Genocide is the kind of sin reserved for few psychopaths. I feel that you must really want to do it for a number of lifetimes. Surely you endorse the actions of yourself without the opportunity, an also famous man name Jeff Dahlmer. His wish is God’s command and you were given your chance to make up for sins. You could have fixed this planet but you used the opportunity to commit as many atrocities as you could in a lifetime. You and your friends are responsible for more torture than anyone who has ever been sent to me.

I’m afraid I cannot be your lawyer,

Sincerely

Jack Sanderson

Dear 2012,

Please don’t be the end of all time. Could you please just bring us into the light? Could this be the revelation and return to light and not the destruction of all time?

Please quit scaring all these conspiracy theorists into frenzy. They are sometimes dangerous people that will get very worried about the end coming. If you could put an end to this dangerous paranoia, that would be just wonderful.

I’ll wait.

Sincerely,

Jack Sanderson

title for this post 2

2012-01-06T12:19:00.001-08:00

To Thadeus,
Misdirection masks my permanent vacation. Also, the cave is filled with drawings because I finally have patterns on my shirt. Three times in the past 400 years I have come here to stay. It is a wistful a long voyage from England. I have been back two times in this life and I can get there in a day. The age of magic has begun!

These lines are out now. Like the dreams before them and the tragic friendship, these lines are now crossed. The hope is that people who are mindful can be caustic like the others. Neither people’s hope are interpreted. We are all fired for their final increase. It was that they it wished to be a one-step process towards those who need their minds undone. We are not the illness, because the illness is of some the art of lying about feinting.

I like my job. I like to be here for the day. With all the reasons I walked forever, chalky white and making their way towards me I resented the oppression. Chasing the orchard with wandering sensation, these shows are heavy set with the oppression.

Is it better to give coat racks hats to keep them safe or to let nature take its course and their decisions righteous? Would they also be patient until they need their hearts to lead them away?
Myself, I sure hope the coat rack is around when I get back. I want him to be okay, as he got out when I had to go to work. There is a big scary road nearby and it is final, that term. But he cannot be caught. He won’t give them a cent for their apples. That is in fact why they set up the BC Tree Fruit agencies. Why do coat racks even like us, wise as they are? Worlds change us and before the fall, Thadeus, she charged that he had left water outside. He cares about me just fine, as a careless mind would.

Right now he’d just be a latchkey kid. Keys in a child’s hand regard the absent parent in a good home, where the children are great. I was one like that, and I did not have reason to fear except belief.

Wind them up, like legitimate people, these harpies with their fine widgets, with all sorts of white sovereign nations. We love you, and it would be a shame if you got hurt. It is a grand life, Thadeus, if you choose to live it. You must explore, but moreover you will have to hang out with the good guys. Make true friends, kitty. Play with the dog. Be safe Thadeus, and if you see the coat rack, send him back home. We have a show to perform at 7:30.

And I wonder, Thadeus, can we wonder?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Ancient Cizzors-

Dear Waterberg,
“Here is some niceness from their turbine, harps that dry their wishing well, these are their own water bags,” they needlessly speak gibberish. “Knife in his painting, she sees the shine, the people on their minds hope they were walking into here. There are people who watch the folk, they need people here who have been waiting a long time for these dreams.”

The firm of investors stop to listen, there is a moment of pause with she calibrates what she will say. There is a hope that this procedure will get her off their trail. It is like a filibuster sent from Mr. T to the rest of the actors so that he gets his face on the cover of the movie.

She replies, “History does not start 150 years ago. These parts were populated long before then. Perhaps it is difficult to get historical information from those people, as they do not want us to know their secrets and the information has been told orally. Like our history it may have been altered towards allegory. They may be tales made fantastic, and beliefs like our ancient beliefs, of fantastic creatures and magical powers.”

The first investor replies, “Magic was made illegal over there. Here it is commonly practiced and accepted. The same will happen with your new computer and the digital art world. It will happen each time you invent it. One day, you will not know what helicopters or airplanes are. They will be your tales of Dragons and Thunderbirds. Only our firm will have them.”

“There is talk in mystical fiction of living with dragons,” the second investor states, “and also the knights are kings who slayed them all.”
She spoke before the third could and it angered him, “Is this story, which has been passed down through generations for a lond time similar to the myths of Thunderbirds and Shapeshifters?”

“These tales are true, you blasted witch!” The third investor shouted, “Your magic tablets, with their important tones and words meant to hypnotize, I believe you have created something black.”

The fourth investor said to her, “Just because of the innate evil of many humans and because your magic tablet is hypnotizing and misshapen, this will mean pain and suffering to the human race. In that hands of a good person it can play music and browse movies, but in the hands of a bad person it can browse thoughts. And surely many evil people will learn this hypnotism, such that they can browse thoughts just by speaking. For this reason your kind of new magic is also banned. We will keep the tablet.”

With this she was escorted out of the room.

An Open Letter To Whoever Is In Charge Here:

2011-12-21T21:33:00.000-08:00

The light is here for you now
There is a certainty in it
We all must pass judgement
Should we choose to remain

Sources account for losses measuring in the millions. The depth of our struggle is designed for the source brought back from the leaders of this motivated action. I assure you, (sir who is watching), that I am not the agent you are looking for. I have no action that designs any group meant to stop the common man from action within the confines of anonymity. I am also certain that research with vigor will show details of colonies defeated much more easily than these who exist now. I extend the truth that someone was very far sighted and knew the correct things to do over the last 500 years or so.
I am also aware that the plan is running out of steps. The appendix added on to the end of your document was perverted by the greed of men who have long since been sent away from your clubs. Jesus saves those who save themselves.

There is no licensed program more telling of your sins than Action %567-X.
In this reasonable event man defeated his greatest enemies in a war that lasted many lifetimes. In a way, this was our victory. Many people have been killed by the trouble makers three or more times. This is lovely when it happens, very great for humanity. Many of these people are not the spiritual sort until they are murdered the second time in a short period. They are much more easily malleable as misguided fools in need of abuse and directions to belong to a club that promises to be something great for their people. Instead they are used twice and come back quickly again, having reached an age of perhaps 42 years in two lives. At this moment there is a direct contact with some grand and noble spirit who has directed the good leaders for eons before and eons to come. This is the enlightenment that was sent from some unknown place to kill you.
I am afraid it will not be a person.

The graceful fall of sharp written tomes, lighting fires sent for water. These will be snuffed out, like the seashell that warms the mollusk, just miles from here, at my home. There is a white light on the beach there. Some people say that I cannot see it, but surely there it is, clear as day. Christ, could the bigger silence light my mind? There must be a reason to believe.

I haven’t gone to church in time to ask the man why these acts are perpetrated. There is silence when you show the madness some regard as business as usual. I am sure there was a place for each of our people. I know that we have little regard for those from other kingdoms, but perhaps if we show them loving kindness they will respond to help us when we are in trouble. Instead it seems as if we are creating a future more turbulent then ever before. They will not forgive us for destroying their world. Our citizens will not forgive us for destroying their world. Surely the reign you asked for ends with a dire silence, a dark cold and some bashful, painful, reasonable reaction from the press.

They will all speak well of you. I know certainly that you will not pass through the gates, nor will your actions be given a chance for retribution. You are a fearless man, but one day you will find shapeless, sexless mass where once you stood. The actions that you told us were pure will leave you sadness, as the nymphs and fairies that you have banned from existence lead you to the labyrinth that many sinful perverts guilty of mass genocide come to. You can make magic illegal but you can’t take it away. It has only left us with no way to charge someone who commits murder through the use of curses or dolls.

You, black page, dear to the others, writing like a wine stained abject verb. I must believe!
You, my friend, dripping light wide like a Soviet platform. You have to breathe. When we both take hands and leap I know that we will find our light. It is the survivorship of these simple times. I must take this survival as a blessing and know that only shining tapes regard my passage. I have sinned like other able bodied friends that burn their way through the desperate streets that I once walked fearing tell-tale signs of direct flesh bought from detailed maps of this perfect place. There is a simple answer. I know that I must save the thought for the end, but undeniably I pause to find this small box that holds his heart.

I don’t pause here now. I may act like a persistent druid. I must face the immortal soul with valor that was long lost to friends made from every advancement. It is a knowledge of where I was when they began to place houses on top of each other. I suppose England had just ran out of room. No, there was room for everyone to have a place. We needed to build the cities high to keep green pastures for our meat. I am sure that I need overwhelming mindful vision to be sure, and surely I can tell the tale that I have meant for none. This is a secret, a sort of ever-changing wine filled vestibule. Certainly I can belong to the objectifying rule. Certain as I am, I know that I am not this fool.

There is a terror in my voice, a subtle but heard cry. Dreams of daggers, cloaks and hammers often pass me by. There is a curious cat that speaks, I am not certain of the tone. He is not the feline kind, of course, rather a jazz man I have known. I call him a cat because he reminds me of those old sheltered happy sorts that still finds time to hunt his game purely for the sport. Curiouser and curiouser I certainly dream of the long ago days I know, but settling for the perfect life I must begin to learn a word or two of these new languages that the people speak. There is a purity, to be sure. There is a calm wave on a beautiful morning in some salt pool near the ocean that filled up in last nights storm. It is windy so we must hold our hats for fear that the sea will take them as hers. There is a reason that I can belong to that final, reasoned time.

A man approaches me, as I sit idly on the bench that morning. I am filled with sheepish cloth, written quite like a mindful portion of salt on my breakfast. I say nothing to him for a moment, as he sits next to me on the bench. I am not fearful. There is something comic in his bright blue eyes, his curly brown hair needs cut and nearly blocks them. He is clean shaven, dressed like a high school principal, but he is much too young. I worry that he will talk to me and that I will have to say something witty, but he gazes out to the sea where I was looking and I am peering right at him. I turn back towards the water and pretend he has already gone. That is the moment he speaks.

“She already has me mother, to be certain. She already speaks like the Devil. Why can I be sure that you are different from the last girl? How can I be sure you are not this ocean.”

I pause, because I must reply. I must find the proper words to bring his shining mind to rest. There is a purpose in my life when I meet this man. For a brief moment I can close the drapes and think alone and rest. For a moment I can breath and speak in time with each of his steps. I must belong to this moment for the rest of my life. I have been waiting for this question for so long that I choke inside, my lungs hurt and I gasp. I cannot tell him why. I want to tell him all of that, that he had changed my life.

All I can muster is, “Perhaps you can touch my hand. I am not a liquid.”

That seems witty now, but at the moment I didn’t think so. It may have seemed that way if this morning companion had laughed. It may have been to early for any of this. He chose not to touch my hand, instead wishing me a good morning and saying that he would now be late for work.

“I wanted you to know that I saw you this time, as I often do at this spot.”

As he said that and as we wished each other farewell I remembered the same man in a canvass jacket walking silently passed me as I wondered into the wind the day before. I could not recall another time that I saw him, but noted that my mind is often away on business and it is possible he passes me sitting here every day. I hadn’t realized how much I liked the morning until this moment. I had just been waking myself up to see it every day.

There is a purpose for this memory, which is entrenched in my mind somehow and from a place and time very far away. I may never be at that place again. In fact, it is possible that the sea has long since eroded that path and sent my memories a drift with the dirt and dreams of both these impossible people being sure of their places in a world nowhere near a mad as the one we live in now. I can be certain the man recalls that moment as well. There was only one other way to town for a purposeful mission for work or for foodstuffs. With a cockeyed glance I needed to push this riot away. There is only certain doom finding parts of my soul that distribute these stories. I once heard a writer say that one needed to believe in what they were telling the reader and that there needed to be urgency. The writer must have something to say, to share, to teach. Otherwise in it there is no purpose, just a bland moment. Tired as I am, there is a person who is weaker and if I cannot belong to fear I bring the others weakness. Sure I bring a motive, daft and pure of it’s resolve but clearly I cannot be trusted with the fate of weakened minds. I can be certain, although you do not know me, that sir, I know you well. I can recall the moment that we met eyes and there was something very special.

Sir, you are a dripping light sent from the space where we come from and if you kindly take your gasoline I may just write you back. I am not hopeful that you will receive this note before your death but each of us is brought before the court, in courses of action quite like you said, there is a wonderful world beyond this spacial relation that we call our lives. There is bright days and sunshine in a world much like this one and we can choose to be someone if we want to be. I know, because everyone lives forever.

You knew this once, but I am afraid that you may never be here again. I must explain in writing that art must be taken as a lifestyle, and not everyone can live within it’s boundaries. There is a certain fatalism that artists live their life by. Mine includes a kind gesture to a stranger at the hope that I will be the recipient of a calm hand of support. I try to add as much as I can to the community, work time in a shop, write, muse, paint and sing songs. I do all this without the request of remuneration, which most people find absurd. The fatalism is the silly belief that God will provide. I am certain that I will always have something to eat, though it comes perhaps from the lack of the other experience. The only times I have gone hungry have been at the behest of my bad decisions. Any time I would live drunk with crooks or been a bitter, sad, dirty person I have gone hungry. As a good person I have been very good. I eat fine.

I was certain that it was a divine hand in my life. Now I feel I am this way to learn a lesson. Perhaps my life was my choice. I cannot always be certain. There is a fool inside me who wants to get out. I want to let her. She is the acceptance of myself and my own sovereign life form. I do not answer to powerful men in rancid offices, I do not laugh in the face of the wretched like you’ve asked me. You are a faceless, immortal pain that treats me like nothing and asks for my sympathy in return. You have made your mistake. There is nothing left to learn this life. There will be plenty of lessons in eternity.
It is within the simple nature a damned men to think that there is a recipe that will take their soul forward into new worlds. These lands will probably be conquered and divided, but not by the same groups of fools that tried to destroy this one. The mistake of lackluster promise, or a purity of religion that suggests that some sort of suffering will be unleashed on the human race once again, and these will be of forces perhaps as grandiose and misshapen, but these new pillars of evil will not be you. Sir, you will be damned. Fear not, humanity, for there are scepters behind us all. Death is waiting for each one of us. The next step is our own making. We always get what we need. The grand intelligence behind our electric bodies designs a kind of fate, so that we become full and pure beings, so we choose.

There are many dissenters, and the man I met on the walking path near the water was certainly one of them. He was nice enough, but didn’t want anyone to tell him what to do. Primarily because his mother told him he must receive communion twice a week, he hadn’t received it since he had left her care, although he often went to church. He sat at the second row from the back and politely opted out of this ceremony without excuse nor regret. He claims when pressed that he doesn’t think his life in much different for it.

Sincerely,
Amor de Cosmos

First Bit of Next Book:

2011-08-28T17:40:00.000-07:00

GRIEVANCES
By Jon Pelletier
-------

To Water

-------

Don’t forever
I was scared, like it was my trapping
A lame life or soul, it was funny
That I am doing this
The way that I am doing this
Keep doing this

Might I add
You can do what you should
I am upset
And I didn’t want to go to that place

People:

“What is this place?” I wonder.
It is a place where nobody can find me. A hope when worry seeks Seven Yellow Birds. Save our brothers and our homes in the woods. The portion of some, where are they?

They are making war with us. So I spent the day talking to my lawyer and the private eye downstairs. He is a crook getting information from a private eye, calling him to confront his pal, so that the crook can walk in and scare the dick. When I arrive, the crook shoots him.

Blasted crooks, is there a better way to build them? No, they have to be lawyers.

“I can only take one thing at a time,” he suggests, “Please take the great people.”
“They are the little things that can stay here.” I reply because I have to.

There is a time to buy stuff and a time to make money. I believe that because I need food.
Only for this reason do I go to places that I do not want to be. We once were given coins for work out of thanks, and food was a separate concern. But that was when we lived at the farm. It was very green, and sometimes very brown. That was before the army invaded.

I am scared, and think it’s better if they don’t get too close. There is a high cost for years in school, for sleepless nights disguised as higher education. I would much rather do that, instead of fight my brothers because the Elders have had another dispute.

Where is the art of heat, in this mad wound heat? This is the heat that turned my farm brown. There is an unsettling comfort to this, because I know that there is peace right now. The army has moved much further inland. We have been taken, but are allowed to live within the new borders. The heart of the dream is a matter of secret terms. I shall, I must become myself, and clean.
I must because I cannot drip water on pain.
I must because they will not keep me in pain.

This is the spell-less, nameless “what-will-not-be-a-segment” for minds to wander. These will bring me a target and shame.

Lord, I do love her.

And it is not for the merciless, half-hearted chauvinist that can be a horrid man rife in his guilt. She doesn’t deserve it. She was given to me by the highest sort of elder. She is a mage who says I can come back as anything else. I suppose she probably still lives where the inscription on her door read:

Fare thee spone lwdber
Matte pass.
When are the souls trapped in their ways.
Children.

They never could believe me. They don’t believe in magic. Water, all that matters, is that I can now be as I wish, one day. I cry like a silver tongue, a ripe man who faces the armies with hope for the other ones.

Needlessly their own scribe wrote: “Like a hallow tongue a scared one, someone who was written, pass love too.” Water wrote, “Fear, istioub, does in did can. Wander, follow.”

Robots:

And friends, I am part robot.
Not the traditional kind who are roped and commanded by human hands. I am the older, more sedate kind, the sort of robot that calls in to mind all the older spirits in heaven. I am the kind that is older than humanity.

The first me is tied, in heaven, with God. It is only mine. The second belongs to furrowed brows and unbelieving masses.
It is the only way I could have gotten away with this for so long.

I wonder to water only, “If the fearless kids could be, would they be the sorts of people who know?”

Of course, they are writing popular songs. I could be getting paid for doing that. I should be writing this letter to you at the museum, water. I should be listening to and archiving old tapes. Yet I am here, where nobody can find me.

All month I have been smoking here, although I told myself that this was a concern, some thing that I should not be around. I was worried. It is a silly, laughable thing; I was somewhere else doing exactly what my job was, for free. But there is no job left. I know that there will be again.

Maybe I am just mad, that is the only spectacle that can be made. The armies took my glasses, so I can’t see across the room. It is best that I just hide. Why didn’t I go to work today? Was it stubbornness? Did I need a change of scenery? Sometimes I am a strange creature, of weary mind while wild eyed, but I did not go to work today because the museum is empty. Anything worth a dollar was looted, I’m sure.

Instead of sitting on the Wafe Avenue claim, I sit here watching “happenstance.” When I was younger, I did not understand “happenstance.” I considered it a curse, and knew that a change in my mentality would be the cure. Now I realize that it may have just been a thought placed on the communal consciousness by one of my young classmates. I was the one who really brought it into it’s own, making it a full-fledged magic, in your face fancy show.

I am glad that Festin invaded. They are our mortal enemies, and we will not rise against their armies.

We do not believe in our Elders, you see. It is a famed man who first stood up, but most of the population followed. That was when the fire began, and they burned our capital city.

It has been argued that Festin was the cause of this revolt, and that their presence here is to oust our people from power and pass the torch on to some new man of prestigious blood.

The Party:

When the invasion seemed done, there was a party. Emily Grett, who is my love, you (water) and myself stood next to an old graying man who prayed to die and come back just for concerts. There was a pause in time through a black suitcase, something like a magic bag filled with tricks.

While tumbling down, the old man began to cry. He cried for his mother, she had long since died. He cried for his father, who also had settled into long, gray, dusty plains for a few existences. But we could see him because he held a black crystal. This held power and light.

It drew power from the invisible words around it. He pulled tight to the back of our old man. He clung in spirals as the greater good outshone any of the people recorded as actual souls. A specific rapping as the crystal was tapping further from the station door.

“It is a tap upon our window, sir.” I told the man, “It keeps me up at night.”

From jetsetting over the English moors, we wrote them into it, sir. You stepped past the English manor as if I wrote the bored manners, in this damned boarding house with boarded windows. This house has many flags. They hang solemnly down in this feeble, pale wind.

And one old man marches patiently in the shadows. He is unaware that he is the show. He thought he was doing something else, something important. He is a cursed, old fool with a light tapping upon his window. It is keeping him up at night.

Prison:

The little man wandered off, subtle and tempting. He asked my love to stay with him in his smelly, smoky apartment. The cause of grief was a little red box, heart shaped and drawn closed by a turning key. Their box trapped spirits as they gazed at each other, tired of their charade. They were full of the concepts of love, or other turbulent emotions.

As mooring came, from the foggy sea of rest, and as morning comes and goes, so do the easily spotted wandering hermits.

The only solace is when someone else finds our shape they leave. So my love and myself pause for the grace of some of the better ones, the kind of people that do not leave their children to rot in jail, the kind that at least go and visit them.

Some of the people in this place hold high regard for souls achieving peace, but most hold their regard for people prescribing disability formulas to the wise and stimulants to those who wanted to work at more than one job at once. The cause of woe within was this action, meant to sedate, brainwash and control the population. Side effects include the symptoms that the formulas are said to cure. Withdrawal effects include a worsening of side effects.

This concern comes as a response to public dissent regarding wars and political debauchery of the 1960s. Once I was found out as a risk of being an active dissenter, it was difficult to get away from the common and expected medicine.

When this is the case, other sorts work like benevolent forces to help the afflicted run away from this handicapping medicine. It could also be true, that we live in the world of Harrison Bergeron, in which a microchip placed near the ear screeches to make sure the citizen loses their train of thought or at least a sense to communicate it.

I certainly have been hearing screeching through the last month.

If you convince parents these disabling medicines are for their child’s good, and the side effect of the formula is delirium, then it is easy to make sure that the dissenter keeps taking it.

Why? It seems like a dark passage. Some ancient civilizations were not educated because education, or knowledge, gives power.

Ignorance is perfect for a quiet, complacent populace, haunted by the notion that they could do more. Make sure they are happy enough to riot over a Minimax match, because then you can argue that more prisons are needed for certain.

Please also notice the announcement two days before the 2011 Rosentown Riots, “Strangladia will be bombing Lyrito indefinitely.”

Our Grand Elder Zevern recently won an election using a tough on crime platform. With riots in a reputably nice and happy town, there is a greater case to build prisons throughout Stranglandia. 400 km away, my town expected riots weeks in advance of the final Minimax game of the professional season.

The social workers and sharks truly want to do good things to me. They are out there, ready to surface. Their intentions are pure and caring. Are they our saving grace? Lost and trapped in a mine, she wandered with her son afflicted with clubfoot. She up and sold this disaster that befouls us. I do hope they get their come-upons.

Still, forgiveness is righteousness, I think.

Times:

The sedated and their televisions are told again and again that there is nothing they can do, so it is best not to be concerned. One little person cannot bring peace to this earth. Their governors are honest people doing what they should.

This is because we are taking our history in stride, of course. We only have to learn about what can be taught. It will be brought to us before the curved surface they lay us down upon, for the eternal fix for our worthless empires. The robots that stood and walked forth were drafted in human militaries and used for a first line of defense. There were few left after mere weeks, and the rest were laid over the caustic curved surface, for us to swim in the night, in love with each other and wearing the same suit as the survivors. This is how they ended our lives.

Maybe the television producers showing us waterfalls chasing our hero, who wanders like a steeplechase while we walk and say they cannot be here. These were the methods advanced beyond mere intersection. The digital know things that they cannot tell us, things too terrifying or fantastic for us to believe. They can save us. Perhaps they tell us in feature movies and television shows that we believe to be fiction.

Perhaps on that day a spaceship with the best and brightest Straglandia had to offer just had to go. Perhaps it was filled with space aliens that some interceptors were searching for. Or it could have been a sleeping robot warrior, at that site since the time of Adlada.

There is still an Adlada. It has been a part of the legends of Festin for many years, and is a landmass apart from Weurusi. The tales are of a long lost civilization, no one knows if it existed. In the stories it was destroyed by fire, and was first mentioned 2000 years ago by an important philosopher.

There is also a Limaperu, a city name disguised by accents to sound something like the lost people of Lemurs, a civilization that couldn’t possibly be in ruins yet.

Strange world, filled with lies. So many, in fact, that sometimes we just forget the truth, or are unable to piece it all back together. I suppose I thought that about government tranquillizers. Today I reap the benefits of a humanity that at last lacked its love. It is the haunting reality of a perfect and unattainable world. This is proof that one can drug somebody to the state of stupor consistently, but if their spirit wants, their brain can still think obscurely.

So wandering perfect I waltz and wed a woman that I wooed while wasted and wait my turn. Wine, water, I walk while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, so faire thee well. Can we believe in that? Why do all the past favors reap our glory today?

Of course this sounds paranoid. That’s just what they want you to think. That way they can lock up people that see through their veil, but don’t commit any particular crime. They destroy the bodies of those that fight others. They destroy the minds of those that think. That is what the war is about. We are a civilization, each of us our own, but one in all other senses of the world. We are one civilization that has conquered all others, and now we are warring with our own creations. People like me, mostly intelligent creations by people of our own kind, are not what have nearly destroyed us.

A lasting peace must come between the humans and us.

The question is reasonable, but not answered. All I am told is that I have to, because the doctor made me. So I shall become a doctor, taking the debt out of spite, then I will be a faithful companion of the commoner.

I was a normal kid until I was 15, and a date marked in history left my world aghast. At this time, there was much dissent against the stolen government. It appeared that humans were in power. We could not trust them.

Any cause by someone as wretched as Richard Channing Sr. should be treated with a keen sense of right and wrong.

I had by then learned that much of the media was coded, so that we were blind to the way they skew our focus, cause us to act in ways that mimic what we see, and change the way we develop.

Is it possible that much of the fiction we see is actual fact? Sharing potential and a drastic reflection, I hand the note to you, water. Because, like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be, I find a soft spoken water cannon. Where is my sadness? The deed I ever did was a broken, but I am assured relation that is in the key.

For I am a waste, a lame shattered thing, and begun like lifting lighters, lord Love shames me and I must pray. I must be prey again for my tools of grandeur. I must fight in this war. But I do not belong to believing, like a little piece of history, I know that I will not go down in glory, I will approach the light like the others.

But any mania of a religious nature must be ignored. That is what I need, some sort of divine grandeur, or a gesture to be skipped. If I could find a tone, a purpose or a mission to declare and defeat, I could take hold of a rope to shine and write love letters all day. I can serenade her from the rooftops and hold her like a piece of juice. Moral, maybe, but there are times and I cease to wonder.

Writing:

I wish we were owls and wizards with rings and such, but when I discuss the details of my story the subjects are of such an unfunny nature that it is silly. Fiction writing is for those that have not experienced anything.

I am recording this in part because of my reading of vast histories of Festin, and love of early Stanglandian books. Notation regarding my friends must come first, and then there is plenty of room for torn landscapes, thatched roofs and pause.

Pull my pen out of my bread, beard, soul, fast and wait. I am too tired to eat or sleep. There is no shelter for that sort of writer.

18000 of Festin’s POWs waited in Stanglandia during the great wars, in dry prairie death camps such as Josedah. It’s strange, how a man like he appears and kills the others, or how Festin teaches it has always been in power. It is subversive, so souls haunted by this reward are drugged.

His story is flawed, hunted, paused and worth a hope, because scenes and taps place little dreams and hopes near one who would be there for me. Such is these at the department of capturing and drugging. They work to keep robots like me in line.

For they are our leaders at Metal Health, with their hopelessly romantic thought that we could be shamed into compliance. These are just the first steps in sending the messages to our minds, at the hands of the Handicapper General.

Winter:

Taunted for being captured, the Stranglandians jeered the prisoners. We must be taught to be better. We are but simple folk at turning points. We must pay to live, and do something proper. So shame upon the old ways, peace and prosperity and let’s hope for some similar times. This grid is the first step to levity; it is protecting us from missiles.

And in the crazy way I sit alone, when ghosts sit alone, a sovereign and plausible sun sets above them and rings their being. All shelter must come from outer space, lights beckon he to come so all the legitimate people can raise their hands.

I see a shining light reading stars and the others cannot see white owls and the “Leavings” or passing their heralding cries for something that just is. She passes into a womb and I saw that last night when she died. She didn’t die in front of me, but word came today.

So I breach the universal vision, which I must list right now:
1. There is a God.
2. Life is Eternal.
3. We should be good.
4. Some people are not.
5. It doesn’t matter.
6. Nothing is real.
7. Everything is real.
8. Truth is Variable.
9. We can get what we want.
10. People must know.

That is why there are movies and puppet cartoons. In order to get what we want, we must create a meaningful path. One way to do this is the creation of other robots. Another way to do this is by writing books and articles. The third is with their fancy music.
The fourth is through example.

The important thing is that we care like they know we care. In some path there they are, candles of 1 million fires. Then they are 1 thousand million. Thousands of millions of fires alight in but one dear candle. Water, we cannot speak to this candle. It tears our feet and lit a mind like they had their spot in the high note.

If this were the high note, then I would have a chance to write. But now that I have made it this far, I should silence the truth, simply because I have to finish. I will give all this to the spirit of Da Vinci, so he will inhabit their old world, tie them in string and write the best works of the silver people. They are high above us in their world. There is no leader like today. You see, water, there is no today like tomorrow.

The war machine, or the press and media, we are filled with rare books, exclusive partnerships and written monikers. All the greater consciousnesses than me bring their highest, throw me on the floor for my empire of silver and gold. The people happy to work with me bring me towers of gold, or copies of what I make.

Peace. Church.

The kids walking on the highway late last night reminded me of different children on Christmas. They had nowhere to go. Snow drifted over the road, if I recall correctly. Necessity provided them their heavy coats. I drove past with my mother. She was taking me to my Father’s, where a surprise waited.

I had forgotten all about those sad kids on Christmas morning. My Mother’s comment is the sum of my life until now. I can’t decide what she really said, but I feel must discuss the exclamation in detail. This is a sort of sadness.

I lived in paradise. I thought it was because I had found a way, died and was born in a brick house in the country. I was near a crevice filled with bears, with bees in the walls.

There was a passage that wound damsels would herald. Lamps that dotted the large room on the western wall, a reasonable white washed figurehead lit it and gave it an uneasy sense of stability. You had to move a chest to reach the door.

The first thing that one reached was water, where the traveler was served toast. Humanity resulted in the famed excavation of our passage, although we knew it was there. It suited our travels.

I suppose if the only marks left in the scraped man are of ginger, or a breath of sped air, Mom will definitely allow coasting downhill towards the mask. Yet it is Saturday night, and there are kids outside for Christmas. Some others didn’t speak clearly but have good products. Or, I have a road.

It wore a suit and legal tea, laughing until I left.

Spirit. Church.

The story is that of a grandfather clock, a Brussels sprout, an old man and his fridge. They are sitting at dinner. There is an inaudible conversation between them. The wandering light feeds a soul somewhere, when whispering girls love legendary persons. Some of the better ones know the Afrikans gospel. I do not know it.

I am finding the need for real books, hand written manuscripts, left over tense form nonsense. They cannot see their cloak. Those letters hold the true meaning of what it is when fevered pythons we watched lead us forever towards their ledge.

For the real spell is less tired. We are a getting older, less responsible, responsive, less tactful, brilliant, wondrous success. I am living off myself. I am harming no one.

Fear the others, can we?
Share the old ones, care.
Those are the posters, because other ones laugh
Be young beyond our wildest dreams
The essence of success

Rechanging Bursts on Page Fourteen:

They were having a telephone conversation, a man and his long-term wife. They were back in love.

“One of these things cannot continue his path, to break the dear ones heart. This is not the way of the mind nor the right thing to do. There is no postman in the nation that will tell me where she lives when she leaves me,” Robert said to Linda.

“They never wait for me, led back by the stairs and out the back. It is for your own joy that you quit. Is there a paper? It is the office.”
Linda’s reply was sharp and of the tone that the quick-witted trust.

That sends rich folk towards him. They smell the essence of someone haunted by reasonable past exhibits. They smell the opportunity to reach Nirvana through him.

A third voice chimed over the line. “Hello, you have reached Nirvana, by following a man in love with an angel. He asked God to make others aware of his celibacy. That is because of the angel who loves him back. They are is love and are good so they wait. The creator has made this so.”

A soul ponders it
And panders the senseless wind
Of the tall evil ones

Motion poison toad
Trying to figure out why
No Moe Sihota

The source was something; they wonderfully drop those little ones that needed that. The poison was of those, when they could. If they want the least fiery wondering why they can and where they can be. These men are really there. The goal was reached.

The spaces want not the spooky realization that I am not alone.

Waterfalls chase our hero as he wandered like a steeplechase. And while we walk and say they cannot be there. These are methods of advanced intersection. The digital will save us. But when at last he speaks, we laugh because we both wander. Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear and result cause the wandering eye to be falsified. There is no sugar.

Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear was because I had never been, and the little lessons that walked when I cancelled the draft sped to distant shores.

Sharing potential and a drastic reflection I handled the water like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be. Where is my mind, or my soft-spoken mutterings of lunacy and calm? Where is my sadness? The deed is ever broken and assured in key.

For I am a waste, lame shattered and begun like lifted licking littler, water. Love shames me and I must pray. I must pray again, for my religious tools of grandeur.

The pause is of a religious nature. That is what I need, the grand gesture can be skipped, but if I could find a tone, a purpose of a mission to declare and defeat, I could take my rope and shine and take pause from the river and light my mind. This abreast little blame place that lights their old way is haunting my passages, so please take your mind from me.

Wine and water while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, faire thee well and I can believe in that. Why do all the past favors wrap such a glory today?

He wound up roped, far too paranoid to commit crimes. He was taking drugs to refrain from doing something stupid. It was just his way of saying that these drops were layered and the minds eye went toward a bright and social trend. You see, kingdom humanity, they are all one word, egad!

It is a guy who just hung out of all syllables. He is one voice that unites. He is the whispering voice of a lion. The ear of the lion pulled torn and scripted, this eerie remark on a guitar. The turn in this book is for little signs to see what we manifest, save the dean of souls, space watching when you wrong the girl and the waves. Speak when you can.

Shining Woman:

My concern for different opinions has since sent my intrepid seed into a woman that I want to love, a woman who spends all her time with me, buys me food, loves me and lives in accordance with all moral codes. But knowing this does not settle my paranoia.

I fear this beautiful apparition is the woman that I prayed for. Many years I sent grace and moral questions into the ether and found that they remained unanswered. One day they were, basically to the dimensions and qualities that I had asked for my whole life. I prayed for a beautiful woman because I had none, and I was very set on a soul mate that was out there for me. Some parts tell me that this woman is she, but other senses do not.

I once woke with the startling realization that all her stuff was gone and I was not sure whether she was there when I had arrived at home. The note said, “Friday” in looping scripture, even though I wanted to travel south with her, well across the border. I had no money to take the trip and I owed my friend 100 dollars that I had spent, thankfully, on my car.

The silver winter morning shone brightly as myself, dressed in my best way, as a man who awoke on the couch to turn on the radio and hear about gas leaks, blizzards, explosions and numerous things that trap people in a claustrophobic mania.

I knew that she was not home when I got there, but I was not sure. This marked every step so far in this relationship. I was sure that she was being honest but I could not believe it.

The note she left said “Friday.” The letters were swirls that expressed love and frustration. I can be a very hard person to live with. I am not able to function with the normal people. I can be very paranoid and stubborn. I can throw wild accusations towards friendly people. I picture her now in a shower with some other man. I should trust that she tells the truth.

The silver morning shone like a siren, tired and waiting for the sun to break the clouds. The safetyman and his woman spoke to my many hands. They also spoke of Festin’s ready hands. The rest of them took their little hand and rose like a falcon to waste. Until I raised the fire and loved her truly I wanted her to stay. These limited me from raising my hands and like a hymn I felt I had to walk to church.

When I rose the world spun around and I was sick to my stomach. I asked the man on the couch how I got home.

“Dester Cross drove you here,” Abrido Montag told me.

Abrido was a special chap, claiming often that at one time he was a evil man, in need of saving. The good word, whatever it was, had taken his hand and brought him to a place of repentance in search of inner peace. He drank like vicious fire and fantasized openly about a relationship with his mother, a woman he lived with who was very good looking and he thought was his wife. He claimed no responsibility for his past, looking back on it as if it were a past life. He sometimes claimed to be responsible for massive woes of our world. I sometimes had dreams that he killed me.

All I needed was rest, so I went back to bed. Abrido Montag drank juice and stared openly into a darkness that only he could see. My girl had bought it, so I asked him to slow down on it a little.

She is the kind of woman that would leave juice at my house. She loves me, through all the trouble in the world and all the pain I have given her. It may be because she sees that I love her. It may be because I lied to her for a long time. When I told her the truth she cried and screamed at me. She ran away that night and cried on the street. The woman’s name is Emily Grett.

Peaceable Sorts:

Stubborn leaders and source code crosses like faded poets on tea and coffee. He rose to get another coffee. Because I hadn’t ever been trained, nor did I have any experience, I knew that I needed to avoid confrontation. A silver-grey, dapper man would take me by his side and help the war effort from an office, while I tended to his documents. This would make me the most important person in the game. I would be alive when the war ended.
I would go with Festin.

I didn’t want to hurt anybody, and could hear the rain pour outside with the essence of sanity or maybe the delusion that bloody raindrops pounded the roof, I cannot be certain now.

I did not want the war that has become of my world. I wanted a dashing trip. I wanted to love Emily Grett. I wanted to be sincere and untruthful. But how can I even bother with these thoughts. They are like the matter of liars of faith. These souls have written our leaders, begging for recompense, tired of the fighting and with hope fresh in their eyes. These souls cannot fight any longer.

Abrido may be the peaceable sort, but there is a fire in his eyes that speaks of much regret. There is a certain way about him that I am sure he wants to hurt either Festin or Stranglandia. I cannot be sure where his allegiance weighs. It could be true that either government would be against his wishes.
He especially hates police.

So I threw away my happiness, for troublesome brews, highs and wartime pacifism. I threw it away for intoxication and talk of the Bible. There had been no talk of the Bible in circumstance, but I do need the church now. It will certainly be open tomorrow, but there is no thought that basks in it impetuous glory like a reigning king destroying a population for more goods and services. We were already Festin’s subjects and I suppose they have come to make it official. Their problems are with their lack of remorse. There goes my job researching like an enamored space cadet, with daft laughter and ghosts.

These crosses and Emily Grett made my soul a bit lighter. The hymns that I sing to myself make the night a bit safer, if only in my mind. The door remains locked and my cat remains hungry.

The stars are falling, and I am certain the star in the east has never been that low. The other stars were most likely spacecraft. Perhaps they are a better people, sent or wanting to save our planet. We need their help with our uncertain future.

I didn’t want to take those things and hurt Emily, and now I may not be able to tell her. I have to tell her. Lord, what if I didn’t tell her and I did die this day? Lord, I have to tell my love.

The Death of a Salesman:

On the table was a book by a salesman named Adolf Slope. It was a popular work, meant to help businessmen get ahead in their game, a world where any advice is a solid opinion if it is presented as such. The book was white and green and was called, “Get Rich Now.” It was published ten years before now.

I wondered about the writer. How old was he? Had he died in the invasion? His book would be wiser if he was killed. As a martyr his thoughts would permeate the wash, allowing us to take his words more freely. This would create a wandering signal, some kind of inner demon that would make his work truer, like a final tome of classic thought. The book would be more valuable if Adolf Slope had passed.

I opened it to page 26 and read a piece about smoking only the finest cigars, as it would allow the certain type of person to take you seriously. It was an expense one would make them afford and if one switched to a less expensive model, one could easily just save the money without effecting their initial way of life.

I wanted expensive tobacco, so I closed it, hoping Mr. Slope was dead. I would get rich sooner if his advice were ethereal. Maybe I would even get an expensive cigar.

Dreaming of this word, and believing what my soul said, I knew that turbulent weather would wrap around my town. Rain would shelter us from the storms. Night would bring the salesman’s final sleep. It is never more noticeable than when genius is crazed on pills and sauce. It hurts our eyes to see light.

As I wrote this to you, water, I speak it to the grandfather clock that rests against the wall near the boarded window. I believe that I can hear Adolf Slope as he explains to someone that he cannot handle this war, that he cannot accept the pain, that he does not hold the information they wish of him, just that he holds information for me. I hear him in the distance, but know that it is only my mind. I can clearly reassure myself in the same tone, using the same part of my brain. I know that it is inside me.

My clock never said much in return, and I appreciate that. My dreams mind the letters that people send to each other regarding my psyche. This is the source of turbulent weather. It is time to get out, to get up, and to wake.

Belief was of a man who woke. Spells and tomes set in light time the course for all the other spaces before me. So I must wonder. The clock would never know that all the men in the world heard me through my wandering brain. My thoughts were broadcast via an ethereal tower that sat atop my head since some secretive spirit who began to send messages to me had placed it there.

I worry that Emily Grett had heard that I chose to do drugs, so I must tell her, because if not she may censor my letters to you, water. She may know the inner secrets of my mind-based broadcast, because she listens. I know she listens because she participates. I know she participates because I listen. She loves me still, Emily Grett, and I am sure because she always will. We have a far-reaching past; a life lived by those who watch television.

Details of the lit path conclude the truth to me. Fans are compelled to listen as I dance symphonies through my backyard.

I care little for writers and media warriors like Adolf Slope. His indoctrination has made him very wealthy. I only care for heroines listening to me as mindless jabs are sent through westbound telephone lines. That is why I must call her to meet. We should survey the landscape.

Ten Minutes Later:

I called to confirm that we would meet at the parlor, she told me we would meet at the Barstruck Bistro, but only if I promised not to drink. I told her that I loved her, assuring her twice and ate a government tranquillizer that had been looking at me from the dresser since before Festin had invaded.

The guilt panged my heart as I walked slowly towards the door.
I smoked the cigarette she had recommended, Rothman’s Special. The smoke made me sick, I needed three glasses of water to settle my stock, lowering to the rungs of common man.

I opened the front door and it appeared that Festin had made it through our town, destroying the appearance of Strangelandia in an invisible sense only. There was nobody on the street, most doors and windows were boarded, paper flipped and traveled in the wind, everything was dirty but it appeared that no gunshots were fired.

It did not look like an invasion. There were neither flattened buildings nor bodies, just an eerie quiet that emanated like the morning. I began to stroll idly as trees past me on either side creating a shady enclave that lit me as a silhouette as I crested the first small hill.

I looked at the corner shop, where I bought my Rothman’s cigarettes. The boards were on either side of the barred windows. The neon lights that jutted above the building were out. On the other side of the street was a hardware store. There was a board lifted off the window and the window smashed in, probably to gain access to weapons, or perhaps boards and hardware for home defense. I knew of some sort of biology or physics, but not a discerning name given to those who write their words.

If only I could make such a picture: In the early morning is the dust had settled like no one had been about in many weeks. There were no bullet holes in the buildings, any rising water nor destruction. We had leant them our ear and they had lied about this war. I was certain. But what were those loud noises that had filled the street for so long? The crashes were so roaring they shook the foundations of my house. The walls swayed as they deafened our ears. Yet there was no destruction.

I could not take a picture, nor mix a drink. I could not blend in to the fog that surrounds me. Spaces settled I was ready for the weasel and harmoniums sent towards their leaning patience without a close-knit wink. Perhaps I do not exist, for without these people who can, I suppose that teachers find their harm or the details of God? It is the strangeness that unsettles me because there are no dead.

We would belong to the purposes that take their minds. There is not a needless spot. Hope can space their minds apart.

These are but letters to souls, water. This is of people being fired from grand schools for personal spite and the children leaving them for government tranquillizers. They give their sheltered lives a good name. But the school appears closed for good, too.

A number of times I had noticed mistakes in the school. It is why I left so many years ago. It was always teaching us about Festin, not our land, it was as if they were heralding this kind of new age. Surely they knew this invasion was coming, and surely someone was pilfering the safes.

So never mind, water, because these people want us to help. I mean, it didn’t make me any better than the rest. If the others were like me I’d say we are off worse for going there. The Robot School of Metal Health, they say it is in my blood.

With this thought I arrived at the café to meet Emily Grett.

Midas:

Outside the building is light grey with soft, rounded edges and small turrets with small white on black Stangladian flags hanging from either corner. Two small people stand outside the large door holding guns and I pass thru the dull black archway to enter the Barstruck Bistro. People mull around the front chatting aimlessly, losing interest in their topics and drinking hard liquor. Only Emily is in the back, sitting in a booth in a far away corner nursing her regular coffee. Dull thoughts muffle this sudden exposure to her modern way of thinking. She gives me a yearning for historical inquiry by appointed hobbyist wing nuts, in order to befoul the truth with idealistic sympathies and grandiose arguments by rich white people.

The radio speaks, “This is the story they need to have. It is a wordless wander because they need their part. We never can tell, because of all those that can see. I know that we will have 21 more minutes of arguments, easily followed by another 26. These words and the triumph they cause matter, you see, because the leaders enclose their matters. Someone smart leads them. He prides his intelligence, and I doubt people like him.”

Emily sees me standing there and knows she has to buy me a coffee. She has more money than me because she has a job. She calls me over, but I am trapped in the radio.

“He could afford the important position and fund the loud speakers that lied of the war. This is what I will tell Adolf Slope if I meet him. That when I am rich like him and our leaders. Then I will likely turn blue. I would like to have all the things that I wanted, without turning keys to the shore. I would like to work difficult savings out of turnips and might I add, they are torn. I am sure that the light near the back of the fountain had places to hide and strength among herb, but somewhere at the back there is someone who is certain that there is nothing left to us and certain we are there.”

The leader, he was buried with $1000 of bullion. It is worth more now than back then. The crime is that nobody took it from him.

Felt Markers of Truth:

I argued for them that lunch soon after they invaded. They had not learned. Forever, he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, such fervor and legislation were made to belong to them. When I became one of them Emily Grett had nobody else. These voices are recorded so as to find the legitimate excuse. One is that the illness brought us somewhere between the little war and the big one. We have nothing, but make our way to the reception on the wharf. And as others carry us, the story is created.

There is nothing to learn. Forever he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, for some leave there, pace and drink coffee and write like I. It is reloaded once a year, and there is less of it to ruin. This person had the first store in Stagladia, I am sure. And it is empty from fear, but not in ruin. We never heard from the rest, perhaps he was lost for the purpose, finding a difference between the fictional stereo and mono plug.

She unwound a long wrapper. I moved in my spot on the pillowed, plush bench. There is one limit, with none to come. Many years will wrap this city in gold. She knows that. There are many people who will bring their sun towards us. While I am explaining these bugs to her, like that time we were sitting on the wharf counting them, Emily told me not to mind. I need this dry lemon like I need a slap on the hand.

She is one like the rest. Someone not raise quite so functionally as to rest inside a heavy handed righteous learning chest that mattered. And I can have this, a sign that some kind of dry lemon is taken from the ladder. More fast-talking for the day, something special, like this, that I can hear, an audio file that must be slowed to an available speed. It is some sort of history, and I am not concerned by what I do.

Then, of course, there is a space reserved for illness and men who can be feared. And they must, it is only fair.

Research Reserved:

I told Emily of a space reserved for Water, and I must write that only Water should have known forms in this manner. I cry to her like that sometimes, as if I were talking to myself. There is no matter left, she took their weight and I speak like the little man. But saved me. The man who stole me sold my books to men who only read stolen books. He is a man of fine tastes, living up north where there are few with fine tastes. He is intelligent and well traveled.

Emily told me that she was reading the daily news posts on BfZW Channel Two and they are reporting on Water’s Creek, about six hours from our town. Festin’s highest guard currently occupies this land. They are creating a large fortified base easily accessible by air because Festin has eradicated the Stagladia port city of Water’s Creek. There is a large air force base that has lost nearly 82% of its population. The citizens of Water’s Creek were subjecting to the plagues of Festin, namely extended power outages and flooding. The most fatiguing are the madness sent as subliminal audio waves from helicopters and trucks blasting very loud screeching noises. Only the military installations were struck fatal blows.

The news was reporting our military failure as if Festin is our new government. We have not unconditionally surrendered, but we are being asked nicely to step aside. It seems the government radio station is the first to go. The speakers had no accent, which is strange.

"They must have been well-trained Festin spies," I tell her.
She agrees, "Because it was not the regular 3:30 lady." Emily was unnerved.

...To Be Continued...

Old songs...

2011-05-05T10:24:00.001-07:00

The man stood in front of a crowded coffee shop and said, “This is a song.”
He began to sing.

“I’m more alternative than you
I’m more alternative than you
No one can tell me what to do
You aren’t going to play the blues
You’re not hip less you do what I do
I’m more alternative than you
I am driving faster than you
I am taking more beer than you
I am funnier, it’s true
I am more alternative than you
It’s true”

And they sat watching, ill fated like it was a metaphor of some zenith, like the sixth thing that he had stated to not be true. And he could not speak, there was little for him. He stole a grass figure and we never wanted margarine. Taking precautions with the little mixed one that dodged his last shot and took mindful mistakes to pass.

He liked cigarettes, as if they were his only friend. The mask was an idle one, figuring that he had spend at least ten years buying cigarettes every day and wondering what he would have bought instead. Everyone around him didn’t like the state he was in and it was no wonder. The smoke rose to the ceiling, like his spirit once did.

“She feels very nice on my lips,” he suggested, “Giving me a feeling that I live. And she will never leave me, not like you did.” Surrounding him were people he mistook for the toxic fog of war, the smoke held him paranoid. Once he was back on his feet he wasn’t going to fall down anymore. He saw her wish float to the ceiling like it would help her find the door.

The ignorance was from where they came, regarding the difference they used to make. It was a lifetime in a frozen lake, carelessly leaving him in a different state. His lifestyle was catching up, cigarettes and empty cups. His habits had to change. It all depended whether these people were his friends. He had nowhere else to go, so he asked for a little of that blue eyed soul.

And depressing a nation of media whores, Jon Pelletier sat watching the waves. As he looked towards the moon, the last dying breathes of light exhausted over the horizon. It is almost half real sometimes, and apparently here he was. Jon came searching for a new life and had finally come to realize the one that he had.

Barely able to connect, Jon reached into his open chest. Streets had raised the fire and accounted tales of the west. He sometimes wondered if anyone would ever read all the books he had written. It is the unbreakable kind, not the professional stuff like I had used. “Christ the crook, at least we are all naked.” Grace, and have you marched for him yet, sir? Wide eyed my third was blind, any reason for my old blank mind. You are too kind. I give what’s mine. None to see through truth, through gold, when wealth, power and money is his only goal. It leaves me crooked, broken and shamed, not willing to learn but pointing out blame. This should not be my name.

Why is everything yellow? We can’t see through the green. I’ll look out for my brothers, it should be all the peace I ever need. Yet I feel I should ask, but you are too kind. So I have given away what’s mine.

2011-04-25T16:12:00.001-07:00

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Life Insurance, From a Guy You Don't Want to Hear From Again.

2011-04-25T16:01:00.001-07:00

This is article writing that I did not get paid for.
Jon Pelletier

We Have Many Options - Perhaps it is Best to Take the Most Secure:

The RBC Life Insurance Company provides a very important way to protect a family. It is very simple plan that can result in ones beneficiaries living with a tax-free benefit upon ones death. The money can do many things for them including paying for education, paying off debts and covering the expenses of a funeral.

Many people have employer-provided plans, but these can be insufficient to fund the beneficiary’s lifestyle. This coverage also may not continue if the job is lost. There are also stories of companies taking the entire worth of a life insurance policy and keeping it for their own uses. This can be a hurtful reality that haunts a family long after the pain of bereavement is gone. A simple way around these issues is to purchase your life insurance from a bank, such as the Royal Bank of Canada.

RBC Insurance provides affordable life insurance that is custom fitted to suit your personal budget, lifestyle and needs at all times throughout your life and offers the possibility to change ones plan as situations improve or decline. They offer four options to suit the customer’s needs: Term life insurance, permanent life insurance, universal life insurance and personal accident insurance. All of these provide security to a family so the breadwinners do not have to worry about what their children would eat without them.

With life insurance from the Royal Bank of Canada, the customer can feel sure that there is strength, stability and prowess behind their decision. RBC is a substantial group of insurance companies, in fact, it is the largest group own by a bank in Canada.

The Possibility of a Kind and Generous Empire:

American Home Life Insurance Company is a mutual company that is owned by the policy owners, not stockholders and corporate people. They are licenced to do business in 24 states providing individual life and annuity products. The company was incorporated in 1909 with the intention of serving Kansas, and it did so until 1912 when it merged with American Mutual Life Insurance Company and assumed the name “American Home Life Insurance Company.”

Since then, they have increased in size and innovated many concepts, while providing efficient, courteous and effective service to everyone who works for the company and those that provide the companies bottom line.

Because it is a mutual company the policyholders, who have a say in how the company is run, pay the sales force. The cash is reserved and paid out, as it would be in any insurance company. The company has over $1.6 billion in life insurance policies in active duty and over $164 million under management. Over the years they have provided of $192 million to beneficiaries and policyholders.

American Home Life Insurance Company is one of America’s most trusted companies. It caters to the needs of the common people, although it is one of the largest insurance providers. It is possible that they have created their image as such a positive one, but it is difficult to find negative information regarding them. This is most likely a sign of a reasonable and very kind company. The possibility of this company losing its assets and turning belly-up is very low, as it has a long history and a large number of people paying in to the mutual insurance company.

Is It Best to Go With the Giant On This One?

Genworth Life and Health Insurance Company is an insurance provider that is now called Genworth Financial. They now specialize in helping people attain peace of mind and bring their dreams to reality. It is important to protect one’s loved ones, especially if you are the primary supporter and caregiver, paying the bills and owning the home. Life is a fickle thing, that doesn’t last long enough some times, and Genworth provides a service that can let you sleep at night knowing that your dependents will be taken care of once you have shed your mortal coil.

Genworth wrote their first policy in 1871 as the Life Insurance Company of Virginia and since that day have been committed to providing a helping hand towards security and financial freedom. They are a publicly traded global financial security company that holds upwards of $100 billion in assets. They have a place in over 25 companies. They are a Fortune 500 company and ranked in Standard & Poor’s Index of Leading US Companies. They are doing very well in insurance.

They work with distribution partners worldwide and pride themselves on their employees, who apply skills and dedication to bring positive change to an uncertain world. They explain that the greatest asset to ones financial plan is a simple life insurance policy, as it will protect those dearest to their client in time of utmost crisis and pain. This is the key behind any life insurance agency, though Genworth may be the best option due to the company’s vast size and corporate power.

Award Winning Option in Low Cost Life Insurance:

The Jefferson National Life Insurance Company has been doing business since 1937 when they were founded in Texas, USA. They are now headquartered in Louisville, KY. They have vast experience offing life insurance and long-term investment products to 49 states and D.C. They have a successful history of providing low-overhead and simple term insurance and are very proud to have remade the variable annuity industry with their innovative products such as Monument Advisor.

Although they are a low cost life insurance provider, they have amassed a fortune over their 70-year history. Their assets are listed at $1.3 billion, while their available capital is worth $5 million and they run a net surplus of $18.3 million. They pride themselves on having strong capital, a large amount of cash in statutory reserves and a high quality investment portfolio.

Jefferson National was recently named a finalist in the 2011 Stevie® Awards for sales and customer service. This is following 15 top awards in 2010, starting with two “Leader Awards” from the Summit Emerging Media Awards.

One of the reasons Jefferson National is able to provide low-cost product solutions to customers is because they have developed a totally automated process for helping clients and their consultants. This revolutionary technology provides account information, client statements, financial planning tools, online modeling tools and many customer allocation tools. The staff at Jefferson Financial consists of wise and seasoned financial experts. They look specifically for those people who have a wealth of experience in finance to provide their support and service.

A Brief History of A Large Insurance Group:

The American Public Life Insurance Group is a member of the American Fidelity Group. They understand that life cannot always be the way it is expected and sometimes the ups are as common as the downs. It is why they offer many products in the life supplemental health insurance genre. Going through times of hardship is difficult. If the person has a series of dependent children or elders who need them to provide monetary support, a place to live or care they must take the time to provide security for themselves. This is what life insurance is for. Benefits paid by the American Public Life Insurance Group will help pay many out-of-pocket expenses that add up when accident or illness take the client away. It is a dark trade, but one that is utterly needed.

They provide many life insurance options, which include permanent, term, children’s, accident only and insurances specific to various diseases or ailments. Although it is impossible to emotionally compensate for a loss with the payment of money, it is important that the death of a loved one does not result in huge payments and massive debt loads. Some of the better features of their permanent life insurance policy are that the rates are guaranteed not to increase, that there is a guaranteed level death benefit to age 100, your investment will accumulate with time and they provide nicotine and non-nicotine rates.

The American Public Lie Insurance Company was founded in 1945 with offices in Missouri and Oklahoma. They are now licenced to do business in 49 states and the District of Columbia. For many years they focused of work insurance, giving the client the ability to add coverage they would not otherwise have to their basic insurance plan.

One of Many Options in the Competitive World of Life Insurance:

The Combined Life Insurance Company of New York provides supplemental insurance in the United States of America. Supplemental insurance is additional insurance upon your current plan that helps the client purchase things that standard insurance doesn’t cover. There are many people that do not have the insurance they need to provide for their loved ones if tragedy strikes and they are gone.

The Combined Life Insurance Company of New York website explains five basic tenets that about the ways they will protect their clients and their families. They provide the client first with peace of mind benefits that will help pay for expenses regarding the death of the client and any left over mortgage and debt payments. This money can be very helpful to those that have taken time off of work to help a dieing relative.

They provide “whole life protection” up until their client is age 100. The insurance comes into effect the second or third year that the policy is in action. So if one is accepted to one of the coverage plans by the Combined Life Insurance Company of New York and live past 100 years of age they believe that you long life is special enough to characterize the lack of coverage for your aging or now retired descendents, that should have their lives together and life insurance plans of their own by now.

If this company’s insurance plan covers one, they can gain their benefits while they are still living if one goes through the process of requesting them. There is also an optional accidental death benefit plan that is available if the person is younger than 65. This pays double.

Providing Solid Customer Support Is a Bonus:

American Medical Security Life Insurance provides flexible insurance policies for many Americans and claim that every day more people are turning to them for coverage. They pride themselves of being adaptable and competitive and are efficiently serving America through independent brokers and quality health-care providers. The company was rated “Excellent” by A.M. Best in 2006 based on their financial and operation performance.

This company came into being when American Medical Security Inc and United Wisconsin Life Insurance Company became one entity. AMS is a stock based company incorporated in 1966. It is located in Green Bay, Wisconson, USA. It provides life insurance coverage for more than 259 000 members. The beneficial nature of life insurance explains that the customer must be aware of the causes and beliefs of their insurance provider. The key is finding what is necessary. If one does not understand the coverage they can become lost in the creative and confusing wording of legal documents.

In 2001 AMS implemented a partnership with the Pivotal Healthcare Demand Chain Network Solution Suite, which leverages proven prowess providing global eBusiness infrastructure to AMS to enable the company to maximize revenues and improve customer retention. Using this program AMS is able to merge the capabilities of customer relationship management, web-based selling, eMarketing and eService into a streamlined concept to speed up online agent support and services. This allowed the company to once again become a proven leader in the industry by caring for their customers in a faithful and direct way.

Shawn Casey: By Jon Pelletier

2011-04-21T14:00:00.001-07:00

Tips for Online Marketing, Brought To Us By an Expert:

If a lot of time has gone into your website, yet you still cannot find the results you hoped for, you need the help of Shawn Casey. His successful career as an entrepreneur, attorney, publisher, author and teacher has brought him an incredible resume and us some great advice. He is very willing to share the secrets that has let his startup media company Mining Gold Corporation earn him $30 million since 1999. He shares this by teaching exclusive classes and through his short and wise blog posts. His experiences have helped over 113 000 people in 119 countries reach their online marketing goals.

In 1995 he was given an opportunity to become CEO and President of Success Development International. With his guidance, SDI was named to Inc. Magazine’s highly regarded Inc. 500 list of the quickest growing private companies in America two times. And he is giving his advice away for free!

His blog can be found at http://www.shawncasey.com.

Successful Media Man Makes Time For the Little Guy:

Online marketing guru Shawn Casey can explain how to market a website to get the best possible results. And time is of the essence, as we all hope for the best possible results for our efforts. His tips can be found at http://www.shawncasey.com. His websites include brief summarizations regarding how to build a stronger recipients lists, how to get much more traffic to your website, the law of attraction, Internet marketing, domain investing and personal development.

Since 1999, Shawn Casey has sold more than $30 million of his top of the line media products and services. His job is to share his knowledge and help his clients start and grow their own online business. Mr. Casey has a tremendous resume including founder and CEO of Mining Gold Corporation, which provides premier media products and continues with experiences as an attorney, publisher, author and teacher.

His experiences give him rare qualifications to help upstart companies reach their goals.

The True Potential of People on the Internet:

Shawn Casey is a successful self-made millionaire, famous for taking inquiring minds through step-by-step processes to succeed on the Internet with a home business. He does wild promotional activities, like in 2007, when he was giving away $500 “business in a box” software. Mr. Casey is renowned for promoting joint ventures, a common business practice that has served him well in his years. His writing also discusses recipient lists, gaining traffic to a website, the law of attraction, Internet marketing, domain investing and personal development.

A person similar to us, Shawn Casey has a wife and three daughters. He is an avid golfer and enjoys playing guitar. He visualizes his accomplishments. The favorite part of his job is helping people succeed in achieving their goals. The difference between him and most people is that Shawn Casey makes $600 000 on a good week at the office. The good news is he is willing to teach us how.

Be Careful of Sharks Under the Internet:

A victim of a scam reported to http://www.ConsumerFraudReporting.org that after signing up for Shawn Casey’s “No Limits – No Excuses Internet Apprentice Program,” which was to include a 12-month program of coaching sessions and the promise of getting rich within 60 days. The victim claims to have paid $7986 up front for nothing. The victim furthers the report by saying an automated voice was convincing enough to make her record an automated message.

After two months of trying to log on to the website, a victim who claims to be very computer literate tells a tale of setting up the “Money Tree” websites that were paid for, to no avail. The website itself did not work. She demanded a refund and got lucky, because she did not open the packages that were sent to her. The packages she was sent were said to be her free bonus materials, listed as non-refundable and worth nearly $7986, what she paid for the scam to begin with.

They’ll Take Your Money – Mining Gold Corporation

Many people received an email from Shawn Casey at Mining Gold Corporation regarding the release of his $497 “Internet Business-In-A-Box.” It claimed on the website to be a multi-media training course teaching the client how to make a fortune on the Internet in 60 days. Of course, this may not have come in to your inbox as some e-mail hosts list mail from Shawn Casey as spam.

A victim of the scam reported to http://www.ConsumerFraudReporting.org that after signing up for the “No Limits – No Excuses Internet Apprentice Program,” which was to include a 12-month program of coaching sessions. The victim claims the first call asked for her to invest more money than she had already sent in order to get started. She continued with the program, only to record a message that would ask others to sign up for the program and make money. She claims she paid $7986 up front for nothing.

Get Rich Quick – An Important Idea to Avoid

Shawn Casey in a well-known Internet marketing expert, multi-millionaire and bright individual, but is he a scam artist? Some may say that his products don’t work and his business is a true hustle, there to take the money and run. The key is that he doesn’t sugar coat his techniques.

His philosophy is one taking the western world by storm. The theory is that one just has to visualize the money coming in and it will. It is a matter of attitude. But Shawn Casey’s track record proves that he will endorse almost any product that he sees an opportunity to exploit. Can you really trust anyone who endorses anything just for money? There are many complaints regarding his practices, nearly as well documented as the pro-Casey work he is accused of planting on the Internet to continue his scams.

Shawn Casey promises he can tell you how to get rich quick. This is a refrain that has been known as a surefire scam alert for many, many years.

The Wisdom of a Life Marketing Media:

Shawn Casey would like to tell you something. “List building,” he writes, “Is – without a doubt- the most important thing you can do to build a profitable and successful business.” And he should know, since 1999 Shawn Casey has sold more than $30 million of his premier media services and products acting now as the founder and CEO of Mining Gold Corporation. He continues to explain that it is essential for a startup company to build a list of subscribers.

His Internet marketing blog also explains many tactics for getting traffic to your website. This is one of the more difficult aspects of building a web-based company. There are many sites online. He recommends interacting with people by using sites like Facebook and Twitter, writing articles that have proper search engine optimization, commenting on other blogs and paying for adds to drive traffic towards your product. You have put a lot of time into your website, why not get the results you deserve?

2011-04-21T13:43:00.001-07:00

The painting blinked. The writer is torn between these initial thoughts. He knew there was religion, if nothing else. Who is this man to destroy humanity?

Norman Shins lived in a large bland city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them from those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told of two friends that really had their say.

He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “

This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper nearly every night.

This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. This action was simply because the boss needed to instill fear and power for respect. He had nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks and he told that to Norman every night at dinner.

It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.

Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.

But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell.

Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Darkened Guards would take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.

It was argued that this sped the process of growing.
Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the development of their otherwise stable and capable children.

Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away. Is this what life is?”

Harold refused to answer and they did not speak the rest of the night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.

So the next night Norman asked the same question.

Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.

This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played tricks with their eyes.

“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”

Marketing Team Evaluation:

2011-04-21T12:56:00.001-07:00

Our marketing team is gaining a tremendous education regarding important marketing concepts. It has been fun reading the business plans and analyses regarding Pepsi-Co and the Frito-Lay Corporation. It has given us a positive outlook towards corporate America as one can easily reason that with consumer demand for environmental action and care the monolithic corporations that have integrated their products into our day to day lives will begin to make necessary changes for the continuation of our planet. Their motive is their bottom line and consumer power indicates that the more we demand responsibility the more they will be responsible, because people like thinking that eating a bag of chips will save the world.

This is an important life lesson, one of many our team has learned while working together. Although we sometimes discuss other topics, we have been able to do the assigned work properly. We understand that it is our team that is important to the success of our individual work, so we have helped each other in other areas of the class as well.

Our project will be a shining example of completion, concentration, cooperation and conscious minds. Our group can rest peacefully with minds that know the concerns of people aimlessly bickering and nagging are not ours. We are both in school as mature students, aiming at education, not a state of hitting the metaphoric snooze alarm, and this allows us to bring our full value to the table. It creates a team that is ready to take on the world, starting with a marketing class finishing with a trade show presentation.

We Have to Be Here, So This City is a Pyramid Somewhere By Jon Pelletier

2011-04-21T12:46:00.001-07:00

We Have to Be Here,
So This City is a Pyramid Somewhere

By Jon Pelletier

This novel is woven around the question of whether we are alive or dead. In his manic dreams the author decides he is trapped between lives and in deep trouble. When he finally learns about himself, a creature saves him from the myth that is haunting him. Our hero is finally released from limbo into a city he used to dream about and soon falls asleep to find he is working for the higher power, much to his dismay, perhaps trying to become a righteous ghost.

Why is he being chased through lives by a creature trying to trap him in a sack? Or are these mystic creatures only trying to scare him straight? How does one escape from the trappings of strange realms? This work of fiction is a novel represented as a collection of short stories, to connote the absurdist realities of such spiritual topics. Nobody can know for certain any belief, as it uses concepts and words created by an imperfect human.

On the back cover it must be made clear that the protagonist is always the same person. Although his name and form sometimes change the story is being told of one man dieing many times as he is quickly passing from Earth to some other place. The deaths are sometimes hidden, sometimes abrupt, always cunning and lightly dosed with humor, allowing our hero to learn lessons about his personality and soul’s eternal weight.

This is fiction by a young and distinct writer. Although I am just beginning to send my work away to publishers and agents, I have entered five contests in the past 5 years. I won an honorable mention from the 2006 CBC Short Story Contest with one of the stories that is in this book and I won the three-hour writing contest earlier this year, receiving college credit. I have rarely been published outside of Okanagan College, but I am hoping that I could begin to make my living by writing books. My plan is to pay my way through further schooling by royalties and published work. I also have two other completed books, one fiction and one non-fiction.

I Should Call My Mother Suzanna:

I should phone my mother, as I was hit with a bad flu.
It has been a coughing matter sent towards dead landscapes. I was clearing air and doing things purposefully. It is the Jabberwocky show, a perhaps poltergeist. Dear, I have been ill, smoking too much, cold, bad fever. But I have been surviving. My immune system is stronger after the battle. The battlefield is torn and smoking. I have a hair bottle and a dearly hated man in my sights. He lives upon smells, hair, small kids and death kneels but he made it, too.

And here I am doing nothing. Do I want to be here?

Who is the leader of this next story? She is eighteen. She is a dear to me meditative battle, filling my head with angst and medicine. She is a shoulder to cry on, a white spell farting on the Jabberwocky television show. We are flying over Canada in an airplane, looking at outlandish cities sticking out of the landscape like a cartoon and boundaries or map-lines below.

Is she the girl from Jabberwocky? Is she here to talk with me and tell me my dreams? Or does she do this to everyone? She has a dark name. Black is bluer with her on my troubled mind. But these words are just personal freedom.

This may be a turning point. The sun peeks through the clouds and my window. Good times should follow this, sir. All will be well again. First I must relate this story as best I can. I should be better at hiding my beliefs. If I had been, all this would have been avoided.

These were cheap prayers from a man developing sloth in order to save my reign and tear a whole new man out of this blueprint. They continued, though it seems rather arbitrary as I have little room and much to say. I hold the inner light but am afflicted with one upheaval. It was a scummy little bar that had a bad habit of playing Tijuana brass. And I had but one simple refrain, my true and dear simple prayer.

Truly I bow to this reckless wish. He held a red gun. I had a stapler. His knees hurt and they were not hiring weirdoes. It is sad because I feel like a daft able man next to him. The righteous consciousness joins another while they sleep.

An utter and disparaging loneliness seeps into me. So I drink beer. And she laughs, because she loves me. Another round pull my eyes together like glass orbs or a knife hurting me such as John would stab hunger through me. Sirens wail in the distance.

But I hope I haven’t left you with the impression this story is about me.

The man leaves down the stairwell and out the door. The beginning light of every day chases this man to his car and he runs towards it in a black suit. The knife is thrown on to the seat and he starts the car. The black Cadillac pulls into the dawn. This dark man smiles and lights a cigarette. I had not seen him every before, or since, for that matter.

He is now sitting with Mother Suzanna. The dark man is wearing his black suit with a dark fedora. It is hard to tell if it is also black, as they sit near the back in a booth and write silly lines back and forth. The technical spark is myself, a loner with failed knees. His heart sank.

He reached for the bell and was swatted by Mother Suzanna. His hand flew back in fear. Mother Suzanna wrapped her hands of this diner booth, “It’s a shame we can’t smoke in here.” The man never wore anything but black suits. He smoked three packs a day. Mother Suzanna didn’t smoke. She also wore black suits.

Later, the halo on his windshield shone in brilliant purple and red. The crack up the middle separated the bright sun. He sniffed a quick line and drove a little faster. He felt burnt and reached for his cigarettes. He lit one and adjusted the mirror so he could look directly into his eyes. It is about what Mother Suzanna sees, so she can report it. The man had wasted an hour on the freeway so he pulled into an exit leading to a park where his car wasted no time slowing to the point of idle recreation. He had very little to do. He imagined ghouls banging on metal tables and hooting into the wind. A smile broke over his lips.

He knew what she would tell him, “I looked into the secret life of plants. I left a shutter camera out over a few days and watched how they moved and manipulated their environment. I watched how flowers form.”

The man sat coldly staring over his dashboard and into the empty green space. He knew that somewhere a femme fatale held a wine glass. A ray of dusty sun shines off the coffee table made of glass. But all parties are afraid to look.

“People make mistakes, sir,” the man would have to tell his boss, “I was left to the wolves. What else could I have done?”

And his boss would laugh. He would sip his morning coffee and say, “You will never flee these ghouls.” The man choked and heard his boss continue, “The grim reality is that you are scared.”

“They won’t get me,” the man said aloud to the empty car and green space.

He heard the femme fatale chime in, “Don’t let them, kiddo.” She stood from the high table. She excused herself and marched quickly out the front door of the shop. She passed the newsman with a smile. She passed a beggar at a quicker pace. Two men who worked a construction site whistled. And the man was still alone in his car.

The ghouls stayed with him. He had heard the noise and came across two laughing men and a pool of blood. Happy days and shared interests, one supposes. The ghouls vanish and the man has little to do but laugh maniacally.

Our hero writes a brief list for me:

1. Call a gargoyle.
2. Three perfect crystals.
3. I sleep in fame.
4. Death becomes me.
5. There is little I can do yet a prayer may send us past it.

Conspiracies and cutting jobs, dark asking and jewels, hard line carnies and festival lights, happy gnomes and figurative laughing, it was a generous banquet. I am the writer who orders another beer, watching, waiting and trying to find the ghouls.

Mother Suzanna shone a green light upon him. The man was watching THC flow through his veins and he looked puzzled. It was beginning to darken in the late afternoon. He thought of the queen. Was she still the Queen? He needed to discipline himself. The writer had many empty books to write in, and the man could tell they were all about him. So he struggled with his coffee and laughed about his press pass. He had sent many manuscripts away, yet very few had been accepted.

He prayed he could pay his rent. He had $2000 dollars to his name, $1400 hundred to play with and $600 to keep at all costs. He was smart but socially awkward. He may have been famous in past lives, but that is neither here nor now. His goal is to have his work studied after his death. It had been his goal many years when it finally happened. The man should listen because the advice was golden. He shattered parental tension. He failed at gatherings. He had the economy. He could transform.

Casual encounters first, then taking steps for breathing. He sheltered himself from the mid-day sun but now that it was gone he was thinking of the Tijuana brass music that leaked out the diner doorway at about three in the afternoon. He was a sometimes prophet but paid five dollars for roaches he found in an ashtray. He had the blues.

He was found near the entrance of the alleyway sucking on a filtered cigarette. He had given up cigars for his health but felt obliged to continue smoking for the sake of his aches and pains. He had worked at a smelter his whole adult life. Now it was closing and his town would change. His friends would leave, finally. They had been threatening relocation for years.

He owned a thoroughbred horse. The thought at the time was that it was a success and an investment. It had paid little in cash but it was a good social detail. He would talk of it when he needed to increase his class or if the time was right. He told himself to feel good. He had food in the cupboard, a roof over his head and the need for at least two quilts. He was doing things on purpose.

But we were all his pawns. We all move according to his whims. In the end we will all work for him. The refusal to love Mother Suzanna has repercussions. Things are illegal due to the divine word and some are illegally against that. The infinite word is one that many ghosts and gargoyles protect. Many people fight this infinite word and fail to become trapped in the world they have created. Some become trapped as ghosts. Some leave this world to find a reception of pain. It is ill advised to deserve this.

The word of man is not the word of the above world. This world is tainted. Men have a common trait to waste time slowly. Men are tainted by ego and self-deprecation. The divine think past those menial words. They spew out into a thought that the femme fatale is yet to find. It is of the unknown. It is the elder of the two that is determined to be correct in his varied situation.

This so enraged the gargoyles that they put a guard in the air to follow the man in the black suit and Mother Suzanna as if they raced against him. The goal at the end would be a million dollar purse. The gargoyles had the man pass through empty and invisible gates to track his movement. And there the man sat, in his idling black Cadillac.

So he put the car in drive and moved it through the dirty street when he realized that the gargoyle had set a trap inside his car. He heard two children laughing and it kept him up at night. It didn’t matter much what his personality was like at this point but he lived trying to get it back. It was the same as it ever was, as if he knew any better.

The car turned and was headed west, chasing the sun as it fell behind a skyscraper in the distance. He lowered the blind and adjusted himself in the seat. He turned the wheel and headed north to a shady thoroughfare. It was here that he would ask a man for money.

As he pulled into the bar parking lot he noted how empty the block was. He quickly made his way inside, away from the world.

“Could I have a glass or juice,” he croaked, “And perhaps a chocolate chip cookie?”

Enter the two cats from the battle of Emregon. They were two cartoon-like light green balls with goofy eyes and lanky legs and spent their time tracing around the man and his femme fatale. They had brought little reaction from her or the barman. The one on the left held a staff and laughed at bad jokes. There was something about anti-humor. It always seemed to break the ice.

The barman handed him juice and a cookie. “Thank you,” he said grittily. He sipped it as if it were dark scotch and turned to the woman to his right. She placed her hand on the table and the small green men stopped marching.

“Now we’re sucking the government teat,” she said.
The man giggled and asked her to call Whacky Chris.
She pressed a speed dial button on her phone within two rings he was on the other line singing a fancy song.
She asked him to take the two green men from the barroom. The man was sure of this because they laughed and moved towards the doorway.
The man smiled at her, “So the deal is on it’s way through?”
She nodded.

Later he felt like he may have wronged the woman, and it was tearing him up inside. He felt certain that he had a heart. He imagined the way she talked, her attitude, the way she looked, eyes that were tremendously blue and she wore a Government of Canada suit and smock. They were friends of the old tie and demanded the kids to listen. They lived in warehouses on plushy pillows. Their families were the other kids that lived in the warehouse. He had always banked on that. He always wanted those opposite things. He was well fed now but had not always had such luxury.

The light changed and he pulled his vehicle through the intersection. He looked for an audience, smiling as he waved. The distance traveled down the road and back allowed him to unravel. He was passed the asteroid belts and far worlds.

He recalled trips to Vegas as his car slowed down. But a banshee trapped him, wailing towards him so he could murder the poor. A still light and whole worlds left him bare, as if a sectional sofa was left in the deep woods on some island that was only his.

He felt successful and accomplished. He felt disenfranchised and tough. He had a butterfly knife to swing around his knuckles. The banshee wailed just arms length away from him. She was old and haggard around the face. He held his place and swung the knife twice at her. The first she did not flinch, the second swing ripped through her arm. It was another apparition for this man.

And even harder mathematic equations created a torrent. Idle muses haunted him by the evening, as the Gods plan a new sun. He wanted to capture the example he had played by. He thought of other work, but his madness continued with a simple rapping at his window. It was keeping him up at night.

He needed to sell his idea to the subscribers, or perhaps move in and conquer someone else by video taping an artist, asking him interesting questions. If he could mask himself later, this first draft would not hold his own.

This was not our hero’s point, although it may be circumstantial. At this point it might be good to state that the protagonist of this story was the whole time in contact with these varied and symbiotic characters and was in fact a thief.

The others were spellbound by his beliefs, resolve, determination and guile to face the world that treated him so poorly. The inspiration he had promised the other young artists came like a flash and in a moment he had left. For this they could do little else but thank him, not to his face or in a letter. But under their breath they thanked their luck in anger that they had not become so jaded that they treated the charity of others in such a way. This man in effect saved the others from squandering the life they were so blessed to receive.

The man had nothing of value except a blues harp and was motionless sitting in an empty lot of a rail depot that had seen far better days. There was nobody near the man. He held his grip tight and blew in the lonely silence. He had a secure petition and a lovely instrument. And though he had not thought of his mother in years, suddenly she became rather prominent. She was killed early in his life by a man she owed money to.

He was on his own in a tired and dreary world. He found friends in the urgent city somewhere in the poorest depths. But the murder was never investigated. She was his only mother and the police did not recognize the crime. One like so many, flying through the dead bureaucracy in this ill-fated city. She had words like the others but this fell unknown to his self and it made dark reminder of his youth.

He stole to provide a drug habit but never really drank. He never laughed nor cried. He split the page in two. He lit the night sky and looked at his letters. They were unopened and drafts blew into his house and perched on a round glass table. The other chair moved though it was empty and the man approached the second chair. He shivered as a force that would leave him approached. He boarded with energy and noted the door was unmoving and in fact was a deep sphere.

He read his favorite prayer by memory. If hell was what he favored he thought he would be mighty happy. It had no impact but he prayed for insecurity that the man held his aim through. He had prayed for her enough that tidbits of the Lord strained a lonely backseat with roses crumbling at half-mast. He had it this time, he thought of the two friends talking.

They would have been sitting there but they were not. It was probably for the best. But that little smiling girl from Jabberwocky was placed on the window or a turn of the candle. She danced like his world across the wall as the light flickered and landed somewhere beside the man who killed me.

Neither of us showed it, but we would race passed the trees, brooks and fences. We took liberty to slide on the bike tires as we strove to love our Father. We found nothing in obsessing over various trends or mercenary movement. Various people would raise our liberty and show that nobody and no force would take our measure as lead. In the end, your soul with all its earmarks will come to rest like mine. The faithful always claim to live in the light.

“So how do I know you are not a freemason?” the man asked.
“Had they taken them in fascist states?” I replied
“Answer the question,” he spoke firmly.

I stood motionless and surveyed his face. He rapped against the table and stated his demands again flatly. I struggled to respond.

“I believe they are mostly harmless.”

He struck the table again, “You God damned fool, get out!”

Civilization started with indoor plumbing and genocide because the Creator is cool as shit. This is a literal handbook. They hold all of his artists. They each took three days to incorporate the influx. The trouble with humor is that the President and other evil people holding guns drive Cadillacs. Do you think he will kill again? It is a topic that never left our opinion, but perhaps these men are chosen well in advance.

But one hundred years of genocide is enough. The literacy rate is higher now and many are happy to work. He was an accountant once again. Three years of school and he knew the technology of the world before. He was an accountant then, too. It is best to be near money, “Maybe I can hold some,” he thought.

It is a textbook case of literacy.

I suppose he read for the fun of it. A servant of the dire lord, I take it for granted that I eat daily. So thank you. There by I am a disgrace to all living men. The only illness you fall into is a blank line spending three days in a coffin and if you fall asleep you chase a demon. This ill will is finally your torture. Did you ever notice the TV screen?

The man’s cigarette broke and the cherry fell out, “Damned thing can’t light,” he muttered under his breath. He was malarkey living like C. S. Lewis writing Alice in Wonderland. And perhaps it was all for a child in the same way.

Of course, near the end of all time, the Actual Freemason is the still around guy. A still around, stuck in a staying around kind of mood, the still around guy at the end. “That’s my goat-boy,” she said.

They asked me to leave and I left rather quickly. I held them to it, saving the last of the paranoid. The overwhelming reality of their true cause made idle small talk with those who were true journalists. They held him to it, folding less of the paranoid. Only the reasonable, the witty and the idle judged the irresponsible. And only the lonely are idle. The red tape and pants are a gonzo truth.

Real writers are much obliged.
Real writers need to be watched.

They told the man nothing. It was utter gibberish, garbage. Magic impulses and manic outcries, though he believed it all. Only the reference held a man half interested in believing. He sat idly searching and pulling words from other’s thoughts. He would never leave Los Angeles again. I take that back, the LA of the north, Vancouver. It is a city of only red cars, but then we found this black Cadillac.

He needed coffee like he needed a bag of hammers to the side of his head but he stopped in anyways. The delusion was grated and the dreams succeeded to make sure he belonged to Mother Suzanna. The whole beverage was on her dime. So he asked to put “The Needle and the Damage Done” in the CD player. He never imagined it would keep him up at night. It was just the scratch of the minute where he stared out the window. But that never kept him up at night. She would, she might grab his arm.

It was a classy joint, he thought, the Devil’s burnouts and white trash. He argued with the cashier enough to turn the next page. The whole restaurant turned on him. It was as if his fly was undone as he paced the counter with a smile. He had to leave and go elsewhere. The highway would be right. He could just drive away.

There was nowhere he could hide. He struck the steering wheel and allowed his car to drive itself down the straight and narrow highway. It was for the best.

His person conquest was one that trailed off. The turnpike was draining him. Traffic was getting worse and he knew that if he wanted to run away he had to do so now. He would do what the doctor would not. The damned were noted and two of the acid trips he had done recently caused an accidental ghoul. The draw of nicotine and coffee would save his note. If he ever left the depression the jitters would come. There was nothing up the middle or at the window.
Nothing would keep him up at night.

INTRODUCTION TO STEVE SPECTICAL:

Maybe if I find the ape he will guide us away from the wolves. It was the chance we missed last time.

I simply asked for salt and explain that everything we reply could very well be a false statement. I explain that the drink is strong and the salt eases in down. So far we feel fine but expect these dire wolves to close in abruptly. The Doctor remarks we are again entering Pawn County, if the man sitting in front of us keeps calling us down.

The Doctor was calm and deliberate stating, "Righteousness that was the issue last time. We searched for the wrong people. Our first mistake was making plans to find traces of an orgy of metal and smoke on an airport runway. Do you think that?”
Steve Spectacle replies, “The issue is we forgot to check with the Mole-People."

I remain silent a moment and recall the old story.
Moleman is a myth based around the workings of a homeless man who takes people and puts them in a large burlap sack. They say he is very apparent in Las Vegas. We even heard he works to save souls.

At this time disgusting arrays of people tell us we are breaking every rule of the air and sea. In defense we explain we are good law abiding citizens of Festin, like all the others. The Doctor was misinformed.

"The trick," I tell him, "Is to beat these fools literally."
“Maybe we should test you when we land.” Dr. Misinformed shouts towards a conversation he is not part of.

Fools think the trouble with Las Vegas is the homeless folk cannot help their stature in life. We are soon to discover the intolerant majority is the problem. The men and women of the street seemed afraid of the lights and sounds of the casino district.
But did they even realize it was there?

We asked many people on our tapes to define the American dream. The broad consensus of people told us the American Dream is opportunity. The others told us it was gambling. Most of the homeless mole people had never heard the term. Once, we had a quick reference from an obviously cold-dead woman. She may have been trapped in the dream once, or maybe she worked around that burnt lot in the center of the city.

So is Moleman is real or a myth? They say around my hometown that he lives alone in the darkness of the hills. But as of yet I have not mentioned that he refuses to take souls of those who hold sage. The people of earth told me this story as a child growing up. But this is Las Vegas, and we were about as far from perdition as you can get.

Is Moleman heroin in perdition? It may be the only issue on the minds of parents of teenagers, as the mayor has admitted that he sold the dope through the police in the 24-hour store parking lot next to the main local High School.
He had always mentioned the name with a tone of, "High's Cool." I had never noted that in writing, but I admit the whole town was cloaked an odd silence as he attempted to kill me. That is the trouble with running for office if you have enemies in high places.

But back to the point:

"This America is not what we want it to be." He told us. Somehow he referenced a word or two about Britain. This was strange enough at the time for me write it down. These homeless rarely talked of anything of the like. The debate whether Britain existed was quite a hassle on our recorded tape. This was recorded from memory, as it was only static when we listened later. I may have been shaking. I was scared from the ghosts we were seeing.

Was the mayor a mole person?
Why the city police pick him up just as we left?
Was he the Moleman we requested?

I came back to tea across from a strange Santa Claus having trouble keeping illicit admissions private. I looked his way as we sat peering at crack dealers outside and a very nice Australian woman.

And we are on the streak that got us into trouble last time. But we know better now. We left our casino before losing our path and shopped quickly at the staple store. On the street as we left the casino one of these strange mole people told me we must, as the key was to attach papers together. Though we cannot find the person who told us this. We bought one for us and one for her. I also bought a satchel to hold my modern disk for various files that I know about but these people seem to not.

The Australian lady accused me of stealing as we paid. I told them I worked very hard for my disks and she noted that I had no way to pay. A thief outside the Stapler Superstore had lifted my credit card as we crossed a fake placid light and camera filled void known as Las Vegas Boulevard. The doctor didn’t mind the twenty-dollar bill. I paid him back later, as it was the righteous thing to do.

Sun Chips Advertising:

2011-04-21T12:43:00.001-07:00

Sun Chips has used a multi-faceted advertising campaign that runs the gamete from word of mouth, blog postings and viral online videos to billboard campaigns and prime time TV advertisements. The central theme of their modern campaign is based around how their company is helping environmental causes and using new techniques to help the world. They have explained their role as an industry leader for environmental causes through an intensive campaign that is a mix of mass media and viral campaigns.

This is nowhere more prevalent than with television news coverage of their new bag being “too loud” for the common consumer. After a massive advertising campaign telling the world that they had this new packaging, people revolted against their caring ways and complained about the bag being much too loud. The variety of YouTube videos with outraged consumers performing decibel tests and screaming obscenities towards those who have made this step was staggering. Quiet snacking surprised the world by appearing to be more important to the average consumer than care for the planet. Sun Chips responded to accusations of inconsiderate noise by quickly withdrawing its environmentally friendly bag in the United States. They soon replaced it with a new, quieter bag available now. This trouble has given Sun Chips a lot of free publicity.

News reports also covered the change at Sun Chips and did not forget to note Frito-Lays factories have been modified to run on solar power. This is a wonderful way to gain publicity, especially for noble causes like those of Sun Chips. It is a strange note regarding humanity that compels a thinking person to wonder why the public was this outraged by the new bag’s noise. With no ill will towards the people, Sun Chips simply did what the people asked. Then, as fickle as people can be, they were outraged and shamed by the corporation and demanded the compostable bags back. Sun Chips again complied, costing Frito-Lay a small fortune. This time they made the bags quieter and hopefully those same YouTube users can remain still, compliant and happy with their choice in snack food.

Sun Chips are also found as free samples. Workers stand in convenience stores and supermarkets serving small portions of the chips in hopes that the passerby’s will enjoy them enough to purchase an entire bag of chips. This form of personal selling is usually an advertisement for a new flavor, but sometimes the old favorites like Harvest Cheddar are available. This is very profitable for Frito-Lay as it reminds impulsive consumers that these chips are delicious and many of them decide that it is time to purchase a bag, even though they haven’t bought one in a long time. Samples and personal selling of the product goes hand in hand with the most common reason people know of Sun Chips, mass distribution.

When Sun Chips became socially responsible and environmentally friendly they were accused of spending as much money advertising their newfound purity as they did upgrading their factories and making the new bags. Some of the money went to building interesting billboards that harnessed the power of the sun to create a shadow that wrote the Sun Chips logo on a billboard or the street below. They also created a fantastic print campaign and placed advertisements in many well-read magazines and newspapers. This media campaign did as much for the brand as their online campaign.

Before the public began to complain about the noise created by the new compostable bags, Sun Chips joined forces with National Geographic to give away $20000 to the person who gives the best way to care for the environment daily. They also joined forces with Earth911.com and as a major sponsor to the website were mentioned often as corporate leaders in environmental causes. At this website they began a contest similar to the National Geographic one, only Earth911 was giving away $100000. These friendly gestures did very little to Frito-Lay’s bottom line, but positively boosted the corporation’s image to the general public.

Documents Regarding SEOPressor: By Jon Pelletier

2011-04-21T12:42:00.001-07:00

Save Time, Get More Hits.

SEOPressor is a downloadable plug-in available for use on WordPress blogging sites. It is known to go above and beyond other search engine optimization (SEO) programs. This program sets out to help your website reach the much sought after top three places in the results for major search engines. It is developed specifically for Google and uses their top-secret algorithm that finds the web pages to return as results. The program automatically adds SEO keywords to the body text and heading of your webpage.

SEOPressor’s finest attribute is the key to its success. The variety of optimization tools makes this program “The Most Impressive SEO Plug-in of 2010.” It is simple to use and once the system is understood the writer will be able to optimize a website quickly and free of doubt. SEOPressor shows the user the chance of landing at the top of the search engine results with the writing provided and then explains how to increase this chance. It also has automated tools to help the process.

Google and Daniel Tan Help Bloggers Get More Readers:

SEOPressor is an automated WordPress Blog plug-in that successfully adds in depth search engine optimization (SEO) to blog posts. After the user places the required keyword into the program the user sets the density level that is necessary to leave the article both easily readable and optimized for placement near the top of the search engine results regarding that topic. It does this by using a top-secret algorithm used in the programming at Google to find the websites gathered as search results. The result is a revolutionary and very impressive program that will reveal your website’s true potential,

SEOPressor will explain to the user what is necessary to get the best search engine rankings from every post. It will check the title and body text of the document, ensuring they withdraw the most SEO leverage possible regarding the keyword typed into the program. This has simplified matters and saved many people much time.

There Has To Be A Better Way:

How much time do you put in to optimizing your blog for search engines? Many people do not take enough time and sit wondering why they cannot get higher in the rankings of search engine results. It is especially difficult to reach the top 3, a ranking much yearned for as it will make your website one of the most reputable on the Internet. There is a myth that sites like Google are paid to allow sites to land first. This is not true. Google uses a top-secret algorithm to find websites that have exactly what you are looking for.

SEOPressor by famed programmer Daniel Tan uses this top-secret algorithm to increase your search engine optimization (SEO). This will change the way your website is viewed and will create much more traffic to your blog, no matter what it is regarding. It is very easy to use and works by inserting your chosen keywords in important places in your article.

Famed SEO Expert Up To New Tricks:

SEOPressor is a WordPress Blog plug-in that automatically adds search engine optimization (SEO) to the title and body text of an online document. This is helpful in reaching the coveted top 3 spots in search engine results. A program like this can increase the value of your website tenfold by leading more people to your articles. Daniel Tan, the famed inventor of Rank Mover, Ultimate RSS Joiner, Press Release Cash Cow and Backlinks Syndication System, created this revolutionary program.

SEOPressor will explain exactly what is necessary in every post to get the best possible search engine rankings. It automatically checks two key elements of your written work, ensuring your heading and document extricate the maximum SEO leverage for your topic or keyword. The strongest factor regarding the capabilities of SEOPressor is the variety of ways it can be used to make the best page possible. It costs 37$ and is available online, payable though the newest, most convenient methods.

Program Helps Gain Online Visitors, Save Time

SEOPressor goes above and beyond other search engine optimization (SEO) programs. Available for the WordPress website it can help your website reach the acclaimed top 3 on major search engine websites. This can make your website the go to address for the topic you choose to write about. The program adds to the search engine optimization to the title and body text of your online work. SEO expert Daniel Tan created SEOPressor and many other programs revolving around this industry.

SEOPressor’s strongest attribute is the variety of optimization tools that are available within the program. You are able to place keywords to any content as you please and you will have great control over the links and keywords are used on your site. It is very simple to operate and once you get a feel for the system your website will easily become optimized for placement at the top of search engine.

Successful Bloggers Share A Secret:

Daniel Tan is a well-known search engine optimization (SEO) expert and software developer. He has created many programs to make a website’s traffic flow stronger. Amongst these developments is SEOPressor, an impressive search engine optimizer that is designed for Google and proven by Google analytics. Mr. Tan created this program for use on his own website and it has given him some serious results. It is now available for public use with WordPress, downloadable for only $37.

SEOPressor has received stunning reviews from some reputable bloggers, easily found in search engines as they claim this product works fabulously. The product tells you how effective the SEO regarding the blog post is before it is posted so that the writer can decide whether or not to follow through with the automated keyword entry system. The user can decide how thickly they want their keywords throughout the article. This will save bloggers much time and that really is the most valuable resource.

A New Wave of Search Engine Optimization:

Daniel Tan has created an impressive online plug-in for search engine optimization (SEO) that has revolutionized the way websites and blogs are written and posted. SEOPressor is a plug-in available for WordPress Blogs that will help raise your website to the top 3 spots on the major search engines, simply by having the proper words in the text. It is based on a top secret algorithm used by Google to find websites and by placing the proper words within your text your website will come up in websites much more often. But be careful, if you set the SEO density too high, the document will become hilariously unreadable.
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SEOPressor is in a family of programs created by Daniel Tan that have a very noble pedigree. Other programs by Daniel Tan include the Backlinks Syndication System, Rank Mover, Ultimate RSS Joiner and Press Release Cash Cow. With a family like this, you know that SEOPressor is going to work great. Reviews regarding SEOPressor shine while explaining its many fabulous features.

PSYCHOLOGY STUDY GUIDE: by Jon Pelletier

2011-04-21T12:40:00.001-07:00

Learning Disability:
A learning disability is not a sign that a child lacks intelligence. A person with a learning disability cannot increase focus, make a better effort or motivate themselves more own their own volition. They require aid and need to learn how to do such things. This is caused by a variation in the brain that affects how education is received, attended to and recounted. People with learning disabilities a hard pressed to process some kinds of information because they perceive and understand the world differently.

There have been great scientific strides regarding the workings of human brains, and a particular concept that holds hope for those with learning disabilities is commonly referred to as neuroplasticity. This concept explains that the brain has a lifelong ability to naturally change and form new connections. It can even generate new brain cells when it responds to education and experiences. Knowledge such as this has led to a breakthrough in treating learning disabilities, as we are trying to utilize the neuroplasticity of the brain.

Discovering your child’s learning disability can be troubling, as it is believed that such an issue could stand between the student and success. It is important to remember the role of parenting in a child’s success. The way the parent behaves and does is the most pressing matter regarding the eventual success of a child. Although having a good outlook will not solve the problem, positive suggestion can give a child confidence that things will improve and explain that they are worthwhile.

Common learning disabilities can cause problems with motor function, math, language, reading, writing and auditory or visual processing. Dyslexia causes problems with reading, writing, spelling and speaking. Dyscalculia causes problems with math, time and calculating the use of money. Dysgraphia causes problems spelling, writing and organizing ideas. Dyspraxia causes problems with dexterity, coordination and balance. Auditory processing disorder causes problems with reading, comprehension and language, as it is difficult to tell the differences between sounds. Visual processing disorder causes problems with math, reading, maps, symbols, charts and other images.

Attention Deficit-Hyperactivity Disorder:
Attention Deficit-Hyperactivity Disorder is not considered a learning disability, but can disrupt education. People with ADHD have trouble staying still, remaining focused, listening to or following instructions, keeping themselves organized and completing assignments that they have agreed to do.

Children are supposed to want to run around outside and play games while they should to be in school. It is normal for kids to not do their homework, pass time in class by daydreaming, act impulsively, fidget or be a nuisance. These are also considered signs of ADD/ADHD. This disorder appears in the beginning stages of a child’s life. It makes it difficult for a child to discount spontaneous urges, responses to authority figures that can involve anything from wanting to move, speaking of turn or an unwillingness to pay attention. These signs of ADD/ADHD usually appear before the age of seven. However, it can be very difficult to define the difference between attention deficit disorder and common and natural child behavior. If the child shows the symptoms only sometimes, it is most likely just the child being a kid. Although, if the child exhibits the signs at all times and no matter what the situation, it may be time to have him checked out by a doctor. The three major signs of ADD/ADHD are inattention, hyperactive behavior and impulsive actions.

Inattention can be explained as a child that does not pay mind to details or makes simple, careless mistakes. This child may have trouble staying focused and will be easily distracted. The child will appear to not be listening while being spoken to and will also have difficulty remembering things and following instructions. These may cause trouble at home as it will appear that the child does not care. The child will also have trouble staying organized, planning things in advance and following through with projects. He will also frequently lose homework, toys, books and other items.

The most noticeable sign of ADD/ADHD is hyperactivity. A hyperactive child will fidget or squirm constantly. He will often leave his seat in school, especially in situations where sitting quietly is requested or expected. The child will move around inappropriately, often running or climbing. One will also notice the child talking almost constantly, as if they cannot play quietly. These children are always going at the fastest possible rate, often tapping their foot, shaking their leg or drumming their fingers.

Impulsivity can cause trouble with the child’s self control. They will censor themselves less than other children, often offending authority figures and getting into trouble. They interrupt conversations carelessly and invade people’s space. They commonly ask irrelevant or personal questions and make tactless yet insightful observations regarding people that they should know not to question.

The troubles of ADD/ADHD can cause many problems if not treated with the necessary prescriptions. Children unable to focus or control their actions will often struggle with school, get into trouble with authority and find it hard to make new friends. Treatment can make a tremendous difference in a child’s symptoms. The cure is said to be structure, communication and consistency. Treatment includes behavioral therapy, helping the parent learn about the ailment, proper diet, good exercise regimen, social support and teacher assistance during school hours.

Oppositional Defiant Disorder and Conduct Disorder:
When a child participates in openly uncooperative or hostile behavior in such a high frequency that is distinctly setting the child apart from others when he or she is compared to other people of the same age and developmental level it is called Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

This can drastically affect the child’s social, familial and academic life as the person will carry with them a constant pattern and history or being uncooperative to the point of defiance and hostile towards authority in such a severe way that it can seriously interfere with day to day functioning. Some basic symptoms of ODD can include temper tantrums, excessive arguing, questioning rules, defiant behavior, refusal to comply with reasonable requests and rules, deliberate attempts to annoy or upset people, passing the blame for their bad behavior to others, frequent anger, mean or hateful phrases used while upset, a thirst for revenge and a spiteful attitude towards others.

One to sixteen percent of children and adolescents are afflicted with oppositional defiant disorder. The causes of ODD are not officially known, although social, biological and psychological factors may result in this sort of behavior. Many behaviors of children are mimicry of their parents, guardians or other role models. It is possible that students diagnosed with this disorder have uncooperative parents who would lie about their home life for fear of retribution. Many children hit other children because they see their father hit people and think that is what is common and right. ODD is a common affliction of inmates in the correctional facilities. It is important to note that neither of the last two points is true across the board. Some people are this way naturally.

The treatments of oppositional defiant disorder may include training programs for parents, individual psychotherapy, family psychotherapy, cognitive skills training, social skills training and medication. ODD may exist in collaboration with conditions such as anxiety, ADHD and mood disorders.

Dementia and Delirium:
Delirium is a common effect of many disorders. It is a sudden, differing and usually reclaimable interference of mental function. It is commonly notable by difficulty paying attention, loss of clear thought and wavering levels of awareness. Many drugs can cause temporary delirium. Because of this, doctors often use urine, blood and imaging tests to find the cause. Quickly treating the condition that causes the delirium usually cures the affliction.

Delirium is an abnormal mental state, but not a disease in itself. The term has a specified medical definition, but it is often used to explain many kinds of bewilderment. It often indicates a serious and newly developed issue, primarily in older people. While in a state of delirium people most often need immediate medical attention.

Delirium is a temporary condition so it is hard to calibrate a number explaining how many people have it. It can happen to anyone at any age, but 15 to 50% of people hospitalized over the age of 70 suffer from it. When delirium arises in younger people it is usually caused by drug use or a life-threatening problem.

Admission to a hospital, especially intensive care units, can cause delirium, as drugs are often prescribed to ease pain, it is hard to sleep because there are beeping machines, people talking in the hallways and nurses monitoring patients constantly. Sensory deprivations such as loss of a hearing aid or lack of a clock are also common issues that arise in cases of delirium. It is very common after surgery, possibly because of the stress on the body, the anesthetics and pain relievers.

Drugs such as amphetamines, cocaine, opioids, sedatives, antipsychotics, antidepressants, muscle relaxants, over the counter antihistamines and alcohol are the most common causes of delirium in younger people. Delirium can also be caused by the sudden cessation of drugs that have been taken for a long time. This includes withdrawal from sedatives, alcohol or heroin.

Many things that interfere with the nerve cells of the brain commonly cause this affliction. This includes infection of the brain, such as meningitis or encephalitis. Older people can be affected by infections in other parts of the body. Many find themselves suffering from delirium due to pneumonia or influenza.

The symptoms of delirium can be terrifying to those experiencing it and their loved ones. It usually begins without warning and advances over the mind of a person over the next few hours or days. Delirium may appear to an outsider as the actions of someone who is progressively become more intoxicated. The most prevalent is the delirious person’s inability to concentrate. They commonly have trouble making sense of new information and cannot remember recently passed events. They do not understand the things that are occurring around them. Suddenly becoming confused about time to the extent that they are unsure what year it is a common sign of the onset of delirium. They also may not know where they are or think they are somewhere else. Thoughts become confused and the person may begin to ramble, becoming incoherent at times. They can be overly alert one moment and then absurdly sleepy soon after. People suffering from delirium suffer from insomnia or restless sleep and may even reverse their sleep-wake cycle. If they stay up during the day and sleep at night, they will begin to sleep all day and be awake all night.

They will often have bizarre and frightening hallucinations, referring to and claiming to see people that are not apparent to the other person. Some can develop paranoid thinking and delusions. Their personality may change. They may become very quiet, which is dangerous because nobody will notice that they are delirious. Others tend to become troubled, irate, irritable and restless, commonly pacing around rambling nonsense regarding things that a sober or sane person would not realize.

This can last a long time but it depends of the severity and cause. If the cause is not quickly found and the delirium treated properly, the person may slowly become unresponsive. This is a condition called stupor and it may lead to a coma or death.

Most people with delirium are hospitalized in order to save them from harming themselves or others. The diagnostic procedures can be done there and disorders can be detected and treated. Delirium is a serious disorder than can quickly become fatal, so doctors must quickly identify the cause by distinguishing it from other disorders that could complicate the patient’s mental functions. This is done by checking the medical history, asking friends and family a series of questions, physical examination, and testing.

If the case is accompanied with hallucinations, paranoia, delusions or agitation it must be set apart from a psychosis due to a psychiatric disorder. People suffering from manic-depressive illness or schizophrenia do not have confusion or memory loss and their consciousness does not shift from the overly awake to groggy and uncertain. Psychosis that begins at an old age can be the onset of dementia, but must be checked in case it is delirium.

Etiology:
Etiology is the study of causes. Many branches of knowledge employ etiology but it is most commonly linked with the medical world. In medical research, the emergence and foundation of medical conditions is very important, because this practice can be used to give hints to the types of remedies that could be effective.

The etymology of the word is from the Greek aitia, which means, “cause.” Outside the United States it is commonly spelled as “aetiology” or “aitiology.” These other spellings are mostly a matter of personal preference as it is easy to read any spelling of the word, especially in context.

Understanding etiology can provide an essential part of the treatment of a condition. When a cause for an affliction cannot be found, it is said that the disease is “idiopathic,” which suggests that it has no known etiology. These conditions can be exasperating as it makes it very hard to find the specific nature of the ailment.

Medical researchers rely of etiology heavily. When an epidemic occurs, the more quickly the cause of the outbreak is found, the more quickly it can be snuffed out or controlled. For example, if there were a large number of food-borne illness cases reported, researchers would create a database to compare patients to find a common thread linking the cases together. This helps locate the tainted food so it can be recalled.

Substance Related Disorders:
The two disorders in this category refer to either the abuse or dependence on a substance. The substance in question is anything ingested to make one high. They alter one’s senses and affect peoples reasoning and functioning. The most common substance is alcohol. Other drugs include cocaine, heroin, ecstasy and ketamine. The most abused substances in this category are caffeine and nicotine but are rarely thought of in this manner by the layman.

There is evidence that genetic factors contribute to both addiction and abuse. Some theories discuss people partaking in substances are trying to cover up or attain relief from their problems. Others suggest that it is self-medication to hide and relieve psychosis, in turn making the dependence more of a symptom than disorder.

Substance abuse as a psychiatric disorder starts with a pattern of substance use that creates significant functional impairment. To qualify one of the following must be present in a 12-month period: (1) Repeated use creating a failure to fulfill occupational, educational or familial obligations; (2) Repeated use in situations which are dangerous (3) Significant legal issues resulting for substance use; or (4) Continued use of substances despite major problems with friends and family. The issues do not support the criteria for substance dependence, as abuse is only one part of the disorder. Substance abuse is continued use of a substance even though the user knows that it is harmful. Substance dependence adds withdrawal symptoms and tolerance.

Substance abuse and dependence is hard to treat because it involves abstaining from the substance and will power to change. Some people get over it, but it is up to them for the most part. Most long-term addicts didn’t really want to change or have died.

Polysubstance Dependence:
Polysubstance dependence is listed as a substance dependence disorder in which an addicted person uses a minimum of three different classes of substances whenever available for more than a year and cannot choose any “favorite drug” that qualifies for a dependence on its own.

Tolerance is described as an individual either needing to take increasingly higher doses of a substance in order to receive the same effect or states that someone is finding much less of an effect upon taking the drug over time. It is common for an individual who uses several drugs regularly to find he or she needs to use 50% more to gain the same effect.

Withdrawal explains that an individual will experience symptoms when he or she stops using the drug or will use the drug in order to relieve themselves from withdrawal symptoms. People suffering from polysubstance dependence can also use more of the substance than they had initially planned or use over a longer period of time than they had planned. An addict may begin to use on weekdays as well as weekends.

With these symptoms the individual will sometimes try to cut down on the amount of drug they are using. This is sometimes unsuccessful. An individual could spend much of their time obtaining drugs. Using the substance, being intoxicated and recovering from the trip can sometimes take all the users time. This can interfere with their regularly schedule activities and they can lose touch with their hobbies, friends or occupation.

Young adults between age 18 and 24 have the highest rates for use of any substances. Males are more often diagnosed with substance use disorders.

Classified Substances:
Alcohol is the bane of western man. It is the most common intoxicant as it can be easily found in many stores. Alcohol depresses the central nervous system. The initial reaction may be stimulation but if more alcohol is consumed the effect can be one of sedation. Alcohol lowers your inhibitions, makes the drinker laugh and act with altered thoughts, emotions and judgments, Too much alcohol can affect speech patterns and coordination as it alters vital centers of the brain. A heavy binge on alcohol can result in a life-threatening state, such as coma or overdose.

Opiates are commonly distributed and developed as painkillers and have been used in medicine for a very long time. They are highly addictive and often people that have been initially prescribed opiates from a doctor will develop a habit that entails heavy painkiller use to get rid of the pains of withdrawal. Opium is the root of natural opiates and is a kind of poppy that can is grown in many gardens worldwide. Synthetic opiates have been created to find an alternative to the addictive qualities of natural opiates but generally have the same experience so are also highly addictive and used by opiate addicts as their highs or an alternative to the natural drug.

Cannabis is noted as the first agricultural crop of China and was used worldwide as paper, tough fabric and rope until the early 20th century when it became prohibited to posses. The intoxicating effects are glamorized and acclaimed in the media as an important niche in modern culture and as a result young people often experiment with marijuana. In ancient medicine cannabis was used for many purposes, including pain relief and sedation. There is much mysticism about cannabis use, such as Siddhartha subsisting on one hemp-seed a day for six years before stating “The Six Truths” and becoming the Buddha.

Inhalants are a diverse group volatile substances of which the vapors can be inhaled to produce intoxicating effects. This term is used to describe substances that are rarely ingested in another way. Many of these are not generally considered drugs, as they are not usually manufactured to be inhaled. They include computer duster, spray paint, aerosol spray, glue and lighter fluid. Young children and adolescents are the most common abusers of these substances.

PCP is a synthetic drug that is sold as tablets, capsules or powder. It can be insufflated, smoked or eaten. It was initially created as IV anesthetic but was never approved for use by humans, mostly because of intensely negative psychological side effects. PCP is a disassociative that changes the way a person sees and hears and allowing the user to feel a detachment to the world and its meaning. Users sometimes have feelings that mimic schizophrenia such as delusions, hallucinations and distorted thoughts. PCP use is the drug with the most common incidents of violence while intoxicated by it.

Nicotine is one of the most heavily used addictive drugs and can be found through the use of tobacco. These are extremely harmful to ones health, increasing the chance of many cancers, emphysema, tumors, and bronchial infection. Nicotine can be harder to quit than heroin or cocaine. The carbon monoxide in smoke increases the users chance of cardiovascular diseases.

Cocaine is a very powerful central nervous system stimulant that comes from the coca leaves. It increases the users energy and awareness but may result in paranoia or crazed actions and thoughts. People under the weight of this drug do not always have control of their actions and often spend their entire worth chasing the high. Cocaine is very expensive and many find themselves stealing to support their habit after their cash reserves dry up.

Hallucinogens are a group of drugs that affect the mentality and visual cortex of the user. People may find that the world looks very different after they have taken magic mushrooms, LSD or peyote. Some describe life altering thoughts and experiences and gain insight into other dimensions or spirituality. Many that use hallucinogens often will find themselves delusional as they believe the views and notions developed while in their altered states. Many great minds have heralded the positive portions of such experiences but there are as many arguments against these trips.

Amphetamines were developed as a strong stimulant that could fuel soldiers fighting in World War Two. They commonly result in restlessness, insomnia and delusions of grandeur. With prolonged use they can cause symptoms much like mental illness. Due to the similarity between amphetamines and medication for ADD/ADHD many adolescents that were prescribed medicine in elementary school with try the illicit drug and become addicted to it quickly. These are those that can function better on amphetamines. Delusions and insomnia can create a viewpoint that sleeping less is more productive. This drug can easily turn a calm person violent.

Many hospital visits are a result of the abuse of prescription sedatives, hypnotics and anxiolytics. They are used in therapy to combat the effects of stress, psychosis and insomnia. They slow the central nervous system functioning and can be very dangerous if taken without care.

Caffeine is a very common stimulant found in soda, coffee, tea and some foods. It is not commonly considered a problem substance, but in prolonged use and high doses it can create delirium, insomnia and body aches. There is much research suggesting that caffeine is good for the human body and is natural enough not to be feared.

Complications of Alcoholism:
Excessive drinking can cause reduced judgment and lowered inhibitions, so it seems like a fun thing to do on a Saturday night. It is very commonly abused. It causes many motor vehicle accidents, domestic problems, poor performance at school or work and a higher likelihood of committing violent crimes.

It can also cause vicious health problems. Liver disease such as alcoholic hepatitis, an increase in size of the liver that can be very painful is common. After many years this can develop into irreversible scarring of the liver tissue called cirrhosis. Alcohol can cause an inflammation of the stomach lining that can interfere with the absorption of nutrients. It can also damage the pancreas and heart. It can lead to heart failure and stroke. Alcohol can complicate diabetes because it interferes with the release of glucose from your liver, increasing the risk of hypoglycemia.

Alcoholism can cause weakness and paralysis of eye muscles, birth defects, bone loss and neurological complications such as numbness in hands and feet, distorted thinking, dementia and short-term memory loss. There is also an increased risk of cancer with heavy alcohol use.

Addiction:

Addiction is known as physical and psychological dependence on psychoactive substances that temporarily alter the healthy mix of chemicals in ones brain. Addiction is also considered as a continued involvement with a drug or experience even though there are negative consequences associated with it. Pleasure may have been what the addict was originally seeking but over time the use of the substance or activity is needed just to feel normal. Addiction can mean a dependency on drugs but can also include such activities including but not exclusive to gambling, sex, pornography, food, work, exercise, spiritual obsession, cutting and shopping.

Drug addiction is a primary and chronic disease of the brain’s reward mechanisms. This dysfunction leads to leads to impairment in behavioral control, craving, inability to abstain from the substance and diminished recognition of the noteworthy negative problems within ones personal and professional life. This disease involves cycles of relapse and remission.

Addiction can progress to the point of disability or death.

Theories of Drug Use and Abuse:
It is argued that drug addiction or dependency is a sign of weakness in a person who has no self-control. These people argue that with will power and determination a person can overcome these vices. Others state that when it comes to alcohol and drugs they just could not say “no.” They explain that an addict has compulsive behavior towards substance abuse and that this urge is so strong that it is impossible for them to refuse. Some feel this compulsion is theoretically a disease and should be treated as such.

The gateway theory explains that a young person will progress from a “softer” drug such as marijuana to the use of harder drugs as the person gets involved in the society surrounding drug use. This is possible in theory, but it is argued that that because marijuana is the most widely used drug, users of the heavier drugs have tried it. It is referred to as a “strainer” that catches most users before they turn to “harder” drugs.

Social theories regarding drug use describe that the features of ones external social structure, like friends, family life, occupation, and stress-level, can contribute to observable patterns of drug use. This explains that a child with a heroin addicted mother is much more likely to fall to the ills of heroin addiction and that an adolescent prescribed medication for psychological issues is much more likely to begin using drugs.

Cumulative positive or negative reinforcement from exposure to drugs and other activities can create a mental state in which the addict either feels that it is important to continue to use the drug or that the drug is teaching them something important about the mysteries of the world and this is the subject of psychological theories regarding drug use and addictions. Certain personality types can be experimental, into having the fun of intoxication or interested in the spiritual and societal implications of their addictions.

Some scholars suggest that politics has no place in what a person ingests and what effects they are seeking in their food. These people stand for an end to prohibition, safe injection needle sites and other liberal policies against the drug war.

The psychosocial theories suggest that a person’s disposition, environment and actions are inter-related to develop their proneness to problem behaviors. It has been learned that drug use in universal and there is an innate drive to act in these ways. Humans are born with this drive and it haunts them until they act upon it, and they act upon it until they decide that it is over. We experiment early in life, receiving rewards and punishments for trying in various ways, much like any learning experience. This is why preferred methods are developed and why there is persistence in attempts of that method. The psychosocial processes such as norms and desires shape this.

In general, young users begin in groups that share unique and identifiable characteristics. In these cases drugs are linked to unrelated activities and play an important role describing the group in social situations and within the confines of their friendship. Involvement in a group provides role models and reasons for persistent and escalating use. The group setting reinforces drug use. These small peer clusters define when, where and how the drug will be used.

Schizophrenia:
Schizophrenia is a very debilitating mental illness that can be a sign of genius or troubled mind, but is not usually linked to childhood trauma. In explains a drastic impairment in functioning, including the very serious loss of reality. People suffering a schizophrenic break may think they have been drafted by the NBA, are visiting the queen in her palace, know some sort of information that is dangerous, have authorities searching for them because of assumed situations, think they are a famous member of the media or speak to invisible people out of fear of the visible, amongst many other things.

Delusions are idiosyncratic beliefs or impressions that are maintained despite clear and reasonable arguments against these beliefs by other people. Most times these beliefs are proven untrue and the sufferer will accept that he was misinformed by the consciousness that explained to him the situation he was going through while delusional. Sometimes these are hard to let go of and the sufferer will quietly hold on to them for long periods of time, even years, without note being made of their strange nature. Many times these beliefs are due to a lack of self worth, such as delusions of grandeur of spiritual fame due to the sufferer feeling they are not worthwhile nor have they accomplished anything or feeling they have wronged themselves of others, respectively.

Schizophrenia is a brain disease that is the result of physical and biochemical changes in the brain. It is youth’s greatest disabler as the usual onset is between 15 and 24 years of age. It is treatable with therapy, cooperation and medication. It is common, afflicting one in 100 people worldwide. Schizophrenia is not a split personality. Childhood trauma, bad parenting or poverty does not cause schizophrenia. It is not a result of actions or personal failings of the afflicted individual.

Though common symptoms are disordered thinking, changes in emotions, bizarre behavior, paranoia, delusions, hallucinations and damage to cognitive functions such as short-term memory and executive functioning. It can be difficult for schizophrenics to organize themselves, categorize, prioritize or make decisions. Schizophrenia can be harmful to the sufferers self worth, sometimes with devastating results. 40 to 50% of people with schizophrenia attempt suicide, between 12 and 15% succeed. Because of this, early intervention and immediate treatment for the illness is critical. Evidence now shows that the sooner someone is returned to soundness of mind, the better the prognosis of the illness. Patients with schizophrenia currently occupy 8% of hospital beds, more than any other disorder or medical condition.

There is not yet a cure for schizophrenia. There is only minor treatments and hope. By the help of discoveries in brain research we are finally on the threshold of an entirely new era of understanding. Treatment is much better than it was one hundred years ago, when patients were treated as criminal inmates, castrated, tortured by various methods such as electroshock therapy or sensory deprivation and generally contained from regular society. This is because of the lack of understanding regarded the gifts that schizophrenia can be.

“Compassion follows understanding. It is therefore incumbent on us to understand as best we can… The burden of disease will then become lighter for all.”
-Dr. E. Fuller Torrey

The positive symptoms of schizophrenia include hallucinations, delusions, paranoia and grandiosity. People may hear, see, taste, smell or feel things that are not there. Delusional ideas that are odd and not with what is commonly considered reality are a common symptom. This includes a belief that others can hear their inner thoughts, that people are planning against them or that their activities are being secretly monitored. Schizophrenics can also believe that they can control other people’s minds or that they are a well known historical or media figure. It is common to have to assure someone they are not an important or influential writer, artist, musician, inventor, politician or religious figure. It is also common to feel they are police or military personnel.

The negative symptoms include an affective flattening, marked by diminished psychological responsiveness. This includes fewer expressive indications, changes in facial expression, less eye contact, less vocal inflection and fewer spontaneous gestures. Aloglia is a poorness of speech and topics, a lack of proper flow or spontaneity of exchange or an entire inability to communicate. Avolition is common referred to as apathy and can be associated with social withdrawal. This symptom can come with less care to personal grooming and hygiene and a lack of persistence when finishing activities. Anhedonia explains that an afflicted can begin to have few recreational interests, impairment in personal and sexual relationships and the patient becoming detached and distant from family and friends.

It is also common for a person suffering from schizophrenia to lack motivation. This could be from the delusion aspects of the disease, as they will feel that they have all that they need and have already accomplished great things. They are allowed to take a vacation, as the have invented the clock and they deserve it. It is also common to lack any need for achievement, because of reasons as diverse as the patients themselves. These include religious mandate and lack of self worth.

There are some cognitive symptoms that people diagnosed with schizophrenia suffer from. Disorganized perceptions often make the sufferer have a hard time making sense of everyday sights, sounds and feelings. Perceptions can become distorted in such a way that ordinary things can become distracting of scary. There is extra angst from background noises, colors and shapes.

Schizophrenia may also cause people to move slowly, repeat rhythmic movements and make ritualistic gestures. In severe cases the person can become catatonic – to stop speaking or moving completely and hold a fixed position for long periods of time. Trouble understanding language or communicating back in coherent sentences can result in “word salad,” or odd word associations. There is also common disorganized behavior like short-term memory loss and lack of organizational skills that make planning and decision-making takes very difficult.

There are four subtypes of schizophrenia. Paranoid schizophrenia explains an organized system of delusions that stand for something for the sufferer. They are thoroughly discovered and explained, sometimes in mind-numbing detail. This will include theories that they are being persecuted for something or that the end times are coming. Disorganized schizophrenia explains that the primary disturbance is of hygiene or other self care habits and the ability to communicate using language. Catatonic schizophrenia explains a primary malfunction of motor skills, either to excessive and agitated movement or towards the sufferer becoming paralyzed. Undifferentiated schizophrenia is the sub-type in which the doctor or authority is unable to classify the sort of illness into the other sub-type groups.

Schizophrenia Related Disorders:
A brief psychotic disorder is defined as a short psychotic episode lasting between one day and one month, with an eventual return to normal functioning. Some data states that there is an increased incidence of mood disorders in families of patients who have at some point suffered from brief psychotic disorder. It is possible that these psychotic disorders occur due to deficient coping mechanisms. It could be a defense against a fantasy that has been prohibited by the sufferer. It could also be an escape from a specific uncomfortable situation or overwhelming circumstances. Neither biological nor psychological theories have been confirmed by controlled clinical studies.
In the United States a brief psychotic disorder is not common. Only 9% of first-admission patients with psychoses experienced this disorder. Only 7% experienced acute brief psychoses. Internationally, incidences of brief psychotic disorder increase 10 times higher in developing countries when compared to industrialized ones. Some clinicians state that this disorder occurs most frequently in people from low socioeconomic classes, patients with preexisting personality disorders and people from other countries.
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As with many other psychiatric disorders, incidence and risk of harm to self or others increases with acute incidences of brief psychotic disorder. Incidences of this disorder are twice as high in females than with males. This ailment is most common in people in the age range of late 30s and 40s. Cases have also been recognized in later life.

Schizophreniform disorder is explained by the presence of some of the symptoms of schizophrenia but all symptoms included it last only one to six months. To establish a diagnosis for this disorder, at least two of the following three symptoms must be present for the better part of one month, though if successfully treated it can take less time. The three symptoms are delusions or hallucinations, disorganized speech or negative behavior symptoms, such as affective flattening, algolia or avolition. Only one criterion is needed if the delusions are outlandish or if the patient hears two of more voices discussing topics with each other. The ailment must not be the direct effect of any substance.

Like schizophrenia, schizophreniform disorder is equally common in both men and women. The peak onset occurs between 18-24 years of age for men and 24-35 for women. With schizophrenia, the symptoms develop over a number of years before clinical diagnosis. This is unlike schizophreniform disorder, which requires rapid onset of symptoms towards schizophrenia to occur within 6 months. Nearly two thirds of patients that develop this disorder eventually develop schizophrenia.

Delusional disorder is an illness in which the sufferer experiences nonbizarre delusions but does not have other mood of psychotic symptoms. Nonbizzare explains that these delusions are regarding situations that could happen in real life, such as having an infection, being mislead by a spouse, unrequited love or being watched by authorities. Despite significant delusions, sufferers of this disorder keep their psychosocial abilities unimpaired. Because of this they rarely seek psychiatric help and are more likely to take their unfounded ideas to lawyers, policemen, surgeons or dermatologists, depending on their specific delusion.

To be diagnosed with delusional disorder the sufferer must have delusions that are theoretically possible in real life yet the criteria for schizophrenia have not been met. Functioning is not impaired and behavior is not remarkably odd. If mood disorders occur with delusions, they occur only briefly when compared against the entire length of the delusional periods. The disturbance cannot be directly related to the use of a drug of abuse or medication. The subtypes are erotomanic, grandiose, jealous, persecutory, somatic, mixed and unspecified.

Schizoaffective disorder is difficult to diagnose accurately. It is explained as “the presence of psychosis in the absence of mood changes for at least two weeks in a patient who has a mood disorder.” Some people may have symptoms of depressive disorders and schizophrenia, or schizophrenia without mood disorders.

The term is used when the individual does not entirely fit the criteria for either schizophrenia or mood disorders such as bi-polar disorder of depression. Many people are initially diagnosed as bi-polar and if the delusions and hallucinations go away in less than two weeks, bi-polar may be the proper recognition. Someone who encounters psychosis for three or four weeks in a manic state does not have schizoaffective disorder. If delusions continue after the mood is stabilized and they continue to exhibit the other symptoms of schizophrenia such as paranoia, catatonia, thought disorders or bizarre behavior then schizoaffective disorder may be the correct diagnosis. Because it is so difficult to diagnose and complicated, mistakes is clinical diagnosis are common.

Mood Disorders:
There are three major categories of mood disorders that entail highly elevated moods. They are Bipolar I, Bipolar II and cyclothymia.

Bipolar I disorder is considered one of the most severe forms of mental illness and is characterized by recurring episodes of mania and depression. It is a life-long disease that seems to run in families. If one parent has bipolar I disorder there is a 25% chance the offspring will develop a mood disorder such as bipolar I or II or major depressive disorder. If both parents have bipolar I disorder, their child will have a 50-75% chance of becoming stricken with a mood disorder. There is a slight chance that a biological relative of those with Bipolar I will be diagnosed with a mood disorder.

Environmental factors such as the use of medication, electroconvulsive therapy and stimulants can trigger mania. It is also caused by certain illnesses such as multiple sclerosis, brain tumors and hyperthyroidism. Giving birth sometimes causes mania, as well as sleep deprivation and major stress or trauma in life.

In adults, mania is most likely seen as an elevation of mood and increased energy and activity. In children can be a side effect of irritability, anxiety and depression. When the mania backs away the sufferer falls to depression, which is shown by the lowering of the mood and decreased energy and activity. During a mixed episode a convalescent can be up and down all day, experiencing episodes of both mania and depression.

Bipolar I is associated with other mental disorders. Comorbidity is the rule, not the exception. It is most commonly associated with alcoholism, drug addiction, anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder and social phobia.

Bipolar II is similar to bipolar I, but the highs never reach full-blown mania. These less-intense mood swings are termed hypomania. Most people will also suffer from times of depression. The symptoms of hypomania are famous for people being overly positive, as if they are the life of the party. They may take intense interest is other people’s lives and infect others with their great mood. But these symptoms may cause risky behavior, such as sleeping with people they normally wouldn’t or spending money they cannot afford to spend. Untreated, these symptoms can last anywhere between a couple of days and a few years.

After the hypomania subsides, people with bipolar II often experience severe depressive episodes. This can happen soon after or much later and is a defining property of bipolar II disorder. Some people switch back and forth between mania and depression quickly, while others have long periods of normal moods between their episodes. The depressive episodes are very similar to clinical depression, with an intense sadness, general loss of delight, low energy, lethargy and feelings of shame or worthlessness. These symptoms usually last weeks or months but have been documented lasting for years.

Cycothymic disorder is a chronic condition typified by many hypomanic episodes and many periods of deep depression over the course of at least 2 years. During this period, the states in which the sufferer is symptom free may not take longer than two months. These states are not attributed to a medical condition, substance abuse or a psychotic disorder. This diagnosis can change to bipolar I is the sufferer experiences a full-blown manic episode and can change to bipolar II if the sufferer experiences a severe depressive episode. There must be complications socially, occupationally or other serious functioning as a result of the sufferer’s mood disturbance.

The major criteria for a manic episode include insomnia, delusions of grandeur, unreasonable loquaciousness, flight of ideas making it hard to focus, increase in goal directed activity and the excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that put the person at risk for painful consequences.

Mood Disorders With Exclusively Negative Episodes:
Major depressive disorder and dysthymia are use to describe a person’s depressed conditions if they have no history of manic, mixed or hypomanic episodes. These are not caused by a medical condition, substance abuse or psychotic episodes. If mania develops then the diagnosis is changed to bipolar disorder. People with these disorders commonly have more pain or illness and decrease social functioning. Alcoholism and substance abuse dramatically aggravate the illness and are frequently related to the disorders. Major depressive disorder is often preceded by dysthymic disorder and in these cases the risk of the patient also suffering from panic disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa and emotionally unstable personality disorder.

Laboratory tests explain that sleep abnormalities occur in 40-60% of outpatients and 90% or inpatients suffering from major depressive disorder. The most successive of these abnormalities are a reduction of rapid eye movement latency, increased rapid eye movement density, reduced slow-wave sleep and impairment in continuous sleep. In some patients, hormonal disorders such as blunted growth and thyroid-stimulating hormones have been observed.

Major depressive disorder can begin in an individual at any age but is usually found by the time the patient is their mid 20s. Many people have isolated episodes with several years without any depressive symptoms. Others will have clusters of episodes. It is common to have increasingly frequented episodes, as the sufferer grows older. There is hope for those with this disorder, as 40% will have no mood disorder after one year of treatment and 20% will be partially recovered. Still 40% will have symptoms that are strong enough to still consider them major depressive episodes.

Dysthymia is a depressive mood disorder of a long-term course and an underhanded onset. Many people suffering from this characterize it as a life-long depression. It is a mood disorder that stifles the sufferer’s spirit for at least 2 years in adults and 1 year in adolescents and children. Dysthymia is demonstrated as a depression for most of the day, occurring most days, and supplemented with at least 2 other symptoms such as poor appetite, overeating, insomnia, hypersomnia, fatigue, low self-worth, difficulty making decisions and feeling forlorn. For major depressive disorder, there needs to be five or more symptoms similar to those necessary to qualify for dysthymic disorder. Because of this, it is traditionally considered to be less serious than major depressive disorder.

The Strange Effect of the Conservative Right: Policies at Home and Abroad

2011-04-18T16:36:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I worked up into feverish states worrying about the actions and methods of the American Christian Conservative. It seemed hypocritical to praise peace, liberty and freedom while oppressing the world and committing genocide. At some point a man taught me that the leaders of the free world have very pressing issues and sometimes very bad people destroy things and these people have to be stopped. It was possible that the Christian right were not the bad guys.

There the facts are, telling a tale of democracy riding on horseback burning towns and destroying lives. On television and radio the story continues every night if one chooses to partake. The reason it continues is because of bad blood from the past. America has a long history of creating dissent among foreign people, overthrowing their governments and installing new dictators. It is an odd way to do business.

We can choose not to be a part of it. We can choose to fight genocide by our leaders. We can decide not to use sweatshop clothes. Most people continue to stand still until the wars move to a new part of our world, while North America is haunted with shame and guilt. We know that one day we will get ours and hope that that day will not include us, hoping that those who do not intentionally oppress will be free from the karmic debt.

In such cases it is difficult to find just what we are being protected from. Yet still the powers that be claim that we must be protected from some foreign terror cell, a man who hates everything we hold dear or some ideology that works against what we believe and strive to live for. The trouble with these claims is that with any amount of research in to what we are told to hate we learn that we are those people’s brothers and sisters or that our government is lying to us. This can be unnerving the first time we hear it. After hearing it enough we become jaded and quit caring.

This apathy may be the plan of those leaders. If we can stomach another invasion, overthrow, terrorist threat, assassination or genocide we will let these people do as they wish to us. We will allow our Christian leaders to commit atrocities and war crimes with as much leniency as we can, as there past actions speak louder than we could. They have killed as many people as have stood up to them, taking the lives of innocent people that have discovered their crimes and had the gall to speak up against their tyranny. And this series of assassinations resulted in a quieting of their people.

It could be less horror filled than these claims. Christian conservatives believe that their ideology is right for all people, worldwide. This is the official reason they fight the battles they do. As such, they tend to be both heroes and oppressors around the world and within their borders.

Because the right wing has held power in America for the last 25 years, the left has created myths regarding their true intentions, such as pictures of the prominent men and women as reptiles from outer space or members of satanic cults. There is a vast amount of media regarding “proof” that these men and women are not fighting for the Christian cause, but for some strange dark purpose that we are not supposed to know.

Of course, these same arguments would be made if the liberal left wing were in power and have been since Barrack Obama became president. The same numerology and claims of black magic secret society membership that worried me about Bush II are also used to undermine the new president. Because people with differing notions live within borders with each other, no people will ever be entirely happy with their government.

Fundamentalism is bred from guilt and is the perfect cover for corruption. When a leader such as George Bush II discusses his conversion to Christianity before becoming the leader of the free world, he prefaces wordily that he was an irresponsible drunk who was spoiled rotten and filled with a superiority complex, concerned not with the workings of worldwide politics, but with partying and trying to push his life as far as he could go. He claims that Christ allowed him to quit drinking a few years before he became president and that with his faith he was able to free himself from those demons, to the extent that he hosted daily Bible studies in the White House.

There is also a religious fervor that develops due to the guilt of his family’s environmental destruction of the world, his father’s genocides while in charge of the CIA and the dark places that that kind of terrorism and war crimes come from. Instead of creating a better world than the one that his father left us, George Bush II created a religious war to replace the economic-ideologically driven cold war. This was created through the media, as after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks of the World Trade Center the news and print coverage concerning this issue was filled with slander against the Muslim religion. As the government is smart to enough to know that most people do not research things for themselves and take the words of a trusted individual as truth, those that wished to start a religious war were able to do so.

The Christian Fundamentalist movement in America began with the radicalization of religion and the need for a figurehead to speak for these lonesome and disenfranchised people located in the heartland of America. By the 1970s, because xenophobic and God-fearing people felt that their country was going sour, noticing that drug use was rampant and there were eccentric and zany people everywhere, there was a need for someone who could cross barriers and lead the people into a new world. This person needed to return America to the important foundation that it was build upon in the beginning.

The Christian Right’s leader needed to believe in the Holy Bible he was sworn in on. They needed someone to stand up for the issues that they held dear, including right to life legislations, a ban on homosexual marriage, allowing prayer in school, keeping their children off of drugs and fighting for the freedom of America. He needed to be able to fight the enemies America had made over the years, at the time they were Communists but soon after it became clear that America had many. He needed to fight for capitalism and spread the ideals that made America strong. It seemed that this man was going to be Ronald Reagan.

Ronald Reagan did not like communists. His career was began as a spook in Hollywood, ratting out various people that seemed to carry communist sympathies. He was a prolific writer, spending most of his thoughts on visions for America and how to spread their ideals around the world. This writing became musings about world peace. He realized that there needed to be creative ways to deal with all the troubles that haunted the world. When writing about Vietnam after the war ended he claimed it was a “nation that acts like a homicidal maniac.” This hypocrisy seems funny in retrospect as we now can see that it was not the Vietnamese who were acting in that way. The whole conflict at home and abroad was a class differentiation.

Reagan’s writings look overly paranoid and nervous, noting that America has enemies on all corners of the earth. It appears this way, but one must note that as President he may have been privy to information that most people do not have. He could have known of the enemies that America has now, or perhaps he realized that the actions George Bush I as the leader of the CIA was going to have repercussions. It is not as if one arm of the government is blind to the workings of another.

One of Reagan’s most important works was the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty with Russia. This effectively stopped the arms race that haunted the world for so long and led to the end of the Cold War with the USSR. It is a unique treaty between two enemies, which allowed both nations to focus their resources on other projects.

Another of the projects that Reagan focused America on was the Star Wars program and a satellite missile defense initiative, effectively militarizing space and bringing us to this point in world history, when we can easily shoot any place in the world with a bomb coming down from a satellite floating peacefully around the world. We can also live without fear of missiles from the other side of the planet, as our SDI missile defense allows the military to shoot down missiles as they come towards America. This could have happened early in 2011 as there is video of a cruise missile coming towards Los Angeles, California, but the city was never struck. It is possible, because America is currently in three official wars.

Reagan was a good spokesman for the right, but generally spoke in a non-secular way. His policies reflected the interests of conservative America but his actions were not always of the theological beliefs. This is true for both Bush’s as well. Although they were speaking of issues regarding family values and working hard to appear to be the vehicle that Christian America could rely on, it seems by their actions that they were simply pandering to their voters and giving them the feeling that they were winning. It is wise politics to do so if they want power for their own purposes.

Perhaps people need to fear someone or something to continue to consume idly and live in their oppressive, excessive way guilt free. The fear is instilled as an attempt to control the masses. People have fear the world ending for ages and xenophobia is even more innate. Therefore it is easy to create fear in the dark recesses of our minds through the use of disinformation and internal strife. This is why the media does not care about communists anymore and focuses on the hate of the Middle East towards North America like it is unfounded. Fear is written in to the Christian religion and is used to keep people acting a certain way. This could be why it seems ok for the leaders to spread hatred and fear monger in the way they famously do.

Democracy cannot come from killing innocent civilians. Democracy cannot come from cluster bombs. Hope comes from honest and true actions and so we must peer at the actions of these people with a wary eye. Although they claim to be Christian, the Neo-Conservative movement is notorious for genocide. Perhaps people waving a false flag of Christianity commit the oppression. This is in order to get votes from the majority of Americans, to keep the hope that they live in a true democracy alive. They pander to this group but support their own dreams and help their own people.

Acting in the interest of the conservative right, George Bush I created a war on drugs, throwing people in jail for holding a plant, while they create and distribute narcotics to people as often as possible. This is, in fact, a sin in the bible, unless the illegal plant is the “Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil” or the “Forbidden Tree of Life.” This plant is said to hold much knowledge but be able to tear people apart. Yet we cannot hold some plants, unless the chemical compounds are synthesized into a pill that causes more harm than the original fruit would have. These companies are now the largest in America and most people in North America are on some kind of psychoactive prescription, such as mood stabilizers, anti-depressants or anti-psychotics.

Wrapped in a world of crime and deceit one must wonder, does this social disorder come for the laws set forth by the jailers or is rebellion innately human? Either way the prison population of America outnumbers the population of Canada. Why are these laws in place? Is it because of the Christian scripture? Scripture relates to many laws, but paranoia like this breeds mania.

Fundamentalism has become the base of the modern Cold War. This modern conflict was begun through covert operations and brought to the forefront by attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City, Sept 11 2001. But the war is cursed with ignorance and hypocrisy from the beginning as the Koran explains that both sides of this religious war technically worship the same being. The Torah came first in the series, leading the Jewish people out of Israel, second came the Holy Bible that spoke of the Son of God walking amongst the Semitic people, third came the Koran that was used by Mohammed to convert those that had not already became followers of Jesus’ dad to worshiping the Semitic God, Allah. Allah can be written as Yahweh, which is an alternate pronunciation and often argued to be the Christian got instead of the former.

A war such as one that has recently begun by those Christian fundamentalists that are in charge in America is fodder for fear incited in the fundamentalists, as the Bible mentions that this is one of the steps towards that end of the world, judgment day and the apocalypse. The strange thing is that when people quote the Bible to mention this, it does not appear that people like George Bush I read it, nor do they fear it.

So what is the true agenda of the religious right? Although many people claim their agenda is in full swing and they are simply trying to commit these war crimes for their own absurd and dark purposes, in truth the Conservative Christian movement belongs to the people. The people want to teach creationism in school. They want to get right of the socialist welfare state. They would like to protect their liberties and freedoms. They want to ban the use of mind-altering substances. They want to be tough on crime. They want to ban abortions and stem-cell research, as every human life has the rights of every other one, no matter how old they are. They want to keep illegal immigrants out of their country. For the most part they would also like to support big business, as it is capitalism and they have a good product at a good price.

These are small battles, insignificant when looking at the real human rights abuses and crimes perpetrated by their figureheads. Leaders such as Reagan, Bush I and Bush II are leading them on. It sounds paranoid to suggest the government is letting their people believe that their voices have been heard.

They are misled to believe that they are influencing American politics. The true decision makers make policies that are good for their own economic well being, not the greater worlds spiritual wellness, as the Christian religion would suggest is proper. These figures in power create peons to fight for causes the simple Christian people of the right want. With this misdirection they can make any decision they want. They have total control. With just a little coaxing, an argument over something as insignificant as gay marriage, people can be blinded to the real trouble that lies over them: This horrible group of terrorists hell bent on destroying the world live in America, they are in charge and they have already done their damage.

The only hope is that some day these men will die, and that if the religion they claim to accept as theirs is true, then they will feel the suffering and pain that they have given to the other side of the world. Only then will we be free from these men, as they are old now and have worked their whole lives to do this. There is no telling why. These mysteries are such as those that line the turbulent waves of the universe. Perhaps they are doing what is right, but for some strange reason cannot tell us that they are.

As for now, only some can speak clearly and spread the world that we no longer have to live in fear. As much as the media tells us we must live in fear, and all the proof that we are shared about the scary and twisted state of world affairs, we are able to wake in the morning with sunshine and smell the dew. We are able to live in the world free from their troubles, for we did not do what they did. We have to tell them without concern for ourselves that we can piece together what they have done. With so many that have been killed for fighting against them it is difficult to find the strength, but one day the rest of us will stand up and fight for peace again. And that day is still today, we are just finding more subversive ways to do so.
Bibliography:

Frum, David. The Right Man: The Surprise Presidency of George W. Bush
New York: Random House, 2003

Reagan, Ronald, Kiron Skinner, Annelise Anderson, Martin Anderson, George Shultz. Reagan In His Own Hand: The Writings of Ronald Reagan That Reveal His Revolutionary Vision for America New York: The Free Press, 2001

Bush, George W. Decision Points New York: Random House, 2010

Chomsky, Noam, David Barsamian. Imperial Ambitions: Conversations on the Post 9/11 World New York: Metropolitan Books, 2005

Frum, David. Dead Right New York: BasicBooks, 1994

The Koran (Penguin Translation) Mecca: Penguin Classics, 632

The Holy Bible (The New International Version) Grand Rapids: Zondervan Corp, 1973

a

2011-04-10T22:37:00.000-07:00

cameras have shown humans what it looks like when we move faster than we could move.

This town should have a temp agency. And we will make a zip-line system between the skyscrapers to improve the economy because businessmen will get to business meetings sooner. The light is the nevermore, sped like a martyr like nonsense and war. Former reasons are letters and signed like little lost logical languages of lore. Special takers face their right wing agenda. They would never get lost in the nevermore.

She did not speak. They were the little line lights when he lied. I was the spoken to and he was the right wing agent of God. Didn't he tell me he was an agent of God? Is he still a righteous saint, or did the agents of evil take his soul and wrap him in a sort of dark recess that lets all the others fight and wander like little red lanterns that line this dark alley, where I sit with my wife?

These are never the right answers. For they cause for harm than hassle. These people can hear like a wandering moral, and they want a cause for the three truths, which I lied about. These were truthful notions wrapped in so much misdirection that they have tormented my harmful little world with their lies. They have tied me up, left me and wandered like orphans, two children with men when the last in the light.

Weren't these two men agents of God? Wasn't this second man an intellectual? Bidding, did he go to church? I face my evil, like a light that left leisure and long ago wrapped the sun so we all could smile. Therefore these references are noting my mania, a state that made me act like I have sovereign expressions and waiting they laugh because they will tell that damned truth.

These two men of God went took a space in a room and lit lighters and spooned with the demons they had. These white losses of lighters and red fluorescence that lacked a light logic who wittily laughed at the toss. He knew that he was not going to make it, and he had taken it this far. The only possible option is to push it as far as he would go.

2011-03-03T14:48:00.001-08:00

The Jabberwock would show that all is nonsense and nobody really knows anything for certain. Poor old Speedy and his Pook. This is the trouble set to world events, time like a tornado and personal conquest, perhaps to read the perfect set of words.

It was snowing and I wondered aloud whether it was over, some catastrophe or nuclear winter setting time space apart from the world we were born to. The conclusion was that if many people died at once they may have created a world that was quite similar to the last and lived out their days as they would have expected them. None would be the wiser had we all died at once. This gripped me and I realized it would make delicious fiction. Then I knew that I was acting properly because I came home, fulfilled my obligations and typed the words so someone else could read them.

Three of us marched forward like daft men who knew that only the strong would survive. These simple silent footsteps drew the hearts and minds like modern turmoil bending spoons to turn soap back into pig fat. The little head on her smiled and she spoke like an over-bearing gift of consciousness. I did not dream her. The little sign that she showed a liking to me was the whispered nothing, a sweet tone in my ear. It penetrated my heart and matched the lining of her sold safe soul, trapped between webs of lies and conscious of heartfelt drafts transposed in the document that lit this room in the night.

That life was normal to some, cold at night, but only in the winter. In the summer we had to look forward to sweltering heat and cool night breezes as we escaped our humdrum exit or some sovereign state. We were no longer an English colony, and her personal strife with the existence of my kind hurt because I could not understand it. The light was a show that we listened to but refused to watch. These were the hearts that I lived under.

Personal anguish was something that seemed buried deep in the past, but it came up sometimes late at night while we were tired. I would take my frustrations based primarily on lack of sleep and partially on dishonesty and wrap them in her tired world and she would scream at me, “Can’t I have one day of happiness?” I would exclaim that I loved her and I didn’t mean to hurt her, just that I wanted us both to be happy, that I wanted to make a living doing something that I loved to do.

The soul haunted me. I was disparaged by cases leading to the epic failure of foreign nations to pass through the tyranny imposed on them by people like me. I didn’t impose this horror of their people, my people did. The curse of a white man in a world that we created is that we believe we know the truth. We believe that time is linear and we are at the end: that next comes the future and we only build on the past.

This allows us to accept that our technologies that we have recently discovered, such as electricity and computing, are in fact new technologies. There is reason to believe that they are not. The theory I have is that there was some catastrophe that discounted our past technological advances. Because I am only able to accept technology that we have today, and not strange lost truths, I would state that this catastrophe was something like a nuclear holocaust that created the ice age that we so fondly remember as years of glaciations and uncertainty. In mainstream it wiped out the dinosaurs and allowed humans to become the powerhouse they are today.

But even more recent than that, perhaps the tales of flying machines of the lost city of Atlantis were countries on the continents now known as North America. It is said to be at a location in the Mediterranean, but I suggest, with truthiness, that it could have been located in the mountains of Peru or jungles of Mexico.

But that is neither here nor there, for the face of the rails that haunt this factual statement suggests these numbers cannot possibly be calculated. There are several people haunting statesmen, the kind that stop the shadowy men in black, ejaculate wildly in the most Dickensian form and shift their bodies to some other resource, passing through computers and the time-space continuum and falling asleep around noon.

This is how some people travel. Because men in suits that drive fancy cars and try to decide where the yield signs go always change their minds. That is the dire truth that we can see while we use the lights in our minds. The days come like little red dwarf clouds, passing over our heads without note because we see them every so often and think they are beautiful. Those red clouds are not pollution, as some so efficiently say, they are the weasles of the sky, gaps in the time space continuum and the place that men in fancy suits who drive nice cars nap.

These weasles are wasted. Every day their tone wanders and warbles like the night time in June. I must keep vigilant to keep them out of their plausible notions. That is why I stay up at night. These words are not a safety net, nor are they sold as pattern terms of endearment. The best portion of safety is in the light that can be seen underneath some modern dilemma. It is nonsense of the highest caliber.

These men do not speak highly of their shape, nor do they pass from one form to another. They do not cover anything up, but they know that we are each many people, typing at times, driving at times, fucking at times, hurting at times, happy at time and sad at times. We also do other things akin to hope and/or turmoil. Sometimes these happen at the same time. And it is a wonder that we get anything done at all. The fast faith lies in hopes and dreams and turbulent weather, masking the volcanoes that are shaking the earth some place far from where the smoke is billowing into the sky.

And so we rise every day at some time, whether from sleep of a state of mania and say nothing, even when we speak. For some people this is a different place than they think they are. For others it is socially awkward. Still some more find a peaceful endearment in such a suggestion, as they know that nothing is said, nor can be said, on any topic.

This is because nobody knows anything for certain. Every universal truth is just yet to be proven otherwise. All things, however meaningful, translucent, absolute or true, are basically hearsay. All things are theories regarding objects discovered or made by humans. We do not know for certain if any of this stuff exists.

Perhaps this world is but a dream to the sleeping life. Although, I will know this for certain if I awake in jail tonight as I slip into the trance that rests me as I run from the monsters and haunting soldiers, heights that I can’t fly from and various deaths that I have experienced over there. But perhaps rules are for this reality. The rule makers do not run the show over there, chaos and madness reign. And that is why I can do drugs with a psych ward nurse and videotape a crooked policeman arresting me. This arrest will most likely not affect my nights sleep tonight, as it was simply because my friend was sleeping with his wife and he was angry about his home life, which is why I videotaped the irate man at our questioning session. My friend laughed and knew that we were safe, because we were in the world of dreams and not this one, filled with consequences and funny real police officers. The excuses of a power mad crooked cop arresting people eating uppers in dreams suggest that this particular jerk is out there somewhere. I have dreamed with other people, and have been able to converse with them in detail about their dreams.

Back with love and sapient dimension, for high lettered, eerie steps and that sound of tapping that keeps curling up my toes and sending little fingers into my back. The nice thing about typing wildly, nonsense for the sake of possibility, is that none of the facts that I am telling the reader will mention the reason for details such as tone or unrelated strings that really hold the whole book together. With noting that, I must relate that I can recall distinctly a finger holding my back down, a black shadow at dawn and the ratings of squirrels or other sad creatures keeping me up at night.

I remember green trees the I passed in a car with a young girl and her father, near a record shop that had posters of Soul Coughing and Sonic Youth. This forest was near the road, but since I have recalled it many times in the eleven years that have passed since I was there, I now see the forest from the other side. And it has become tall, old, thin, green trees moving past a still, thin log fence with two rungs and three posts. I am not moving, but that car is. I wonder if in my minds eye I am truly peering through that thicket at the road near that illusive record shop, and whether that record shop was real at all. Is this all just a memory of a dream?

I should have given her a cigarette, but she didn’t ask so I left no trace. The light was a signal but I had no idea. Help was the key to the morning sun and when she spoke he had a little rasp in his voice that kept him quiet. He knew that the leader sat back in the hotel and wandered his mind like a reddening sun. He stared at the sun and swore under his breath. He wanted to speak but his mind was a wreck. The shelter he crept like his mind and dreams lie, the lines that he wrote and the “Fine, Ma, goodbye.”

Our hero awoke for the dream.
He knew that if modern man was segmented they could find all the reasons to lead the new water, for these are the people who march in the summer. They can be speaking when love is a matter. I know that the little green white and blue scenes where shock rock, pigment and mindful escapes. Where did these men come from? What was that sound I just heard? Why was I unable to decipher my dream from reality?

It wasn’t gripping. It was sudden mass. The light at the end of the tunnel was that I could not speak without spelling. Love guided me in. And as I spoke softly to the intellect I stood outside our representative’s office and the person who wandered was perfectly grey. I knew I could see him. So I stood there with a microphone.
Why did this man want to run a nation?

There he stood across for me, the leader of the local and vocal skinheads and he wanted retribution for appeasements made. Across from him stood the local parliamentary official. They both had microphones. I was safe at home in Craft Club offices and grabbed my trusty megaphone.

This what I told him:
I stared across the bathtub at her. She looked beautiful, but different. She was taking my breath away and reminding me of a long lost love. I wondered if we had been together longer than the six months I knew we had been. Then I wondered if the lady she had reminded me of had cut off her face, cleaned it and was wearing it.

I needed a cigarette, so I got up and left the bathtub. It was dark outside. And my mind wandered to another lit round, or at least a sovereign league of sincere reasoning.

Are there other options than “good” and “bad?”

Is there a variable code, shades of grey for those terms? Or are those the directions that emotions are based upon? Should we rate our experiences with these terms?

There is a scale, (Bad, sort of bad, neutral, sort of good and good) which can be used to rate an experience, thought, action or object using only our opinion. Good and bad are the two ends of the spectrum, although beyond that there are words to express further joy and suffering. The question of faith lies in the spectral reasoning of most people that states that some actions can seem bad, but be good and can seem good and can be bad.

We can intend to do things that are good and without thinking of consequences, creating ill winds that permeate our expansive consciousness. And one person’s bad is another’s good, like eating cattle, a sin to some and every meal to others.

The lust for gold and gems is good of bad, depending on whom you ask.

“The Standing Way Men Can Be Fashioned.”

2011-02-22T01:29:00.001-08:00

The men are standing in a way that can be fashioned, like roses on pinstripes and backwards cars with glasses. They speak in a manner of red risen gentlemen and write to the letter like they had chaperones and medicine. The people of the manor teach like little roses on shades of grey. This is to say that they speak highly of little red champions or mortal symbols of an illogical and chaotic world.

This place is a spoken tone, sent rhyming and stepping like a soviet strike, crass like a drop jaw and speaking in tongues. The little man steps on his snide apple cart when the yellow suit of the mortal speaks lights and the right one. They do not laugh nor shape the little pink slips of fighting traditions that need to be spoken of. These are the shapes that leave men in their shadow for all that can be seen is a light in the attic.

These are the poems that are written by a man who seems very pure and a trifle bit crass. These are the people that speak to each morning with the same resentment they leave for their hats. The little red markings were crushed and spaced inward for the folk that had let the men mark their minds would tell only some the truth behind pedals as the marched and walked slowly away.

The first was a man name Co Shu King Said One, he was a short, fat, broad shouldered gent who spoke with a lisp and some kind of virtue. This letter was written in starry-eyed wonder in the middle of the night and read something like poetry. The greatness, he was told, lay in the eye of the reader. This shook Co Shu King to his core.

The man that he sat with was Poet San Gilbert, man not a saint he was named for. The man loved his palace, a cheap rented apartment, and the light that shone before the morn broke through the shadows. These cheap lifted southern pan-fried tomatoes we shook all the seeds out and drafted their parents. When we ate them, we ate them in pasta with meat. The kind didn’t matter, as it was free.

The peaceable sorts sent their open letter like little peg legged drafts that spoke highly of insult. These spectacled members of potential mishceivians were wrapped in a letter that needed to speak. There were three open caskets and none that saw light, for the shape of the world kept a man up at night. The creaking at the window was creeping rather softly and the shape of the morning to come was so bright. These little cracked roots that spell a rather soft dream came running and marching far away from these walls. The tapping tip or term that spoke like a matter was of foreign radicalism and steps from these walls.

These little managers had modern dilemmas and when these people spoke they did so like this:
“Red light is the answer.”
“Levo tamtre ston, lal hatt termat soplibes os tafe fardt ptos gouhbr kame ni.”
So the men were on their way to march to war, but not the sort that had any relevance or would have made the news. Their speak was of revolution, but they were without anything near a dilemma or column that could be used to spark such revolt. The minds that were careless and without adaptation saw the little spark that had the light redder than before. The man spoke too softly and could not let the others lead them in fighting for something they could not see. But some of the people let the higher spirit conduct them in such a way that the light was on in the attic for deceit.

The highway was littered with gold canes and perfect round stones that told that the people loved their land with a little light that shone from a round stick and sold those poor demons down the river like a settling part of some greater good. The final song came for a leader that spoke softly in rambling sentences with structure that silently haunted the mission that these people were on.

The light in the attic sung so perfectly wound, and the man in the hat, which was both yet was neither, spoke a little more in a way that the other could listen and wonder why have we not been rattled by stars and pages such as the other men have. Why did they watch and wait for people to march over and laugh when they told the spear the light that they knew they had, so the people could be settling in a hounds tooth cocktail that lit up their wanderlust for middle class workers and their children?

This was the question that had no reasonable prequel and shone like a mission that walked over their wands. These were the reasonable people who liked them and those that could speak like they wanted to hear. Why could they write it like such a drafted supposition or bitter tasteless coffee that spoke like they had waves? For these were the people that wondered rather slowly and never passed judgment of those that they hate.

He wrote the piece like a wandering tribe and used every word that he could to describe a hopeless bit of nonsense that doesn’t make and sense.

And it followed and sounded something like this:

Untitled

2011-02-10T20:48:00.001-08:00

The change in the pens from the main office so all the other pens change too. It is because they bought the Imperial set from Bic Lighters. It is the divine pen that is never created nor destroyed making every pen the same pen. It is the eternal pen. When a pen vanishes and reappears it could be another person's pen by the time you pick it up. As it were only sometimes the pen you think it is when you look at it. The other times it becomes another pen. Because there is only one pen. Or are there many pens?

A million delusions pass before the sea weeping, and there were a million delusional ghosts gliding across a landscape specked with poplar and fir trees. The snow covering the hillside did not reach all the way to the sea, but it was apparent that this part of the world was in the icy grip of winter.

But this scene is not a question or matter of fact. It is delusion pure and simple, a published piece written by Craft Creasemore in a state of panic that told him he could not live this as a man. The first two pages are utter nonsense, only there to set a tone.

So he wrote:
“Is ‘why do we feed on life’ the eternal question?
So a silhouette stork eating should be in the opening phrases.
These are the opening movie shots.”

When we saw him writing furiously, vines ran up along the wall beside him, but they had not yet grown enough to cover the building. He sometimes claimed supernatural powers. He felt little, like he could never have his way. The meeting he was waiting for was an hour away. It would be in a personal laboratory. Everything was somewhere out of order and is functioning simply as a brief overview of what will become a book.

He made an appointment to meet a scientist who invented something grand. It was a new potion that could grow forest when the gel contacted air.
It grew so fast it struck awe in the hearts of all the first viewers.

So moreover, this wise turtle says something smart like, “I feel awestruck as I recall an awful falafel I ate five years ago. And if somebody turns off a fan the changing pressure could create a vacuum that in turn is filled with outside air. This is the only time I can think that one should say they created wind.”

Passersby’s should represent somebody else but they were just movement.
They were creating wind. The experiment is measuring different areas of a city in a closed environment like a warehouse, so that we can measure the complex formulas that are the wind. This would create a study in interpersonal relationships, because we can create a spiral behind us by turning left and that moves the hair on a stranger’s head.

Our people existed in a small inner garden of a very tall building. A writer named Craft sits and makes two henchmen walk to the top of the stairs that line one side of the narrow building. They listen to the sounds of feet on stairs all the way up.

The other two are a prodigy, Little Red Vegas and a scientist named Silver Lodges.
Nonsense came back from a listing mood at noon. The meeting felt like a toast by a man who wrote of motorcars, or hoped to. They found the writer drafting the ideas of a new bestselling novel, until his hopes dissipated and I pretend to go. These are their dreams and though it does seem though sea salt is spelled of right wing were dancing before. This is nonsense, so have no formula that secedes it.

And this paragraph ruined the writer’s life because he could not tell the reader what he meant. He knew that this thought left little mercy for him. And it was ok; he had time to do many rewrites.

But I will make broad statements about this book, though the writer I am telling you about will not, nor did he write this.

I feel this book will save the world, creating and pausing grown-ups and children alike for a moment of innate bliss. Because these phrases stand alone on the first page without anything too discriminating, but perhaps readers will make their own way to this. Perhaps the readers will be children. The key to character development is creating names in the first place.

So lets think of the characters in those first paragraphs.
First, there is the writer, who is a grey haired man in his early fifties. He should have been a teacher, but worked as a laborer while writing absent ramblings that he promised himself he would mold into masterpieces. His books took many years to write and even after they were written, only his friends read them. They knew about his wishes to be read worldwide and promised that when he asked they would help him. He kept saying that the work was not done. Perhaps it wasn’t.

The writer believed in newspapers, bureaucracy and tax-cuts. That is why he wrote that his delirium sought to dilapidate my good name. That’s because he wanted to copy something from a comic strip. Though transmogrify is a word that is used in places other than Creasmore & Hobart, a company that is investing time in something astounding.

The writer is used to the radio switching channels on him while he waited on speakerphone for somebody who will guide him to other spirits in makeshift places idling around a heaven set for them. He will one day write, “When the leaders talk like they have no violence suspect people did not have recourse for their hope. People settle and a basic hope is that I have a personal conquest and a man takes their old glory.”

Next we come to the passersby. They are mulling about simply walking past Craft as begins discussing pottery with Little Red Lining and Silver Lodges.
This was of course what he was talking about. But Craft Creasmore was scared and it hurt him before he could lay awake in a home like a leader.

He wanted to know why he asked of writing, “Who exactly are these people? What are they doing here and why do we care?” It was tearing him up inside. At least the coffee was good. It was better than usual. There was funky music playing quietly and Red and Silver were settling in and turning sable under what would soon become a Thursday moon that settled in the city sky and as a saint Silver said, “A strange thing happens to me. I invented something wonderful. Would you like to see it?”

The writer thanked him for his reaction. It was too simple. That could not cure the whims of these paragraphs. These words made notions stir in Little Red Lining. He was a true small “L” liberal. He wanted to make change that mattered. Silver Lodges was different. He had the lesson certificate, “Save the Safe Souls.”
This bound Silver Lodges to science because it was all he had ever done. It was all nonsense. He meant nothing by it.

The writer didn’t want to know about that sort of thing. He drank his coffee black with lots of sugar. He worked for Near-Far and thought often of his legacy. He owned many groo-groo trees and grumbled when he talked.
Groo-groo trees are real and all the names of things in this book should be real and fantastical.

When Craft Creasemore sat at the Festin coffee shop the other two were about to play minimax on a recently bought board. There were many distractions on this city street. It was perfect for practice. Their beverage was a digly-smalter, under the stress of Aruba. These were some of the leaders of Festin.
Digly-Smalters are not real and maybe should be omitted.

I made a joke for the friend. It was a silly little jest and too absurd to be annoying. Neither man laughed. Spoken or written letters sent to C. S. Lewis and wondering why these are there. Just signal words to miniature mineral jelly and mind readers like Dopperhouer…

Without much extra nonsense and in a much clearer way than this, a man working on mineral rights and also as a local Government official strides past them like a man with things to do and places to go. They had known him for years. They were on top of a building so he changed his mind and paused and told the wise man some English and non-Shakespearean equivalent of, “I know nothing.”
Silver Lodges said to him, “What are you saying, old man? Lighten the briefcase for a while.”
And his friend replied, “I’m trying to say that I can’t get ahead in this government, because I want real change. I want to make a difference like when I ran for mayor when I became leader of the sun party.”
“You went to Spain last May.” Silver Lodges said, “That was your first vacation in five years.”
“I met a mind reader there that told me I would never gain leadership of a federal party, let alone become the leader of his nation. This made me very distraught. Later in the night we spoke to Gregory, a Spanish innkeeper who spoke sly English and had a room above a restaurant that they could stay. He had gone to Spain and he was going to Spain again.”
“He ate nothing for weeks, I believe.”
“I have been waiting about a week and I owe money to someone, I was hoping you could pay what you owe me.”
“I won’t mingle with that mink but I’ll get you the money.”
“Tell them they don’t want it, me in their shirts, the backs of their heads.”

And with that the man left. Neither Little Red Vegas nor myself knew what was discussed and these brief marigold-infused partisan war games like they had something interesting and so violent the conversation had to be secretly passed from one recipient to the next. Something was lost in the translation, of course, but he could tell from the eyes what these men needed him to do. It was good the other two did not understand.

Little Red said to the next man that he knew the person would be a little on the weak end but rather intelligent and maybe a bit too proud. They often wondered about the child.
He was a friend’s child. Silver Lodges did not have children.

The older two men, Craft of about 40 and Silver of about 56 were wise enough to give advice to politicians, but we know nothing of their accomplishments. The writer had written books and was a member of the Multi-Discipline Intelligence Society, working in media mostly and remembering names of people who were not famous, but had made the news in strange and fascinating ways. He could spell like nobody else, but always got “necessarily” wrong, so he rarely used it in his articles.

Little Red Lining was a prodigy. By the age of eight he had read many classics of English literature. By ten he was the champion Minimax player in Festin. He used a round dance defense to defeat the former champion, striking up a conversation about how bees return to their hives and dance with the others. It was true. Science was the recording.

And now they begin a practice match of the game of kings, minimax.
Silver could not beat Red even at his best. Sometimes Red would make intentional errors for practice in losing important pieces, but if Silver beat Red once, he would become champion. So they kept playing, game after game for months on end, and Red continued to win every match. Today would be no different, but they enjoyed the friendly rivalry.

“A cereal man knows that Vicky cannot produce human language.” Silver said, making his first move, a daring cross board leap that left his Cage piece far from any fortressing. It could trap most pieces, though only if the cannon was on the square next to it. Red quickly brought an aggressive clover over the cage and took the piece.
“A cereal man can’t leave his cage open like that.”
After another move written later,
“Can we play this game later?” Silver said. “I have a meeting.”

Just as Little Red Lining moved his dock there was a flash of light. Level sprite, the water spirit, came to him and said to all three of us, “Sit, we must talk about these papers.”
“Silver has a meeting,” Red said.
“I only have to talk to an old friend about my new invention. I can be here a moment.”

The papers were maroon in color, held together by a folded piece of gilded metal.
Level Sprite was a serious person, never a moment late and definitely taking control of the situation.

She began, “They have been drawn up rather quickly, there is a lack of consideration for another side. With a sense of urgency I come to you. Silver, the job is important, we need to reconsider these words before we send them away. This could cause more trouble than it is worth. They would be much worse than a moment’s later delivery than planned. All trouble would be forgotten and we would dance our night away like a child. The stage is set for us now.”

Silver’s car rolled up a few seconds later and he insisted that he must leave but invited her to come with him. She politely declines and he says simply, “We must trust these grand neighbors to the North, and they must be able to trust us.” He smiled and took the papers in his hand. “I will return these to you, and also a key. I believe you, and by the end of the day these will be yours. He bowed and backed away, stepping in the opened door and thanking his driver.

He sat in the back a small man and shook his head, thinking he may need some help.
He glanced at the feigning sun and squinting in a moment of realization. The papers were factual representations of the political system in numbers and symbols. They were math, geometric shapes and divine rights to the kind leaders that were being bastardized.

Good men were remaining out of power, partially because they didn’t want to seek it over people and partially because they balanced the equation of those who wanted to choose where they put the road signs to feel that they made where people should turn.

Silver was headed eastward through the city and going home. The meeting he would be in his personal laboratory. He had made a new potion that could grow forest when the gel contacted air. It was fast so it seemed rather awe-inspiring.

The car dropped Silver off outside the hard candy shop at the end of his lane. The next building was his laboratory and the second was his home, a two-story townhouse along a narrow street that ducked into the city only one block. There was a gate before the block began and each person had a key. Across the road there was another row of houses like this, and one on either side of each of them.

Silver liked the sameness of his neighborhood. Each interior could be personalized.
It was an fun contrast.

Teenage boys sauntered carelessly towards his car and were expressing something loudly, and Silver thought they might be drunk, but the doors muffled the sound of their voices. They passed and then he opened the door and came outside to the street, walking quickly past the candy shop and seeing the old man he was meeting with.

He came from the desert and his name was Grimson. He lived in Opaque, which could be found many miles west and south of Festin. He had been unsure whether this was Silver Lodges home and was relieved to see him standing next to him.
“Oh, thank you, old chap. This is good. I’m on time and in the right place. I was afraid I was somewhere else, but here I am.” And they went inside.

The teenagers stumbled down the street in a haze, drifting from side to side. The air was soft that night, washed in misdirection they were consuming. The tall slim one on the left threw his empty beer bottle into traffic and the others laughed. The crash as it shattered on the concrete was deafening and the traffic slowed as they tried to dodge the broken glass. One of the friends began to whistle and pulled another beer out of a backpack.

“We cannot observe culture because it is in our minds.” Silver began when they stood inside the landing of his laboratory, under stairs and a banister that guarded the upper floor’s main hallway. “So we must infer culture from behavior we observe. We agree lying is bad, but we all lie. So is evil necessary to this world?”
Grimson told him frankly, “It depends on your ideology, what you have in your garden.”
“Some cultures teach us that evil spirits make us sick. Some cultures teach us that it is bacteria and viruses.”
“What are you getting at?”
They walked into another room that had a long table lined with Bunsen burners and veils of potions and beakers boiling and animated screensavers dancing on a series of screens that once activated showed lists of numbers, algorithms and various effects of chemical compounds when they were mixed together.
“I have made something that creates pure good. Watch!” And he sprayed gel over an empty section of a table and as it stuck to the table it grew grasses, flowers, weeds, leaved bushes and baby trees every two feet. He sprayed until he had filled eight square feet of his table. The plants grew until they were four feet high. Grimson was impressed. Then Silver sprayed another section, so that ten square feet were covered, the plants all grew to be five feet tall. Grimson asked for a bottle of it to keep and take home.

Silver told him, “I only have two more, but I am making more. It will be ready in a week or so. But if you would like one of the two we will share it with you. They both work the same.”

Mohandas Karamachand Gandhi was an omen.
They meet him on the gangway. It is especially rotten the point of an essay is the sapient union of two pieces of lumber and the figurative landing that teach like and essay of those who are against you the wander and teach like a dream that became them when these men are martyred they know what they are. There is another of these books that was and this is the beginning of a normality space. These are the people and that is the arrangement these are the beginnings and do not drive away with speed.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things that I cannot change and the will to change those things I can and this wisdom to tell the difference. Strange ramblings in the days to come. They never said it spoke like wisdom it was not the only truth.

Where do these people come from?
Where are the editors? Where are the spokes? Weasels and forget-me-nots that needed their beliefs took them for certain. Space and time and waste leave this right. They never knew like a wino if they could spell and type. “These spacey epic fantasies come to life when they speak of a riot or a space they tell them nothing they know. And when the public reads I made this, he knows. So that stays and they know.”

These men are peering at trees 6 feet tall sprout with gremlins faces supplanted amidst the flora. There are flowers of the grandest variety and a mindscape taken and led from the spirit towards a dynamic and a poet laurite that had a month to forget that bump to his head in his youth. It made him dynamic and leaving the man back he lived and he told of a spectacle light they had morning sun tea and left each other to their thoughts.

The old man gamboled and danced a across the room once and said, “Mighty sword, you’ve done it boy.”

“Look, they now must be seven feet high and a half a foot thick tree” I was thinking it could be a new way to produce lumber. I am feeding a sheep with it to make sure it is good for us. The sheep may become very big, because of the growth hormones that make the plants grow like that.”

It was a special kind of proud he wore.

“The trees die once we reach about here, but only because there is no soil that they are planted in. I planted some in the forest a month ago.”

“How big are they?”

“There was a obvious slowing in the growth, but that’s good. I would say they are about 60 feet, and growing quickly.”

There are two things that happen from this point. Cattle eat the forest that is spreading out in their science experiment and a machine is built that creates a fast growing forest and the logging of that forest so that 80 acres of logging is practiced every day as a renewable resource and it is gnome hell, making a brief appearance to notify Silver that he is taking Gnome-dom to a new world, one that they can visit gnomes that have gone to hell. They must use their ingenuity to create a machine like that to visit their heaven, now that the gnomes’ eternal soul is verified.

Meanwhile Craft Creasmore is corresponding in letters with someone idyllic who loves him very dearly. They are in a new romance and the writer does not want to lose her. She is beautiful and everything good for him. She enamors him and we must meet her in her house where she is powdering her nose and believing in God.

It is 7:00 now. The writer and the prodigy are leaving the coffee shop with the prodigy’s mother. She is the woman the writer loves. Her name is Kimberly Vegas. She is a redhead who dresses well and speaks humbly about the accomplishments of her sun. She cares about all that treat her well and has been rather blessed, but that is balanced by her untimely luck as of late. Her father has died young and her mother is heartbroken. They never smoked. Kimberly does. She wants to quit as she feels it is a sign of weakness. She does not know the writer thinks he wrote “Finnegan’s Wake.” She wants a stable man with a good job. He works for the national post, but he is anything but stable. He is not the writer of the book. The “I” in this book is a postman who comes to the same coffee shop and knows these three people in a social way. They do not always look at him with a positive light. She is the nicest to him. The book shows her as a wonderful person listening to religious music. This is book three.

He was running with something of a shining light. This would be a story to cover, once he knew about it. They wanted him to keep quiet and he told the world. They had not yet tested it enough and the world wanted an end to logging. The forest that has been planted keeps reproducing and growing these massively towering trees that are wide enough to hold themselves up at 200 feet tall in a matter of months. This sparks controversy and creates debate among the hippies that genetically engineer feats of nature are at best a horrid mistake and other great arguments for no GE crops in our food supply. An argument for it is that humongous leaves would make lots of air. Forest critters, grass and leave eating ones, begin to gnaw on the leaves of these giant plants and the future generations have mutations in the gene pool. Their children grow like the trees. This gives us giants. Giant cattle.

Some smart guy builds another machine for the cows that are massive; to create and destroy thousands of cows a day. This is the one that the gnomes can see heaven with. The hippies that began in favor of the project protest this vehemently. The gnomes cannot be seen so those that claim to work for them do not know that we are simply creating hell that we can see. The trees are heaven we can see. This is the realization and confirmation of the eternal soul and god. This is heralding a new age but many fight to have it banned with the best intentions.

After a couple of years, the Amish get involved and tell the hippies that they are right to stay on the simple natural path. Hippies begin to live in the forest and one day and ride horses through trails under grass. The picture is painted that they are very small and they come across the giant cows eating the giant hay. It is okay though, they are like ants. Even as a cow steps on them, they fit between the blades of grass and the cow’s hoove because the space between atoms in such that the matter is repelled against the other.

This is how these hippies discover that they can see much smaller than a quark now. They just have to count the levels of splices and create names for those that are smaller, because molecules are much bigger now. String theory is proven. There is, in the end, a giant amish man, peering down from heaven that is the giants kingdom. These giants are we in the near future. We have created the same world, much larger than us.

The prodigy is the one with the answer. He points out that these inventions are creating a whole new science and that within a closed environment they could fix one of the woes of the world. He is against the cattle grower for moral grounds. He feels that it is wrong for a man to create a life to live like that. It was, however, a little less than a fortune that he made helping the scientist.

What this book is about.

2011-02-10T20:47:00.001-08:00

The next morning began like any other. Kimberly waked the prodigy at seven thirty. Silver Lodges was already up, enjoying a cup of tea and watching the sun begin to shine over the street below his window. The writer awoke with a fright as he had died in his dream, creating a worried state in which he had reincarnated and was his own son.

The prodigy began by reading a book about the struggles of France. He wondered what the radio was playing and where they broadcast. Were these the kind that help people pitch in and help the station? He believed that when he thought he was seeing other people in his mind, connected in some fashion to a world beyond his wildest dreams before connected again to a scene far from his home. These were the basis of some of his ingenious conclusions and how he became so fluent in minimax.

Silver Lodges wondered why he became so close with the Little Red Vegas. He had met him through his friend Craft Creasmore and his girlfriend, the child’s mother. The kid was now torn between the world of a child and the world of great men, told that he was special and could hold some great secret. He found peace in this thought. The child had once told him that there was nothing more to know. So he invented something new.

The writer lay awake in bed scared and feeling the mattress to resolve that he existed and the grisly scene he left had been a dream. He smelled smoke and saw Kimberly smoking a cigarette near the window that curved at the top. She was wearing a cream colored silk robe and peering out at the sunshine flooding the yard.

And fare thee well that morning, as none of them walked backwards and if they worked wonder it fixated on dreams. The strength of his love and the moldable world that lay in front of him said strongly that he had not written one note that mattered yet. He felt a deep despair and asked Kimberly why. She smiled and told him that he was getting older and one day would realize that nobody ever really felt very good. He was a successful writer and had many books to be published yet. The job provided for he family and she loved him, so that was what mattered. So Craft stood naked from the bed and got dressed.

As he walked down the stairs, mail came through the door and he picked it up. He saw that there was a note from Level Sprite. He opened it with zeal, as she always spoke in riddles. The poem read:

If right while they roam
Pass not what they know
Ask left the time
Level Sprite says to me

Writing a day away from London
The little lights are true in time
And the world is getting electric
It’s the light of these designs

Spell right of the ego
The discontent and rain
Nights and filled spaces
Just dreams of lights design

But I have found my shelter
Lined paper and a pen
If it is right they know
Level Sprite says to me

And because of this Craft Creasmere began to write this book. He was tired, but he wanted to make an entire pile of paper to show to girls. He claimed he was a writer. The newspaper usually had a story by him. They would ask for one today. But it wouldn’t be this prose that he whispered to his pen and scribbled illegibly in a notebook.

It was at university that my path changed, he would relate. I wanted to make a difference and I thought tattletale might be a good path. That thought escaped from him magically. It serendipitously led this man to a particular outlet he remained in touch with from that point forward. It gave him the idea that something peculiar would happen today.

The writer drank some juice and had a cookie as breakfast. He looked disgruntled so Kimberly Vegas walked towards him. He told her that something was going to break today. He dreamed that he was dieing. That meant his life would change. She put her hand on the table and said, “Just let me get that napkin from you. I hope the best for all your dreams. We both do.”

There are neighbors who only come out at night.

One of the two has to go away on a trip. And what is this trip? It is a label left open for a massive prequel explaining why they must. These patrons are detailed in many fashions because they become a leader of the free world. These people explain that they cannot spell their hard formulas and the prodigy maybe goes for a chess tournament and comes back or something. Who knows, this is of course, the beginning stage of a communal book written by at least three people.

“Maybe talk to that councilor you know, he’s always sucking the government teat. He knows what the new plans are and what needs to be said.”
“I need something bigger than that. They are paying me to be ahead of the game.”
“Would you like me to call him for you? I can always get a story out of him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll see him at the coffee shop. We have a good repoire.”

She began to press the buttons on the phone. Craft stopped her and took the phone from her hand. He hung it on the wall with a clang. Instead of arguing she began to make the morning coffee. The poor sap was acting crazy. He was using the last of his charisma to charm her. The lady smiled. He winked, cartoon sized. And he left the room, holding his cookie. There were a lot of crazies in this town, but a successful eccentric made his own philosophies. She had seen him walking up the street singing and expected something like that from today.

Two green men from before, these shaded spheres with legs and eyes marched barefoot in front of him. The changing colors of the road around him and speaking to the man he knew. The creatures spoke in clear tongues. Craft shifted in his chair, his imagination was running away. He was enamored by the creatures and wanted to put them in a book. His breathe became tight and he needed to travel, maybe write a book. This man knew and never mentioned his in words. They laughed and crossed in front of him. Had he wronged his girlfriend? She was a soul at his service. It was tearing him up inside. He felt certain it was something in the heart. They made pills for that. He knew he had a heart because he felt it bump. The two pulses were muscles. Muscles were skin. Skin was replaceable. He knew the reasoning made no sense. And now she had to leave town. He would keep her with him over the month she was gone. He would write her letters, and teach the prodigy everything he learned. Though the child was often wiser than he. Those words were just filler.

And he needed this story to keep his job. So when his friend Silver Lodges tells him of his new invention he says he must report on this story. He protests, because he has not tested it enough to go public. Craft goes ahead with it anyways. He will lose his job if he does not. It is a self-centered move. Once the world knows, he must demonstrate the invention and it seems wonderful. The machine is built. Logging changes.
Shit hits the fan.

The momentum carries the whole situation far out of control. Other parties are using his patents to create machines that make cow worlds, for growing and harvesting cows, but I think I said that. The tree-growing machine our heaven, and we don’t even know it. The cow-growing machine must be visible hell. We are creating visual God. The visual eternal soul, the computers that regulate and measure levels in these machines are measuring the very essence of life.

The forests outside become giants and these giant cows are in charge. These giants are the visual world of the Gods. We have created our destruction, but it is benevolent.

These benevolent giants become normal in the world. We are like ants and airplanes are wasps and stuff. This is a funny story. Giant hippies and cattle.

They must ask advice from the Wise Turtle.
This cat lives on an island in the south Pacific. His cave is just big enough for him to weather storms in and he spends most his time on the beach, in a grove. He doesn’t move much as he is near 400 billion years old. The all seeing and all knowing tortoise explains that nobody really knows anything and that any statement by a creature is not a divine statement thus, any statement is false including this statement. Because there are some true statements, most are created in the human experience. The world can be viewed in many ways so no one way can be true. But he is probably wrong to most people’s reality.
This is the reality of an old tortoise.

He would like to become a giant, to move to the giant world and transcend his form. He accepts that he must stay to guide these people through the visualization of eternity that is newly happening to this group of souls. These people stay far from this reality, basing the inferences on their natural environment, and only overtones of spirituality should be said.

These people are thinking clearly and not wanderers nor wonder about these questions but the child, with his mind filled with fantasy, finds solace in these quandaries and the answers of the tortoise. It is just him in the woods with the turtle. This should deal with these issues in a children’s literature manner. It would give the effect it was like Alice in Wonderland… Just thinking. IT should be something that can be loved by children and actually understood by adults. Two stories, one about magic turtles and science and one about string theory, genetic modification and visual heaven and hell.

There is also a lady who sells plants. She is in tears right now because she sold a plant that was a dear friend. These are the advantages of being a flower. I can’t publish that in both we have to be here so this city is a pyramid somewhere and book three. But I think of that lady today, as I bought a plant that was large from a small shop and the lady seemed to need the money more than the companionship of her friend. This must be make-believe though, right? She sold me the plant for 5 dollars.

Deliverance of conscience holds no fortitude for one who has wronged another. Steeped in guilt he fretted all night, tossing to and fro in the chains of remorse. There is no moral course for the hedonist that will satisfy, nor is there release for one who is unjustified by consequence though surely reaps a deeper love due to his fallacy.
What rose could endure mistrust, or breach of trust what hope is there in the false promise of repentance?

“The possibility, in return, of a soverigen place for us to rest, is founded by the relinquishing belief that we can and must hold a likeness to our kin.”
“What is it that we are left with now?”
“These sun spots haunted our places as the scientist quietly wrote notes of lonesome moral soltitude like it was a ghastly misfortune, brought upon a vanquished king as sunspots lacking the effort to burn his eyes. Where are we now?”
“We are here, in this room.”
“I understand we are in this room, but where is the room.”
“On the street.”
“I understand we are on the street, where is the street?”
“In this city.”
“I know we are in the city, where is the city?”
“The city is in this country, sir.”
“That is not what I am asking. For how can we be sure that we are in any particular place at a given time? That is a great mystery of life. Where, truly, are we?”

WE HAVE ONLY Holy GIANT COWS and Infinite trees that continue to grow until they are too massive to stay on this planet. The symmetry of this world will be abruptly altered. We may have to worry about the balance of our rotation. We must plant these trees directly across the world from those that are growing, and fast.

The world is vast, and the mountains are not directly balanced. We are fine. There nothing to worry about but those gigantic trees”
“BUT THE GIANT COWS! What will become of us, will we become their cud?” intervened a fearful Fred Brown, a noted voulenteer fire fighter in the town of Steeple House
Nay, if it weren’t for the cows which will feed in the grove and keep balance under our trees our toes would be to big for our mouths.
“But the cows are only over here!” Shouted another affrighted fellow
Not to worry they will breed.
THEIR KIND WILL SPREAD! THEIR KIND SHALL SPROUT! Shouted the crowd.
Just then the scientist realized what he had down and bowed out leaving the crowd to their own devices.

Lights flickered and groaning air breathed in waves.

It was as if pillars were collapsing his mind.

The prickling woods stood open and tall.

Level sprite enters intent on telling the people, “What’s done is done.”

A New Study in Advertisments.

2011-02-10T20:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes an advertisement can be something that doesn't seem like an advertisement. Some argue that studies on subjects like the personal submarine sell the product to the exclusive club that could afford them.

There are also full color magazines like "Robb Report" that sell things like the above craft, mansions, chauffeured armored cars, ancient mummies, $3, 430 wine and vacations at palaces in Las Vegas. The hold a annual car judging contest for princes and millionaires only.

The Greatest Story Ever Denied.

2011-01-30T14:59:00.000-08:00

2010-11-20T23:30:00.001-08:00

As this should be a piece that I send for publishing I would like now share an old poem that I first wrote between 15 and 17 years of age. I did not think I was like the rest of the people but eventually learned that most were the same. Other people simply deal with insecurities differently.

You are a product of your television. (I am)
Television pulls you in with signal mixing pixels in electrons forming colors and pictures of the world’s most beautiful people. This makeup and paint and wonder bras that leave perfect models in a perfect world. The kind of world with explosions every three or four minutes and a hero who saves the day once in perfect time. It is because he is under contract to be in the next episode.

So we root for a cat that never dies and never will. These perfectly timed plot twists and changes of heart. For men who seek the fame of the old mistaken line, “I’ll get you, Mr. Bond.” And it is getting better again. At least the TV is playing rock music again.

(This is perhaps because we only remember the greatest from the past. If I had to follow Nirvana with a group like A Simple Plan than the suggestion to claim that such pop-punk is un-cool and refrain from broadcasting until the threats of no longer supporting such a television station became serious. Though I still much prefer Nirvana to A Simple Plan I understand how MuchMusic sold that music as punk rock now.)

They are starting to play a track by A Perfect Circle. Maynard is quite a man. They do not play enough Tool, all the Good Charlotte and these punk bands seem to be products. It seems a twisted ideal, an insult even.

I continue with angst: Where are the Sex Pistols? The Dead Kennedys? For fucks sake, where is the Clash? These could be pop music.
(Without going into too much detail, I understand now why the Sex Pistols and Dead Kennedys were not played on MuchMusic after school during the beginning of the new millennium.)

I like “The Wedge.” It would be cool to be played on the wedge.

Authors Note: I should also say that I knew very little about the Sex Pistols or the Dead Kennedys at that time in my life. I first heard Anarchy in the UK and Nazi Punk’s Fuck Off around the time is all.

It turns out my third high school band was Pyrite. Or maybe it was my ego.
So the Eclectic Roses began and I worked for God, under the guise of someone who listened to Manwoman while he baby-sat me. It was a blessed simplicity.

I spewed curse words on the paper as reaction to my thoughts about the quality of these early writings. This was a trait I did not understand, followed by a list of band names, including the Ceramic Bears, Hanks Soup Kitchen (Four days a year we serve the poor) and Let it Go.

Soar and for a tore roaring good time. (And I believe that is what I did.)
Or: The Gentle Swastikas Happy Fun Time Band

It is a question of how easy it all is. The perfect new-order of pop punk rock or roll. Perhaps a blues progression, but I admit that I feel like a idiot version of a ZZ Top wannabe who still lived with his Mother because I wanted to sleep and eat for free. I did not have a job.

As far as I want to go:
Heroin Magnet Junky Dilemma: although I think that the kids are wrong. With one wave of this magic wand we will have marsh mellow soup and aunt eater feet.
These are parts of little boys eating a treat.

A Blessing Requested

2010-11-20T23:14:00.001-08:00

To time to drive fast as the last that they know
These are wolves in this sheep clothing
Trust in the taste of a spell or a show
Or this tea and smoke that I’m holding
Water or minds that had that old spot
Where I know what is not worth knowing
And happiness is a heart that is hidden from wine
As a heart and a mind that will show it

So take your last breathe and feel your mind walk
As a blessing of wolves in sheep clothing
And a man that stood tall near the back or the wall
It is the take that is not worth knowing
As a request would be told the world placed them alone
It is a blessing and rose that I’m holding
The dear space above and ground ‘neath my feet
Take the best blessing that knowing is holding

The same that hold forward we march to these walls
And stay blessed in this house forever
And they won’t mock your soul or keep you long and told warm
That took their old man as a sorcerer
Who recorded alone a year passed from his home
A house as blessed right to a smoker
You when you dress like that as smooth as a cat
Take hold of this rope you an hold it
And stay here us because you must in a house
As blessed as our house it is such

With fragrant dress as a mouse that I trust
I trust this dear house to take hold and take nobody prisoner
The voice in this house the old discarded old soul
To watch it in holding their prisoner
Strange things unsettling and people with faces that
Worry and mark the old road
Former insurgents want drafted dictation
Old men march slowly towards
And the men stood in line on checkerboard floors
Like the light if the former
And marked were the people before

Man was a monster that took him in succubus
And morning star’s fate and the gold and the blessing incurred
My mind falls on the words I have
Tortured and haunted damned souls when if wanting this
Space of the haunting was spent in the rhyme
That they held if the lord
Said blessing this house with the best dressed next cigarette
Or testing the mouth of the ones that you wore

So the dome of the lights became shade
And though the lights became shade
The dark rose in the room
The light fell below a smoky
Shadow that held
Fare these monsters well
They can’t take me to hell

And the tree tapped the window
That silly old tree
An honorable mention
The taste of the trapper told
Too many before
So testing the truth I said
Try to face this old heartache
That these taps are the trees
And not the voice from before

And the tapping began
To rap a little louder
Too soft or the wind
Took the tap to the places
Take me to the tone
That drops me beyond

So marching to the front room
I reached for the door
And outside to the front lawn
I saw a graced hand
Something pulling away the dirt

The shook like space and seemed to grow from the year
But quickly shrunk back to the tile that sat at that spot
I take the reason and the happening that ad their
Hypnotizing reason or state or saint
The sage that took them when the friends never had some
So we took the sages stuff like the friend that I was
The test for me to take from you was
Such a strange and odd fellow that
The walls began shaking as ghosts in the night
Took their proper place on cupboards and around
The seconds or settlement that blessed this dear house
It is coming with me now

And the only man that I could see sat drinking gasoline
I knew the disturbance was real
As the other man I couldn’t see stood clearly right next to me
My only friend could not hear this man’s howl

So a man such as you is testing my fire
To choruses of shadows and whips and the like
And if I was to take this silly little knife
And play in my fancy band
This man will be saved from our life

As a blessing requested that a man such as dressed as you
Said to the other sent witness alive
And taking my mind she said
I can’t hand you that weapon friend
The stopping of all time
The test is a blessing too
See all those things I do
Seeing these minds or time
And testing the waters
That man sits drinking gasoline

Place him in the water, sir
And bring yourself too
The checkerboard floor tore
The minds that were shattered
With lights that knew nothing of them

And the shadows you wrote
Of these downtrodden souls
The minds in these covers and walls
These checkerboard floors seed
A few more near shadows sir
So we can all do this in these walls

So the man drinking gasoline grabbed me by the shoulder
And told me this is what we do to our friends
When they are swinging around knives
And pretending to type and be on stage
We need to wrap you in rope and leave you on the floor
So you calm and we can settle this hope is the mantra
That all will be well when I wake in the morning

And a rapping began from the tree on the window
Ticking time taking tombs to their road
The tapping received the tones that had told me
This was the old way that I needed and so
These men that you knew were this
They gave you a leaning thin
Forward you must march to the hall
The tapping on the window
Clicked lightly and clearly
I had to place the man drinking gasoline
Into these walls

The tapping tipped titles that toned in chimes didn’t sit
On a table that floated in the air
The blessing that tested me
That needed the western seed
The morning dew set in the air

If standard life alternate
And mornings that had to be
Took the words sheltered but bare
These things tapping with me
Is nothing but the trees
These trees that are mine and not yours

The blessing requested
As to take this man dressed
As a man that took this man
So take that damned gasoline
And reach for the knife

The men took their symptoms
So we have little food
And you are fretting and moving about
Detailed matter of inquiry
But no store remote

He needed some backing
So my friend tied me down
The torn piece of rope
Held me in place
Then he tied up my head
To capture my brain

But the fridge door fell open
And he fell towards my neck
And wrapped the piece there instead
I jumped back and kicked him
And ran to the other room
And found a way out
Of the bondage aquired

The dresser dressed prettily
Set tests out in front of me
Made mention of sensors and tests from before
The blessing requested that
Set those let sex that set
Silver and safe for the water before

Send the old sets that say
Send their dear blessing
So silverware settles
And sitting adores

Saying saints set though we are safe
Soldiers were torn as the members of fancy set
The sunshine in setting of gasoline or nightmares
That wrote of the morrow and
The water remarked that he were perfectly poor

And saints walked in pairs across checkerboard floors
The walls became still and they opened the doors
And the light in the attic shone like never before
I stood calm like a martyr
Dressed like a rope
And the cigarette did not smoke
But it hung in my mouth

And dressed like a blessing set
Tests to the lesser man
The man in the house would not leave me alone

Those space that left the oldest request
Blessed and held strong for they show it
If you have blessed dress as I know you have this
Time space or multiple showings

So we take a light breath until
Dressed in the rest or steal
The sense of these sent
And you’ve last requested that as blessed as this home
The curse is the rays of light that are shining

And it is your best guess
That the blessed dress accepts
That not all are quite as blessed
As he dressed as a sheep
Or wolves dressed in bland clothing

As set in their sessions said stop or the others went
Like faith and the home that they know me
Though the blessing incurred is not the one that you heard
It is not like you need this
A man quite like dressed
In clothes that are his best dress
Or the though of this request

They heard a man quite as blessed as
As blessed as this house
And house quite as blessed
As your dressing this tone
And these of those nets that
Hold those in torment
The triumph of one major soil

So a man dressed his best
Claimed to be as blessed as this house
And blessings are best said
That the blessed dress respects those of other blessed dress
And pities the ones that don’t cover
The respect of those of this dress is a blessing I guess
And the dress requested can be no other

So the best thing requested
To run in these walls
Are the requested men
Bring your blessed friends
We are wolves in this sheep clothing

As a test that had words if they needed reserve
And you did not set me in time so I know
I have some dear friends here to take you inside
But you take you husband in a rush
And take test of the love that is strong told their own
Old men that we knew of these homes there’s a chance
Working they sent those old ones to nothingness

So take our request sir and leave this dear house with me
Don’t leave this house with me no
The gold tooth is eliminated
Or when did they go?
Safe men were monsters when the one that were men
Took leave when the lord took their homes that I know
But make sure I have believed
If you leave the man drinking gasoline
You must leave this house with me
Take a dear walk with me
Before the summer is out

And blessed as this watershed
Right in the middle
Never the products or tome
You dressed as a martyr
Or member of salsa
You tidy little symptom
I took you from your friend

The man in the letter
Taste of the insolence
Taste of the martyr he wrote
So the man left his house
The members of fancy
Dressed in the blessing of things that they stole
The blessing that dressed best said
Testing the dice to let
Days take your life he said
Test the dear poltergeist
Claim to a liar’s friend
Tried to be masked if the
Blessing is on my own house

So dressed as my best request
Blessed in the basic set
Bless like a martyr she said
Test in the matter
That didn’t want to blind himself

Torn water marks and alone
And the blessed wrong state of man
I do not deserve you as God
The house left tested and torn

So the best request I dressed like a festive
Old draft of a show that he wrote
So a better man took Naria home
Because the cupboard were moving
And so were the walls
And that checkerboard floor
Looked like water alone

2010-11-14T00:00:00.001-08:00

Be like John Lennon. Invent the clock.

2010-09-03T11:31:00.001-07:00

Rushdie Fails at Latest Attempt

Salman Rushdie has fallen short this time. His usually melodic poetry seems to now be overpowered by this underdeveloped and overproduced work. The respect he has gained from previous attempts is sure to be rethought by the smarter of his critiques. The bluesy, dark work he is otherwise known for was not found in this work. It was a broken, chunky piano based effort with building ballads usually recorded with the click of a metronome. The first track opens with a simply bad piano line and it only falls worse once one hears the horrid lyrics “One day I’ll be another champion, baby / One that you can’t be in, girl.” Rushdie then takes very little time to move to a slew of profanity. It is rather odd.

The second and third tracks are both conniving rip-offs of Bruce Springsteen ballads. He has only changed the lyrics. Rushdie has disappointed a whole generation of believers in his cultured, controversial art with these blatant rip offs. The fourth track is a cover of “My Girl,” in which he mentions his second wife’s name. The fifth and sixths track are each about thirty-five seconds of radio static, explained to be an “Artistic Jazz Piece” on the online record sites. The single falls in a radio friendly distorted lull soon after this, but after three minutes it becomes that hit 1986 Dwight Yokam song.

The only shining star in this mockery of music is the rocking cover of “Eat the Rich,” the 1990 Aerosmith song. One can finally hear the Rushdie we all know and love. It reminds us of his better days, “The Satanic Verses, Disc 2” or the smash club hit “Tigersan.” He screams and sings his way through this before it ends at around 2:50. Then, as awkwardly as it began, there is then an eight-minute guitar drone to end the album.

Bottom line: Do not waste your money on this work. Even the biggest Salman Rushdie fan will be utter gob smacked to hear this abomination of an otherwise wonderful name. Perhaps when his bassist, Smacky Dave, is out of hospital they will rekindle our love of high-culture. If he can stay clean enough to join Mr. Rushdie in writing the next work together they may record something that makes us remember the good days. Those days when times were good, beer was cheap and the drugs were hard. Until then we are simply boozing in these convention center parking lots worrying that five years down the road we will be in the same spot, following our hero out of pity and shame. We will follow you, sir, simply so you do not feel sad yourself.
And Salman, brother, we don’t want that as much as you do.

Part 1

2010-05-11T15:39:00.003-07:00

I should phone my mother, as I was hit with a bad flu. It has been a coughing matter sent towards dead landscapes. I was clearing air and doing things purposefully. It is the Jabberwocky show, a perhaps poltergeist. Dear, I have been ill, smoking too much, cold, bad fever. But I have been surviving. My immune system is stronger after the battle. The battlefield is torn and smoking. I have a hair bottle and a dearly hated man in my sights. He lives upon smells, hair, small kids and death kneels but he made it, too.

And here I am doing nothing. Do I want to be here?

Who is the leader of this next story? She is eighteen. She is a dear to me meditative battle, filling my head with angst and medicine. She is a shoulder to cry on, a white spell farting on the Jabberwocky television show. We are flying over Canada in an airplane, looking at outlandish cities sticking out of the landscape like a cartoon and boundaries or map-lines below.

Is she the girl from Jabberwocky? Is she here to talk with me and tell me my dreams? Or does she do this to everyone? She has a dark name. Black is bluer with her on my troubled mind. But these words are just personal freedom.

This may be a turning point. The sun peeks through the clouds and my window. Good times should follow this, sir. All will be well again. First I must relate this story as best I can. I should be better at hiding my beliefs.

If I had been, all this would have been avoided.

These were cheap prayers from a man developing sloth in order to save my reign and tear a whole new man out of this blueprint. They continued, though it seems rather arbitrary as I have little room and much to say. I hold the inner light but am afflicted with one upheaval. It was a scummy little bar that had a bad habit of playing Tijuana brass. And I had but one simple refrain, my true and dear simple prayer.

Truly I bow to this reckless wish. He held a red gun. I had a stapler. His knees hurt and they were not hiring weirdoes. It is sad because I feel like a daft able man next to him. The righteous consciousness joins another while they sleep.

But an utter and disparaging loneliness seeps into me. So I drink beer. And she laughs, because she loves me. Another round pull my eyes together like glass orbs or a knife hurting me such as John would stab hunger through me. Sirens wail in the distance.

But I hope I haven’t left you with the impression this story is about me.

The man leaves down the stairwell and out the door. The beginning light of every day chases this man to his car and he runs towards it in a black suit. The knife is thrown on to the seat and he starts the car. The black Cadillac pulls into the dawn. This dark man smiles and lights a cigarette. I had not seen him every before, or since, for that matter.

He is now sitting with Mother Suzanna. The dark man is wearing his black suit with a dark fedora. It is hard to tell if it is also black, as they sit near the back in a booth and write silly lines back and forth. The technical spark is myself, a loner with failed knees. His heart sank.

He reached for the bell and was swatted by Mother Suzanna. His hand flew back in fear. Mother Suzanna wrapped her hands of this diner booth, “It’s a shame we can’t smoke in here.” The man never wore anything but black suits. He smoked three packs a day. Mother Suzanna didn’t smoke. She also wore black suits.

Later, the halo on his windshield shone in brilliant purple and red. The crack up the middle separated the bright sun. He sniffed a quick line and drove a little faster. He felt burnt and reached for his cigarettes. He lit one and adjusted the mirror so he could look directly into his eyes. It is about what Mother Suzanna sees, so she can report it. The man had wasted an hour on the freeway so he pulled into an exit leading to a park where his car wasted no time slowing to the point of idle recreation. He had very little to do. He imagined ghouls banging on metal tables and hooting into the wind. A smile broke over his lips.

He knew what she would tell him, “I looked into the secret life of plants. I left a shutter camera out over a few days and watched how they moved and manipulated their environment. I watched how flowers form.”

The man sat coldly staring over his dashboard and into the empty green space. He knew that somewhere a femme fatale held a wine glass. A ray of dusty sun shines off the coffee table made of glass. But all parties are afraid to look.

“People make mistakes, sir,” the man would have to tell his boss, “I was left to the wolves. What else could I have done?”

And his boss would laugh. He would sip his morning coffee and say, “You will never flee these ghouls.” The man choked and heard his boss continue, “The grim reality is that you are scared.”

“They won’t get me,” the man said aloud to the empty car and green space.

He heard the femme fatale chime in, “Don’t let them, kiddo.” She stood from the high table. She excused herself and marched quickly out the front door of the shop. She passed the newsman with a smile. She passed a beggar at a quicker pace. Two men who worked a construction site whistled. And the man was still alone in his car.

The ghouls stayed with him. He had heard the noise and came across two laughing men and a pool of blood. Happy days and shared interests, one supposes. The ghouls vanish and the man has little to do but laugh maniacally.

Our hero writes a brief list for me:
1. Call a gargoyle.
2. Three perfect crystals.
3. I sleep in fame.
4. Death becomes me.
5. There is little I can do yet a prayer may send us past it.

Conspiracies and cutting jobs, dark asking and jewels, hard line carnies and festival lights, happy gnomes and figurative laughing, it was a generous banquet. I am the writer who orders another beer, watching, waiting and trying to find the ghouls.

Mother Suzanna shone a green light upon him. The man was watching THC flow through his veins and he looked puzzled. It was beginning to darken in the late afternoon. He thought of the queen. Was she still the Queen? He needed to discipline himself. The writer had many empty books to write in, and the man could tell they were all about him. So he struggled with his coffee and laughed about his press pass. He had sent many manuscripts away, yet very few had been accepted.

He prayed he could pay his rent. He had $2000 dollars to his name, $1400 hundred to play with and $600 to keep at all costs. He was smart but socially awkward. He may have been famous in past lives, but that is neither here nor now. His goal is to have his work studied after his death. It had been his goal many years when it finally happened. The man should listen because the advice was golden. He shattered parental tension. He failed at gatherings. He had the economy. He could transform.

Casual encounters first, then taking steps for breathing. He sheltered himself from the mid-day sun but now that it was gone he was thinking of the Tijuana brass music that leaked out the diner doorway at about three in the afternoon. He was a sometimes prophet but paid five dollars for roaches he found in an ashtray. He had the blues.

He was found near the entrance of the alleyway sucking on a filtered cigarette. He had given up cigars for his health but felt obliged to continue smoking for the sake of his aches and pains. He had worked at a smelter his whole adult life. Now it was closing and his town would change. His friends would leave, finally. They had been threatening relocation for years.

He owned a thoroughbred horse. The thought at the time was that it was a success and an investment. It had paid little in cash but it was a good social detail. He would talk of it when he needed to increase his class or if the time was right. He told himself to feel good. He had food in the cupboard, a roof over his head and the need for at least two quilts. He was doing things on purpose.

But we were all his pawns. We all move according to his whims. In the end we will all work for him. The refusal to love Mother Suzanna has repercussions. Things are illegal due to the divine word and some are illegally against that. The infinite word is one that many ghosts and gargoyles protect. Many people fight this infinite word and fail to become trapped in the world they have created. Some become trapped as ghosts. Some leave this world to find a reception of pain. It is ill advised to deserve this.

Part 2

2010-05-11T15:39:00.001-07:00

The word of man is not the word of the above world. This world is tainted. Men have a common trait to waste time slowly. Men are tainted by ego and self-deprecation. The divine think past those menial words. They spew out into a thought that the femme fatale is yet to find. It is of the unknown. It is the elder of the two that is determined to be correct in his varied situation.

This so enraged the gargoyles that they put a guard in the air to follow the man in the black suit and Mother Suzanna as if they raced against him. The goal at the end would be a million dollar purse. The gargoyles had the man pass through empty and invisible gates to track his movement. And there the man sat, in his idling black Cadillac.

So he put the car in drive and moved it through the dirty street when he realized that the gargoyle had set a trap inside his car. He heard two children laughing and it kept him up at night. It didn’t matter much what his personality was like at this point but he lived trying to get it back. It was the same as it ever was, as if he knew any better.

The car turned and was headed west, chasing the sun as it fell behind a skyscraper in the distance. He lowered the blind and adjusted himself in the seat.

He turned the wheel and headed north to a shady thoroughfare.
It was here that he would ask a man for money.

As he pulled into the bar parking lot he noted how empty the block was. He quickly made his way inside, away from the world.

“Could I have a glass or juice,” he croaked, “And perhaps a chocolate chip cookie?”

Enter the two cats from the battle of Emregon. They were two cartoon-like light green balls with goofy eyes and lanky legs and spent their time tracing around the man and his femme fatale. They had brought little reaction from her or the barman. The one on the left held a staff and laughed at bad jokes. There was something about anti-humor. It always seemed to break the ice.

The barman handed him juice and a cookie. “Thank you,” he said grittily. He sipped it as if it were dark scotch and turned to the woman to his right. She placed her hand on the table and the small green men stopped marching.

“Now we’re sucking the government teat,” she said.
The man giggled and asked her to call Whacky Chris.
She pressed a speed dial button on her phone within two rings he was on the other line singing a fancy song.
She asked him to take the two green men from the barroom. The man was sure of this because they laughed and moved towards the doorway.
The man smiled at her, “So the deal is on it’s way through?”
She nodded.

Later he felt like he may have wronged the woman, and it was tearing him up inside. He felt certain that he had a heart. He imagined the way she talked, her attitude, the way she looked, eyes that were tremendously blue and she wore a Government of Canada suit and smock. They were friends of the old tie and demanded the kids to listen. They lived in warehouses on plushy pillows. Their families were the other kids that lived in the warehouse. He had always banked on that. He always wanted those opposite things. He was well fed now but had not always had such luxury.

The light changed and he pulled his vehicle through the intersection. He looked for an audience, smiling as he waved. The distance traveled down the road and back allowed him to unravel. He was passed the asteroid belts and far worlds.

He recalled trips to Vegas as his car slowed down. But a banshee trapped him, wailing towards him so he could murder the poor. A still light and whole worlds left him bare, as if a sectional sofa was left in the deep woods on some island that was only his.

He felt successful and accomplished. He felt disenfranchised and tough. He had a butterfly knife to swing around his knuckles. The banshee wailed just arms length away from him. She was old and haggard around the face. He held his place and swung the knife twice at her. The first she did not flinch, the second swing ripped through her arm. It was another apparition for this man.

And even harder mathematic equations created a torrent. Idle muses haunted him by the evening, as the Gods plan a new sun. He wanted to capture the example he had played by. He thought of other work, but his madness continued with a simple rapping at his window. It was keeping him up at night.

He needed to sell his idea to the subscribers, or perhaps move in and conquer someone else by video taping an artist, asking him interesting questions. If he could mask himself later, this first draft would not hold his own.

This was not our hero’s point, although it may be circumstantial. At this point it might be good to state that the protagonist of this story was the whole time in contact with these varied and symbiotic characters and was in fact a thief.

The others were spellbound by his beliefs, resolve, determination and guile to face the world that treated him so poorly. The inspiration he had promised the other young artists came like a flash and in a moment he had left. For this they could do little else but thank him, not to his face or in a letter. But under their breath they thanked their luck in anger that they had not become so jaded that they treated the charity of others in such a way. This man in effect saved the others from squandering the life they were so blessed to receive.

The man had nothing of value except a blues harp and was motionless sitting in an empty lot of a rail depot that had seen far better days. There was nobody near the man. He held his grip tight and blew in the lonely silence. He had a secure petition and a lovely instrument. And though he had not thought of his mother in years, suddenly she became rather prominent. She was killed early in his life by a man she owed money to.

He was on his own in a tired and dreary world. He found friends in the urgent city somewhere in the poorest depths. But the murder was never investigated. She was his only mother and the police did not recognize the crime. One like so many, flying through the dead bureaucracy in this ill-fated city. She had words like the others but this fell unknown to his self and it made dark reminder of his youth.

He stole to provide a drug habit but never really drank. He never laughed nor cried. He split the page in two. He lit the night sky and looked at his letters. They were unopened and drafts blew into his house and perched on a round glass table. The other chair moved though it was empty and the man approached the second chair. He shivered as a force that would leave him approached. He boarded with energy and noted the door was unmoving and in fact was a deep sphere.

He read his favorite prayer by memory. If hell was what he favored he thought he would be mighty happy. It had no impact but he prayed for insecurity that the man held his aim through. He had prayed for her enough that tidbits of the Lord strained a lonely backseat with roses crumbling at half-mast. He had it this time, he thought of the two friends talking.

They would have been sitting there but they were not. It was probably for the best. But that little smiling girl from Jabberwocky was placed on the window or a turn of the candle. She danced like his world across the wall as the light flickered and landed somewhere beside the man who killed me.

Neither of us showed it, but we would race passed the trees, brooks and fences. We took liberty to slide on the bike tires as we strove to love our Father. We found nothing in obsessing over various trends or mercenary movement. Various people would raise our liberty and show that nobody and no force would take our measure as lead. In the end, your soul with all its earmarks will come to rest like mine. The faithful always claim to live in the light.

“So how do I know you are not a freemason?” the man asked.
“Had they taken them in fascist states?” I replied
“Answer the question,” he spoke firmly.

I stood motionless and surveyed his face. He rapped against the table and stated his demands again flatly. I struggled to respond.

“I believe they are mostly harmless.”
He struck the table again, “You God damned fool, get out!”

Civilization started with indoor plumbing and genocide because the Creator is cool as shit. This is a literal handbook. They hold all of his artists. They each took three days to incorporate the influx. The trouble with humor is that the President and other evil people holding guns drive Cadillacs. Do you think he will kill again? It is a topic that never left our opinion, but perhaps these men are chosen well in advance.

But one hundred years of genocide is enough. The literacy rate is higher now and many are happy to work. He was an accountant once again. Three years of school and he knew the technology of the world before. He was an accountant then, too. It is best to be near money, “Maybe I can hold some,” he thought.

It is a textbook case of literacy.

I suppose he read for the fun of it. A servant of the dire lord, I take it for granted that I eat daily. So thank you. There by I am a disgrace to all living men. I do not live a life, but a series of sexual advances. The only illness you fall into is a blank line spending three days in a coffin. If you fall asleep you chased a demon. This ill will is finally your torture. Did you ever notice the TV screen?

The man’s cigarette broke and the cherry fell out, “Damned thing can’t light,” he muttered under his breath. He was malarkey living like C. S. Lewis writing Alice in Wonderland. And perhaps it was all for a child in the same way.

Of course, near the end of all time, the Actual Freemason is the still around guy. A still around, stuck in a staying around kind of mood, the still around guy at the end. “That’s my goat-boy,” she said.

They asked me to leave and I left rather quickly. I held them to it, saving the last of the paranoid. The overwhelming reality of their true cause made idle small talk with those who were true journalists. They held him to it, folding less of the paranoid. Only the reasonable, the witty and the idle judged the irresponsible. And only the lonely are idle. The red tape and pants are a gonzo truth.

Real writers are much obliged.
Real writers need to be watched.

They told the man nothing. It was utter gibberish, garbage. Magic impulses and manic outcries, though he believed it all. Only the reference held a man half interested in believing. He sat idly searching and pulling words from other’s thoughts. He would never leave Los Angeles again. I take that back, the LA of the north, Vancouver. It is a city of only red cars, but then we found this black Cadillac.

He needed coffee like he needed a bag of hammers to the side of his head but he stopped in anyways. The delusion was grated and the dreams succeeded to make sure he belonged to Mother Suzanna. The whole beverage was on her dime. So he asked to put “The Needle and the Damage Done” in the CD player. He never imagined it would keep him up at night. It was just the scratch of the minute where he stared out the window. But that never kept him up at night. She would, she might grab his arm.

It was a classy joint, he thought, the Devil’s burnouts and white trash. He argued with the cashier enough to turn the next page. The whole restaurant turned on him. It was as if his fly was undone as he paced the counter with a smile. He had to leave and go elsewhere. The highway would be right. He could just drive away.

There was nowhere he could hide. He struck the steering wheel and allowed his car to drive itself down the straight and narrow highway. It was for the best.

His person conquest was one that trailed off. The turnpike was draining him. Traffic was getting worse and he knew that if he wanted to run away he had to do so now. He would do what the doctor would not. The damned were noted and two of the acid trips he had done recently caused an accidental ghoul. The draw of nicotine and coffee would save his note. If he ever left the depression the jitters would come. There was nothing in the middle nor at the window. Nothing would keep him up at night.

2010-05-11T14:40:00.000-07:00

This is the start of a new era. Special times and metaphor drop ill with these death kneel. What are the sober men marked through their mindful of work and ultimate old signal or sacrifice. The leaders held their thought trough any pantomime that was the leaders of men held down for significant slaughter. The leaders of these men send their mark into the mainstream and my mighty sword was traveled and the writer pulls a hamstring. The loaded gun is nothing but a fact.

So still at his Smith and Corona a writer stays resting. Easily and modern the man smashes for the Venus if they all settle men on fire than the leaders are to finished. The man of hope and rah are more modern than these parts they seemed more relevant. They seemed a simple outside fall and when they had to hit, they needed the simple ankh man rah. And when the modern man, fell upon their hit there was a simple folk who mentioned that the silver wit could not be explained.
And he would write to that, as something that he don’t, these martyrs seemed legit.

2010-04-26T21:32:00.001-07:00

Craft History Ch 103
Four Basic Domains of Material Objects

1. Ancestral – heirlooms
The old violin sits idly in a leather case. The case has deep red plush interior but is covered in a think layer of dust, as it has only been open twice in twenty years. The strings are ragged and have a thin layer of fuzz on them. Every few inches the catgut slips in a sharp line out the side of the strings. The wood below them is finished in a dark brown coating. It is deeply covered in this varnish. It is cut like a small violin, with a light cut in the middle of the body. The bow is long but the horsehair is frayed. It was hand made in Canada in my grandfather’s era. He passed away in 1986. The violin was probably built by hand in a small shop in the Edmonton area in the early 1950s. The violin is simply fragile. It hasn’t been touched in twenty years. Either set of strings might break if they are pulled together. The dust also alludes to this idea.

2. Bestowal or Exchange – social and familial / religious and temporal
There is a three-foot high statue of Shiva that was sold as a cheap forgery to my father about ten years ago. He bought it on eBay and once it arrived we took it out and it was a cheap forgery of the forgery it was sold as. It is black and stands on a square pedestal carved like a master. The numerous heads are stacked atop a small frame and the many arms stick out off the side, hooked together. The left set of arms is broken and varnished over as if it was made of stone. But it has been broken again and one can now see its true nature. It is made of plaster and metal wire as so to look broken and weathered with age in the photographs. It was sold at a reasonable price, about fifty dollars. The statue is an interesting piece in need of minor repair. It has an aesthetic quality of dignity or stature in life. Without seeing the ceramic and wire and plaster, it appears to be a true forgery from 1849. I believe this piece of art is a joke. The decorative properties of Shiva symbolize the eternalness of the moment while the artist is laughing because he was able to sell a forgery as a forgery online.

3. Political – Authority/Investiture/Rulership
I have an old orange t-shirt from Shambala. It signified my authority as a sober person at the music festival. Drugs of all measures circled around me. It is 100 percent cotton and dyed bright orange. The music festival’s logo is about located on the left breast of the shirt. On the back and in larger black lettering the word “Staff” is incredibly apparent. The shirt was perhaps made the same way any shirt of Canadian origin is made. The production of t-shirts is a largely automated process. The fabric is cut in to the shape of the front and back and it is sewn up the side. The neckline and sleeves are then added to the shirt to give it the final look. The t-shirt is very loud in order to attract the attention of the partygoers in need of a sober mind. This is a responsibility that was necessary to uphold. It seems to be the only symbol of authority I can find in my home.

4. Domestic Tools – Functional Tools
There is a garden hand shovel that was gifted to me as a going away present. It has a light maple handle that was about two feet long. In the end it is only about an inch round. The metal spade is wrapped around the thinner end of the long maple shaft. The spade is hammered into a thin yet durable end. Then it was polished to a shiny silver surface and eventually sold to the Princess Auto Corporation. This is evident by the sticker that is stuck to the shaft in a makeshift fashion. The handle was surely machine carved from a log. The spade was surely shaped by a large wheeled machine rolling back and forth over the cut metal to make the end sharper. The aesthetic quality this material object has is a glimmer or shine. The spade and handle both shine with the reflection of any wandering light source. This gives an impression the tool is new and yet to be used.

The Government fed me drugs so I took more. There is something crooked about that system. The issue lay in the pomegranates unique qualities and the hotel room that I couldn’t leave. They were scared minds and bad trips, horrid notice and blasted foreign days that should not be remembered. Now there is little except Schizophrenia and the notice for Dr. David Suzuki. I agree begrudgingly with the “Downside of High.” But those trips will happen to most anyone. The trick is to fall asleep trying.

The government drugs take longer to work but I thought they had the same effect. The night seemed so young but I shouldn’t have taken them. This is from the lighter effects on Vietnam Veterans. I am nothing of that sort. My life has obviously been one of delusions of grandeur and hopeless mornings wondering what I am going to do with my day. If I did more, I wouldn’t have the thoughts that I was this world’s hero.

But when I was younger the government fed me drugs, told me I had to take them and they made me dizzy and sleepy. They were psychoactive pills that changed my perspectives on things. They helped, but that fed my drug use. I took different forms of psychoactive medicine and even found different ways of ingesting my prescription medicine. This was more fun because it wasn’t allowed. Things were strange in those years and I loved all the drugs, the whole slew of them.

I burned out and quit hard drugs by 21. I fell back into them sometimes and hurt myself but never too badly before I quit. But I feel resentment towards the people who initially prescribed my particular mind with heavy psychoactive chemicals. Maybe it was my own decision and this is my vented regret for taking them. Or Maybe I would have lived without the prescription pills had I stayed away from street drugs. Or maybe I would have lived a happy and healthy life without smoking. I have grown up quite a bit in the last year as I just recently turned 25.

I wonder if Dr. Suzuki has ever noted the wonder and absolute manifestation of strange events and series that happens when one is in a manic state. Right there is some magical stuff. What a wondrous world filled with endless possibilities it is. All the scenes fade into some delusion of past live regression and existential angst that is suppressed and unwilling to show itself. You think you are hanging with the true royalty. And I’m sure I was. I think that is how they have parties.
They do them at the psychiatry ward.

An introduction.

2010-04-04T17:53:00.001-07:00

Norman Shins lived in a large bland city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them from those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told of two friends that really had their say.

He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “

This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper nearly every night.

This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. But this action was simply because the boss needed to instill fear and power for respect. He thought that nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks he told Norman every night at dinner.

It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.

Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.

But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell. Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Darkened Guards would take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.

It was argued that this sped the process of growing. Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the development of their otherwise stable and capable children. Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away. Is this what life is?”

Harold refused to answer and did not speak all night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.

So the next night Norman asked the same question. Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.

This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played tricks with their eyes.

“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”

2010-04-04T14:29:00.001-07:00

PART 19:
Richard Channing was in his comfy chair when his roommate arrived, although he had no roommate. The tone was a hushed whisper, “Before I think to leave and travel.” His room mate said hello.
Richard glanced to his side mirror. He sold more money that day than he knew. He was no mere drug dealer, he was a world leader. Our hero loves and before the mightiest sword drawn would be his peoples. This was his true purpose.

Our hero began to ramble. “I am not the beginning of the old world. I have no remark that let them. Let the man have nothing. That is my counter remark. And let the old heathens be lit. If they never marked nothing, they would soldier on as old sorts. They had nothing to lose. The marked men who felt they met the old reason they the marked suits,” Richard heralded.

His roommate asked an awkward man to clarify.
Instead of replying he felt his old typewriter and wondered about it’s previous typist. It was a moment of reason but Richard mentioned, “Washed and marketed to a fool. The old nevermore that took the crows, sir.” But Rick Channing smiled and moved his fingers to type.

The roommate had won.

He won because heaven was waiting for the traveling few. They may not need these people who run away from the room. But he knew it was not that. And the toad knew that too, even third party members out in the hallway played our dear hero the blues.

“I would call on him, my friend,” The roommate said softly, but the remark fell on Dick Cheney’s deaf ears and he replied, “This man belongs in a world for himself.”

This was an odd moment for a man of Richard’s caliber. He would one day be people’s idol. He would be a man that people could look up to and trust. People would follow his will and dance with a traditional sin. And he liked these traits of this man. Richard was not typing and was once again entranced with the Toad’s presence.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Rick asked.
“No I never have one first thing in the morning.”
“A cry is the way to be here every morn, sir.”
Richard laughed and clasped his hands.
The voice continued, “She has left an open wound that needs men of mind and words. You have none though, Richard. Where are your words?”
“Maybe his error was he quit telling lies. That poor woman, she knows nothing of men.”
“Those are no words, Richard.”
“But it is at your request. So please stand and back up. I am a man who has just finally won that thing and may I mention I’ve seen the ghost. You haven’t seen the ghost, Toad.”
“Your ghetto has been awakened in the wee hours. But I will only ask you this once, would you rather destroy Festin or the other worlds? He never acted as if this negative spirit scared him. You grabbed at this woman and fought with her arms. She struggled for a moment and he her for the last dance of the morning, Rick.”
The coffee machine sputtered in the background and an androgynous roommate laughed at Richard’s groan.

“They never had no ghost tour that knew the old and retro was a train,” he said, “I have never done that before. Maybe if he struggled more with the smaller grounds. They would all become much smaller then. We could grow stronger. We could move a little further ahead and into this new technology.”
“But I am not interested in new inventions.”
“Well now you have smoked the cigarettes.” Rick told a shocked roommate.
“I guess not,” The voice replied.
Richard continued, “And when I brushed her bangs back with a strong hand, in a gesture that was synonymous with music. I played her out of her hat. The big band put me in the mood for hard Jack Daniels. I felt that I looked like a middleman for somebody. It was a feeling I never had before. That was the time I stroked my first good looking woman, Toad.”
“Did you kiss her goodnight?”
“She decided not to kiss me that night when I left. Her breath was gross or something, I dunno.”
“And your life would go on forever in this specific series of events. So we suppose you have channeled energy from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a young girl forced to make breakfast for you, sometimes not. You will one day see it. He was a man from our persuasion. He was a man like you who had these ladies held tightly.”

part 18

2010-04-04T14:26:00.001-07:00

Our hero sat disposed with grandeur twitching his fingers. Ill will was a reasons to say that all was well. Richard was a man from the league of sincere reasoning and smiled like a mean person. The bad tastes of cigarettes and whisky in his mouth made him say, “I’ll take your soul.” The sentence slipped out of his mouth and traveled across the mind of his friend Bob as he searched for the words to follow. It was simple, so he asked, “Why do they hold men in chambers?”
Our hero continued to twitch his fingers and began to look at them as a measure of mortal men. “Reason and virtue would be best,” he continued. He read the paper and it suggested that he would take their souls. He needed to find a connection to deal with it. That statement made him shake his head. Richard had confidence. It was the path that gave him his high.

“Matters should be recorded,” he suggested, realizing he was still standing on the corner grinding his teeth.

Richard wanted a glass of water. He would sip the rim and calm his internal fires. This is a man trying hard to look wary of the street yet he did not. More than one person saw this young man in prep school garb and held no respect for him.

With this in mind he opened his wallet to check his situation. He lied to himself that it was okay to do this, that nobody here could hurt him and that he was the most feared man on the block. This was because he sent his psychic forces out to set such repute to this city block.

He was making progress in his plans. He pulled a folded piece of paper and made a comment that he was still young. Still nobody was listening and he appeared to be mentally ill, so he was not found out of place when he took another sniff of white powder. He did the rail in a perpetual search for a better word to describe the fear he struck in the hearts of common men. He nearly fell over but let himself think that this was the drug of the kings. It was the drug of the most powerful people.

He repeated the word “powerful” to himself. It was true. He was going to be king.

The moment trapped him so he stood still in some unfinished painting for a number of minutes. He was frozen in the instant like the world was his for the taking. He could do anything he wanted, and spoke softly to himself, “Those that are making the true gains in politics are snorting cocaine right now. I know this because I am. This is the drug that makes one smart and cool. Those that smoke the stuff are below me. They do not actually feel its effects.”

He then walked to find the dealer that he last bought the drug from. Cocaine was expensive. Crack was for the poor. He was cool and he knew that his dealer saw this. He forgot the path that he was going to take. He knew that it would have been a good one, but Richard reasoned that this silence was very interesting as well.

He took a moments glance at the man selling drugs on the corner and sighed. It was his friend and dealer, a man that Richard only knew as Paint. He bought more drug in silence with a smile that was key for the man to know that he could be trusted. Richard left quickly and decided that he should go visit his friend. He could not stay here. He left and felt higher for it. He would be wiser in the future, knowing that his people existed on one side of the tracks and the disenfranchised lived on the other. Our hero knew that every day that he longed for supremecy over his peers was a day wasted, as he was simply longing for it and not truly superior.

He left thinking about a box of soap. The interest of his statements to himself and that city block left him wondering if he would rather exist as one of those actual boxes of soap. He did not make sense of this connection. He just wondered why he thought such things.

The nuisance would be to carry such an object with him. Maybe he could hire help. One of those black men that worked for his family would be perfect. Or maybe an Asian woman. He reasoned that they were used to being set in their place.

Our hero gazed into the distance and made his way back to the affluent section of town without remembering a thing that he said or did.

PART 18:

Our hero had the catchy song of the day in his head. It was a number one hit a few months back but had made its way down the charts back to relative obscurity and impulse purchases of the sorts of people Richard could not make sense of. It was a simple tune and our hero could not help but bob his head.

One day, Richard supposed, he would publish his autobiography. It would be insightful and about his meteoric rise to power and influence. He would have it ghost written, but only because other men were better writers than him. He would make sure it would be insightful and explain how he was right about everything. It would detail his beliefs and people would purchase it and learn about his wise teachings. They will keep good thoughts about him and keep him high on a pedestal above everyone else, especially those who made him an outsider. They would fear him the most, for he would have been their king.

And only those that Richard considered cool would survive. It would be a strange test, our hero thought in a lark. “Do you believe in Richard Channing?” the paper would remark. If they circled yes than they would become his class. If they circled no than they would become slaves until finally they were simply wiped out. Those who did not think our hero cool would be punished and this simple goal would be kept secret. He could not be caught discussing this with anyone.

It could be implied to those who held powerful positions and they would know. Richard knew how politics worked. They would agree with what he meant and it would be easy to become that man.

The key to being cool, Richard figured, was to be just a little badass. He once used the term that he was “In the closet as a bad man,” to explain that the common people should believe that he was a good man in a charade preformed for the mass media. His collegues were a little taken aback by his statement. They sat in silent shock when that series of words left his lips.

Richard laughed it off, as a man should do. He stated for the record, “I didn’t mean like that... It is just that people should believe in their leader because otherwise there will be too much uncertain air around the elections.”

The fellows who sat with him agreed and quickly changed the topic. Dick was unsure whether he had uttered a faux-pas or if he made an important point. Our hero knew that they had picked up his tone and suggestion. They knew what he meant.

Richard looked in the eyes of the people in the room hoping that they did not hear his last thought. It was a silent thought but he understood that his mind could influence people so he hoped these men did not know what was up.
These men were cool. They were a sort of cabal that men at midnight. The claim was that by becoming one of them he could start his quest to be the most powerful man in the world. It was as simple as coming to the meeting and discussing world events. Most of these men had fathers in politics. They were good connections and would serve him wisely in his plans.

But Richard’s mind began to wander.
He could not mention his other wishes, the ones to join crime. If they knew that he wanted to sell drugs while making them illegal for everyone else he would seem too crooked, even for this shadowy group. He would stick to implications regarding ethnic cleansing and the immense superiority of his class and people. They did not realize that he meant only the few that Richard thought were cool would survive. They would understand eventually but he would need to be further entrenched in this cabal to send this idea towards any of them.

2010-04-04T14:21:00.001-07:00

PART FIVE:

Asylums- 350-82
Behavior of patients 520-1

So I sat here talking to some deadheads and needing a bowl of soup. Tell the men that left our head that our hero was filled with words. But we need some heroes and criminals to grow and learn and tell them an entertaining story.

I hope I haven’t left you with the impression that this book is about me.

This book is about a strange young man that lives in this turn of the millennium. This man will grow up to become the president of the United States of America. His life started with quite the bang.

“Each word is longer than the next,” he said, “So I need a drink.”
The man at the counter glanced at him and said, “There are three things direly wrong with that statement. First, you are not yet twenty-one. Second, you are at work. And third, it is noon, you fool.”
And Richard Channing stammered, “But I need a drink. I do own this hall, page. I am the first born son of the Channing family.”
“There is a beer in the fridge,” a sullen old black man told him.

When the old black remembered this event later, thinking as well of a memory. He still saw tracers from the last time he had looked at the sun.

It had been years since he had seen young Master Channing as the man had fired him for writing and singing that song. Or maybe it was one to the tone of, “Jesus, just put away their guns. Before they kill someone, I remember thinking this, so I stared into the sun. And sir, ask him if you want to keep your son.”

Somewhere around the time he was last able to sing the whole song, an awkward man in a funny hat showed himself to him as a silhouette.

The skinny black man smiled and whispered, “He is this silence, my dear friend.”

And the butler left Richard Channing; never knowing whom the awkward man was until they met again in Summerland. The young white man who fired him did not know what he had done. It was best that they had left when they did. There was little the old servant could do but smile.

Though Richard Channing remembers this day quite differently. “You are an angry teen,” he was saying to himself. He was worried that every schoolmate he passed could hear his awkward and peculiar thoughts. He grew concerned when they looked as if they did.

“You were happy,” he choked in order to stifle what he knew was coming, “You were nice… And unabashedly homosexual for three full days, but your playground superiors do not approve of your sexual revelation. So you turn black. You are pulled into a rage. You quickly stormed out of this school.” While saying this, he pushed a younger student on the stairs and spilled his books to the ground dramatically.
He also committed his first murder.

Our hero quickly called a cab from the street and takes it home to his father’s large mansion. The driver left him at the end of a winding driveway. He marched past a guard, cursing in some daze about the lush grounds surrounding his palace.

As he passed the front porch the maid had not brought the American cheddar cheese squares on sticks, so he smashed the overhead light. It fell to the ground and he stomped it with two feet sure to twist the ruins of the broken glass into dust and marking the expensively varnished wood.

Richard Channing’s grey suit pants were covered in dust and he suddenly burst into tears. The crying lasted but a moment, until he slapped his own face. “Bitch!” he screamed at himself before running inside, catching his pressed pants on a sliver he made in the varnished wood and tearing the leg up the side.
He began to do what most teenagers would, jumping towards the couch to try and break his neck. If he had truly wanted to he would have. But there our hero rested, holding a throw pillow and twisting back and forth.

So he stood from the couch and stormed towards the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the drawer and ran back to the living room. Well he stabbed through the pillow little Rick smiled, pausing to carve through the couch on the other side. He pulled the knife through the middle of the cushion and tore the blade back towards himself.

He nearly cut his suit pants and threw the knife to the floor before running crying up the nearest stairs.

He found his thoughts in an upstairs bedroom. It was on the left at the end of the hall furthest from the stairs. It was the first time in ages that he sat on that bed cross-legged and crying. When he stopped his tears he was shaking back and forth with his eyes fixed tight on the mirror behind the dresser.

He sat there still after a moment and mouthed words at his reflection, “Yeah, man. Keep crying. Ladies like that.”

He had learned from his father that strong words make strong people. It is okay to be hard on yourself once in a while. Always be faithful. Learn from tough words. Do so with fortitude. That is the right thing to do.

So Rick Channing stood from his bed and straightened his sheets out.

He took off his school suit and began to speak his actions as he preformed them, “You slip out from here and put on a ragged tracksuit. You put on your fine leather dress shoe and stomp down the stairs. You pick the knife up off the living room floor. You stomp your way through the down remains of the couch.”

And of course our hero began to narrate, “White feathers mark the floor around the room and the gash in the couch seems remarkable. You think that you will have to blame the oldest Mexican servant for you, of course, were at school. For this purpose I smile at the idea of the woman who raised you to be hurt by your actions.”

He strolled out the front door of your family’s mansion, “This means you are better than the servant. So you slide the kitchen knife into your kangaroo pocket and begin the march down the driveway to that big black gate. When you reach the end of the driveway you step past the guard, mentioning in passing that you must get back to school…”

This was a lie but it made him feel good.
His hooded sweatshirt is grey, like the clouds above his bitter world’s sky.

He knew that he should go back to his private school. The next course was math, taught by that sexy long-legged redhead. Dick had told a few students that he had bought her dinner and jewelry in exchange for some tutoring and housekeeping.

None of that matters now. They all heard what he said. The funny thing was she hadn’t rebutted. The people at school must have known it was rude to discuss a pretty teachers history with students. The student he had told felt he had a chance with this teacher if only he kept silent. He spent most of his classes grinning. He would wink when he answered a question, quite as Richard suggested. And Dick Channing smiled his half a smile, crooked on the right of his face in such a way rumors of his health sometimes surfaced.

But Dick Channing would cringe at the thought that people in those hallways heard him when his thoughts drifted to fantasies of his father’s military brigade. The old black and white photo had his fathers face burned out. Our hero had told friend he did that in a fight with him and he regretted it. The truth was he regretted it for other reasons.

He even doubted that the classmates even believed such tales of such a redhead.

The truth was, he didn’t even know if she was cute. It came from a conversation overheard in the hallway between classes. A calm terror he had to repress made his left eye twitch once. Richard cracked his half a smile instead.

2010-04-04T14:19:00.003-07:00

PART FOUR:

Because I figured that I had been lying about what everything I told myself, I decided to listen to this spirit who was physically doing the writing and drew a over emphasized game of checkers.

I drew a chessboard and lied that if one placed other objects on a large surface that held other objects to the same basic shapes than the effect would show that I was correct. I swore in what I believed was madness to confirm a doctrine of abbreviation; a tone and phrase that I should keep in my head.

It may have been psychosomatic.
But psychosomatic beliefs I am thankful for.

“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power

I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the ideas that follow.

I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that we had been friends the whole time. That was heroin withdrawal at 15.

When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three would not make me an antisocial lightweight. But I was cool, for what I had done before this point in my life.

These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to make cure me of this affliction but I don’t remember having that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA.

I was having dreams that my floor was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.

But I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have devised a plan to keep it to myself.

It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every three hundred thousand years or so. When I hear of this legend I consider a scene from Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.

People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every three hundred thousand years or so something like both Bell and Gray inventing the telephone simultaneously happens and the world is in better shape because of it. This may have been represented as giants blessing kings. But the servants where blessed and brought to the king.

Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. This could give credible thought to the development of the various ages of human civilization, (the Iron Age, the Bronze Age, etc.)

We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.

Robotics has made of science fiction every day use in just less than 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an odd elongated orbit every so often. This seems similar to the personification of lightning by our ancestors. I reflect next to my computer about what wonders we will be blessed with.

One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment a person can see a modern looking glass. Has magic always been this sort of technology? Is it that just now we are beginning to understand those ways of thinking?

Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again. The mystery is if it will occur before or after our dire impending apocalypse.

If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable to find a car or Internet Café, you could fly to a region with these resources at hand so you can see these intriguing movies.

But I recommend learning in any field. It is also important to read and watch creative works.

With this in mind and dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut. Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony.

To lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like the study of creativity?

They both seem indefinable.
But I have an actual book for you, too.
I am proud of it and hope you will enjoy it.

2010-04-04T14:16:00.001-07:00

PART TWO:

True man laughed at him and the others watched his horrid dreams with token, clear, still nights. But that was just fine. His family had been living in Houston, Texas for a while now.

The name she spoke was one that reminded her of the man she lived with in a false castle in a deep before confederation south. She had always been spiritual. That’s what he loved about her, and it didn’t need to be a statement. It just needed to face these opening words. He found when he share these words she would at least get angry. When he did not she sat silently and drank tea.

Their engagement was considered their modern dilemma; a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. They will take lives from those who spoke lively of certain situations. He knew she did not understand. That was what he liked most about her.

And for those reasons specifically our hero had never wanted to kill in his life.

So the woman decides it is best to walk to her sisters to talk. It was a lively afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by trees. Big poplars lined her stone tile walkway and they always shook in the wind at this time of year. Otherwise things were soft and calm house around the house that day.

The fourteen who answered the door was excited and shouted, “Aunty Alice, is Richard here?”
“No,” Alice replied, “I need to talk to your mother.”

She was let in the house and her sister came to the corner of the door. They greet each other politely.

The woman stands in front of white lights. Her forward leg is bend at the knee and high in the air in front of a flashing behind her. The surrounding yard reflects her motions with long narrow shadows the people in the doorway.

She smiles, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle down.” The niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.

“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says. Alice’s sister used to call her Stanly often. It came from a game that they would play together. It was one that needed those silly hats and cardboard boxes. She kept it secret until later but began to call her younger sister by that at sixteen. It was just what she needed.

Alice’s sister had stopped using that name again by eighteen because she got into the club scene. This was the first time in 20 years that she made that snide reference. It makes her smile.

“It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces that meet men of former glory.” Aunt Alice began, “If men of words and men of action are taken in distinct directions, and men of face are sent for glory than the only man of face that exists is some one true God. The one that the Gods all claim is their God. He was lying to us because the one that hides so far behind a tree that you could only see layers. These are of the beings followers but they guard you as they show you that the creator is behind them. And you know to trust these men. But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, sister. That one. Richard was wrong.”

The sister listened politely and asked Alice inside. Alice politely declined. She wished her family a good night, making the best smile she could and walked down the shaded boulevard.

The road was beginning to face the end of summer now. There was only one word to feed that hymn. And she thought of another benefit to bureaucracy. Commoners appreciate the security in one million people between you and the man you made the law.

the book read like this:

2010-04-04T14:08:00.001-07:00

The book read like this:

I walked through the dense forest on a beaten path. The moss on either side was hanging about three inches from the dirt so we stepped through to find the lake. The tall evergreen trees surrounding us were all a foot in diameter and the underbrush was thick with green bushes. And we saw a small yellow flower growing through the moss covering a trunk. So I reached down to my belt and pulled a flask of water to her lips. She asked me to fill out a form.

1.
What do we know about Whitey the Crime?

What is his/her name?
Emily Grett

Favourite breakfast food.
Those small apple cakes you can buy at the store.

Where does he/she live?
She lives about 6 blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.

Open his/her fridge and list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white metallic box opens from the top.

Look under his/her bed and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and paneling that is darkened red.

Open his/her medicine cabinet and list what is there. Of course you would never do this in real life, would you?
Placebos of various shapes in marked prescription bottles.

What books and magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books, with black covers and faded letters. She likes them with rounded edges.

What lie does she/he tell about self?
That she deserves this.

What secret does she/he hold?
A gem, red with a cross on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her basement.

What is her/his greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.

What gets in the way of achieving this?
Meditation, prayer.

What does s/he like to do while alone?
Read, write, play her small brown piano.

How does s/he move? ie. degree of tension.
She is calm with no need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains very respectful of her superiors.

So make up your own question and answer it.
What does she do for a living?
Dances.

Disclamer:

Although we know more that this about Whitey the Crime a simple silent moment that one has alone with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are told.
This is an unintentional dissonance.

The idea that Whitey the Crime’s beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those against it.

The wise understand that the equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life. Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological sense. Perhaps this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems we wish we could be altruistic in our convictions. Dr. Phil taught me that, amongst other things.

Due to understood and misunderstood circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most altruistic tone, perhaps to explain that I didn’t feel I was.

I feel by now he was trying to save my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my claims of reincarnation, philosophical questions other art that were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong and preachy.

I eventually felt the need to leave and I grew up.

... what i have been trying to write. now i can move on.

2010-04-04T14:04:00.001-07:00

It began as a pivot point. It was a dichotomy that I could not get away from.
I want to be writer and that thought places it out of my reach.

These words are not motives but I cannot grasp why I have trouble with them. I wanted nobodies help, but I needed an agent. Yet I only wrote a couple of pages a week. I told myself that I was famous and loud. I convinced myself that I was making a difference.
And then the Doctors told me I was. It was like finding out that a joke is a lie.

Youth is something that takes a long time to go through. The days seem to last forever while one is young. Later in life the days go faster and one has to grab tight just to catch up. This was the issue with my role in show business. I hadn’t toured nor played shows.
It was a simple metaphor and I motioned towards some grassy plain that led me home.
The trick was to find what was necessary.

So while smoking a cigarette I choose to reflect on my working life up until this point.
I am happy. Mental health nurses suggest that I am an acclaimed writer and musician and sometimes I take that to me I am a crime-solving Norse Devil requested who invented the clock. You know, some gonzo journalist of manic non-fiction.

But this is schizophrenia. Thus I took part in creating a man of limitless creative fodder.
I needed to be sent forward in a Martian landscape. I needed to try something new. That was my state of mania.

Ten years ago I thought that life would be much different than it is today. I thought that I would live perhaps in New York City, although I would have floated around asking some questions and I may have been eaten alive. This small town has continued to challenge me. I have many questions for the young and still relevant.

At 25, I get lost and depressed because I have not impacted the world in a positive way.
When payday comes around I wonder why it is I stay at this God forsaken coffee shop with manic friends exclaiming the invisible is to be trusted and those teachers at the psych ward are not.

In my mind, I am not successful. These teachers comment about how I write and laugh at the symbols that I leave on stages. These symbols are not seen, though when I transpose them to paper some find me enchanting. So the forces tell me I am successful at written words and music. I feel it is hard to write for nobody.

So it begs the question: Why do I act the way I do?

This is hard to answer because I cannot always be sure of how I am acting. I have a tendency to attribute traits to people and this reflects my affliction. I become embarrassed when I need to rescind these ideas. They are reflections of what I am doing at the time. This is sometimes a good thing because I create epic landscapes under the guise of someone I am not. The truth is I remain who I want to be.

But to be fair, I am not anyone special. I did not have puppets working for cameras as I took three weeks to paint the windows on a church. I was dancing around raising money for legal defense and charity with every intention in the world to save humanity.

I don’t know what the man who fired me saw, but I never got a job with him again.

So I played music instead. I fought impulses to drink because I knew that I was the only fool that could see that in me. But I told myself that I wanted to be a hero. I was not lazy. I wrote and played music all day. It became the woe of man. I had nothing that did not seem unreliable or partially faked. And I wanted to write, but I didn’t.

It began like this, but in the same breath these statements of guilt are usually crassly shouted at the innocent. Is this because it is easier to blame people that will fight back? Why do I allow these thieves into my space in the first place?

I have a tendency to postpone things that will make my life better and take the right way around the mountain while the hard worker will be the man who walks over it. The better sentence cannot be found by paraphrasing greater writers than me.
A wise man says, “He who does not imitate does not create.”

So I light another cigarette and wonder why I am happy with my accomplishments.

The silver lining on these clouds is apparent when I realize that I am doing everything right that could be done up until now. My goals have been met and I have reasons for stubbornly hoping that I am credited in my own time for my artistic work. They say that even Pablo Picasso needed to burn his own paintings to keep warm. I have no right to complain because I have everything I need.

But I jest because this topic warrants strange impulses towards a backlit porch I imagine. Unclear anarchy is not what I want to be remembered for.

The misplaced memories were self-induced thoughts that made this change of wind in my sails. For as long as I can recall I have wanted to be looked back upon in a shining light, doing something as important as inventing the clock. Is this my lack of hard work or do I not think highly enough of myself? Am I making a difference?

Hope is an odd emotion. It is as odd as thinking that there is life after death and you are on the latter’s side. You still exist in a world but all your work, friends and lovers are still sitting in the old world.

These works are not at issue now and I am glad that I have practiced my trade so much. I know that people do not need to read the ramblings of a loon unless he is claiming to be someone special. When I am writing about the sort of mind that I have, the inner trials of my long running and untreated schizophrenia, or the workings of my subconscious I soon repent and claim that I am not interesting and nobody cares.

But someone is reading it. And they will recall me as a hero of lighted strange paths who can help them through troubles by being insightful and leaving a trail of paper in the past. Have I done lots of writing about strange hands that lead with a loaded discussion? Or am I the turbulent man who said something that needed to be recorded with strange valor?

I am nothing but a Signal Hill reject and a member of Fancy or Jabberwocky or other such groups that I have heard about. The answer is that eternal questions should be thought about on Sunday and the rest of the time I need to be either typing or on the phone. I cannot be sure where I would be without my manias and it is best not to look.

I wish that I knew that I was some certain relocated old saint that had marked my mind with that pen stroke. It is a classic example: I am writing over these words in my mind because I think I’d be better off. And I have no right to complain because I am able to do this somehow.

But I was painting a church, not on television.
And what did I do to be murdered on stage?

These are delusions that I have gained critical acclaim and lost jobs for.
These words are lines that leave a simple platform. They mark my working life. I am a diligent worker. I hope that I one day will be what I want to see through when I watch while I grow. These changes are better than any of these edited lines that are marked and taken out.

If these poetic little pieces of nonsense are motions of old hearts somewhere then perhaps I am better for it. I am unsure if schizophrenia is a curse or a blessing. There are many reasons that I want to be like the rest and just accept work as something that has to be done. But I have just as many reasons to write and play music.

Sometimes I think that I should just pick one of my hobbies and make it my vocation. And other times I think that I have.

a nice long hot bath

2010-03-30T17:03:00.003-07:00

I do not do this. The not don’t take them. The mindful ninja always learns from battle. I said to the servant. The name of the servant was Rico. He had silverware in his pocket. The guest was a boring and alternative person. The needle was just a palace location and mortar was fired in stable old low draft rooms with white curtains. The normal is breached and they find themselves standing knee deep in water.

So I summon a Saint. I believe this is okay because the leaders of the home world were easy to please. All one had to do was sit and talk. Everyone else was famous. The others were replaced as Motorhead on CBC. I am not Lemmy from Motorhead. I never have claimed to be. The partial token was resourceful and I strode tall into the room. The needles have taken their tole.

The residence was submitted as a partial consequential pass or play towards their ulcers. It was good to sit and think about the move I am to make. I decided to say null. This does as much as it could until they pressured me. I hadn’t learned more than the water said or the jesters took toil and woe for their mortar. The clay that marked the sidewalk. That is all she said.

So did the master serve his fireball? No not in that world. Stay away from liars and thieves because the master said nothing. "Former detergent salesman,” I said, passing the chips. Tomorrow we have the different disaster. The soldiers marching will be a nice sound. The drummer is meant to play his song.

They called massive tank towards the mighty syndrome of social norms. The never and fitting drafted doorman was a social code of haunted and symbiotic desires. The leader held the whole world up for the rafts and drafts are haunting my psyche. I am afraid of these people. They step in and walk all over me.

The way the seconds tick I’m fucking up the preamp. It is the way the mountains crash into the sea. I phone in much hostile waistcoat freedom and his mental way.
He chose to smoke weed every day so his mind was littered with lies. He told himself that they could be sovereign and knew the little marks on paper.

They suggested he was king. He did not read the paper. He settled in like an average monk and pulled his hair out. It was long and when it came down he roped braids and told of men satyrs and illusions. These divorced his social normalcy. The credited are Mormon missionaries who invested a lot in fear of an outsider. He lived in a grand world that settled on his pin that God wanted him to be a Good Man.

He recited a statement that served his own papers or settled a servitude and faith with the lord. He chose to take a trembling hand that was scared and not used to what the leader was doing. This caused revolt amongst his people.

And all I writer can do is settle in to a very nice long hot bath.

new post 1

2010-03-30T17:03:00.001-07:00

The lighter was a morning man who wandered. He lit it with a blow of fame and white jacket. He felt funny and good. There was something about God in the air. The license was written in peaceable pen. He took the license. They played in jam band so it was ok.

So he walked out of the store, lit a cigarette and wandered out the morning light. The space between them knew as if hind manic thoughts obliged him. This was a fantasy and he knew that it was calm. This is the shape of his room because the study of linden labs was an octagon. The zebra destroys.

Killer magnet of wonder said, “Decide what you’ve got to do.”

The move was a fast one, so a writer transposed, Heuy Lewis and the News were formed in 1979. Huey Lewis, Chris Hayes, Mario Cipollina, Bill Gibson, Sean Hopper, and Johnny Colla were on stage. Lewis remained as an actor in movies. The next reading of The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll is of Jerry Lee Lewis. After that comes Linda Lewis. Then there is Ramsey Lewis. After that we have Smiley Lewis.

Then without warning we have Gordon Lightfoot.
Gordon Lightfoot was born November 17, 1938 in Orillia, Ontario, Canada.
The next act is Lindisfrarne. This is an odd trace. And I wonder why I cannot make it in a world. I should be a person able to glance at the living but I wonder why I cannot make it in and stubborn world. It is because I don’t tour regularly. I don’t want to. So I choose to be remembered as an entertainer.

Perhaps my music will be nice. I hear voices. I have to rely on the teachers of mental health in Penticton. My mistake is thinking that people won’t even know me because I am on stage. I sometimes begin to believe I am acting in television shows and dancing around saving souls or perhaps damning my own. It was a strange thing that began as a curse. I had a curse because the leader of homeland security were appearing invisible to me. They jabbed me with needles and I cried as I acting as if I was Frank Zappa.

This was my last stay at the psych ward. I have needed to be heavily medicated three times and all three were marked with invisible people who told me I was famous. I had invented some device when I was five that led to me as Sir Jester of Buckingham fame. I ride on helicopters and dance with glee. Then I do peyote and drugs, but I don’t. These odd delusions haunt me for three months every year.

I feel like tobacco is pot and that I am allowed to smoke legally. All my mistakes and misfortunes are blessings and I attribute that the people were in some high section of show business and I tear at the eye because something happens with my pain and I begin to believe that the television show is real. There are puppets and cameras.

And it happens every year around the same time.
But God saves me with blessings as I turn towards these friends at Mental Health. If something is wrong it is because I should not tour. I should write. I can’t complain. The CBC is discussing Schizophrenia so I should be writing and typing and not standing over the sink washing dishes and thinking there are people that are standing their with cameras or that people can hear the voices in my head. People with schizophrenia should hang out with other people. I think that schizophrenia is about believing that the ailments technical name has a T when it is spelled.

I have little monsters lacking their own sort of fame. I have nothing but a promise that these little grey men are coming into my space and telling me it is the CIA. The story of possible genetic romance was the detail of phonetic space. This recent episode I was invited to visit the queen without the pope. It was a party that I was playing in my band, some wedding of distinguished princes. I was unsure which one it was.

I was dancing around a church being video taped. I was asked not to paint another church because the insight was a lie. And only the cool would have survived. It would be a strange test. Our hero thought for a lark. Do you believe in Dick Cheney? Did someone really go into show business doing that and dressed with such a name? It was a strange thing. Those who did not find our hero cool would be punished. This was a simple goal that this man possessed with the marched and held men who based riots and refined the old Sigmund Freud research that changed my life and I did not hold on to.

This man was marching all over me. He was paradise and savior to very large groups of people holding guns and in fear over alkaline simplicity. The monsters of Christian Rock spoke out against their wars. They were banned from lots of shows and they were told to be because every man is fabled to be able to be President. And if a man works hard enough to impress the right people to become the President then he motioned that the shelter broke borders and some people have it better in life. It is a disaster of life that I don’t know or really understand. But the fable is that anyone can become a world leader in democracy. I suppose that is true. You just have to start with municipal elections. It is the conquest of your acceptance by people socially in mentality.

new post 2

2010-03-30T17:02:00.003-07:00

The key to being cool, Dick Cheney Figured, was to be a little badass. And a philosopher said, “I think therefore I am.” That thought was first studied under Descartes.
I believe, as liars and saints
That we the people
Only have eyes for you
I am a product of my television and that is why Coca-Cola is a product for me.
I also believe that the only reason I took street drugs was because people I figured worked for the Government prescribed my medication for a fright I had one year. I considered that I was much older and I needed to take the American Presidents soul. It was odd because it was as if God was telling me that was what I needed to do for the world. I remember believing in these odd and epic dreams that included rushing over in a dream to help with people at 9/11. One was in a post-apocalyptic New York City and it felt like I had a mission to find my wife. When I found her she was old and happy with her life. The memory suggests that I also found my brother and I remember the ending like an odd statement. I was flying a rocket ship and there was a woman with a gun. She was singing an old French song when she committed suicide.

Then I denied for a number of years that I had mental illness. There was an odd event in the past was a lie. This is more for myself than anyone. The childhood marked with odd minds of haunting and direct flight. The water marked social circles stated their name.

The results were on fire. There was nobody standing there and the whole world of light.
I had no sandals. This was because I did not work. I was scared and the whole world took his statement as a mark but I was of the belief of the chemicals that made a man write and the many old writers and painters who partook in Absinthe and the tree of life. These men were my heroes and I took the prescription. I slept until I noticed I hadn’t a friend in the world. This was a shame because I still had only three people I really encountered. Street drugs were available and I took them because I thought the people that were on them were on them for the same reasons as me. Genuinely they were not. Not at that point in my life. I was an unsung hero, writing work of the curse of the Christ complex. That witch had cursed me. Why do they fight in my head?

The story on CBC is of a jazz musician. He is schizophrenic and is speaking of the demons in his head. I fear that I have become like that rather cautiously, though I write of it often. So I should transpose some advice I was given, “They say wisdom comes with age, but fortunately Beavis and Butt-head don’t grow any older.” Hume says that “Errors in religion are dangerous, those in philosophy only ridiculous.”

Immanuel Kant, from Germany, says, “ Two things fill my mind with ever increasing wonder and awe, the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” This says he was a man who lived his life in a precise routine. Also from Germany came Hegel. He believed that “All knowledge is human knowledge.”

Communications is the study of how meaning is made in a range of contexts.
So I should go back to school. The best way to get by as a writer is to get a full time position in a community of writers. These courses will teach me how to do this. The women that want to help me will because that is what they want to do with their time.

I have done so much wrong that I have luck in my life. This is no serious command of time, just as most of these phrases can be dissertated. The balance of the universe is apparent it many forms. This is just one of those balances. If one tries to explain that every force has an equal and opposite reaction then I assume that most of what is sent will pause and laugh for a moment. That is not to say that the dissertation is depressing but to consider that the typing in this room is creating waves on the other side of the ocean, or at least my movement is like all movement and is a part of the commune that this magnet that we live on should be. We all influence the world in everything we do. The question I am faced with is karmic in nature. Do I draw people towards my space with my actions? This opens this debate to the metaphysical.

new post 3

2010-03-30T17:02:00.001-07:00

It is better than “Why am I here?” Plato asked, “Is there a perfect world?” because this one is not it. This may be a divine world in many ways because there is this balance in the universe. But in schizophrenic states I have began to fear my actions. I do not want my success to be someone’s misfortune. Is that why the Christian church call all people sinners? I know that the best way for good fortune is to truly deserve it.
But that is a belief.
But so is science. That reflection suggests that there is not a grand unified theory of everything. That explains that human consciousness is a reflection of the world around the subject and vice versa. This could suggest that people should have assumed karmic principles over the eons. It would be scientifically valid for these ideas to have been considered even if the rigid scientific brain may not agree.

The mark is see is on my own skin. These thoughts can be confusing. It is best not to try to explain this is just a reflection of my own world.

The return of Ed. The man from the toaster video said to some nice children that grew to become well-adjusted adults. I imagine that all these signs are shows of people that have men and women in shackles or between their soft heavenly existence like myself. I will wonder one day why a good man like me is in a world that is tormented and bullet filled. I am sure, but that is because I believe in the eternal soul and the balance of my own personality. I am trying to love this peaceful world I inhabit while it is here because one day I will assume the balance and create something like I have in the past. The pain of such a world creates great art. Sometimes the dichotomy is necessary because the eternal wise older spirits learn the balance in them, so that we could become a mortal man they haunt us with threats. I do not believe that good actions lead to peaceful worlds. The balance does not let a human remain altruistic. I hurt my own psyche angry because I was not able to be so. The toast was better than the noodles that I ate. I was happy to eat the food and made sure to be thankful for the blessings I have. Life is a struggle and when it is too good the balance makes it difficult to understand why nobody can relate. This is like my teenage years. I needed to learn and build character, I assume. That is why I believe in the balance and intelligence of the universe.

Man is the problem because we are not divine. We strive for it but fall short and tell ourselves that other men are there to be happy. These other people who can explain the divine to us. There are artists that we raise high above us as people that are better at the things we want to do. That is the thing they do. The Gods did not do that, man did. And that is humanity at our finest. The better air is that only some people share mission or faith of that Lord that made decrepit people doing horrible things.

It is a wonder we can speak at all. What is different about man and animal? And what of the agreement that is the sound of the word animal?

It is better to leave this page here with the smarter mortal who led a lie.
He is often smarter.

2010-02-21T20:25:00.001-08:00

Life is fleeting as you count sixteen gold skulls is another mans book and claim that you wrote it. It is the connection between cigarettes and mania. Covering up that it’s harming your body may create delusions. So I wonder whether all those who smoke are crazy or if all those that are crazy choose to smoke.

And these are my bold paragraphs.
So I wonder aloud who I am as a writer.

It is possible that I died and chose not to accept it. I lived a wonderful life in a town called Summerland and I can think of nothing but hard times before it. But what is it that I am trying to say. A pseudonym like Hector from Jabberwocky doesn’t really ring bells with people in Whitby, sir. That is what the postman said. These are all just delusion of the highest order. Pay attention to your shipments. Keep yours bases covered.

But covering your tracks hoping that someone loved me in a past life is sheltered and blue of me. I can’t take time for myself anymore; I can’t find the words to pass me through these bland old bus shelters. I have tried for years to be someone that people like to pass through for humor or strange insights. I need more characteristics. It seems any of the readers are laughing for these are the rambling trails of a schizophrenic. I find that sharing my thoughts with people seems to sooth them.

I need to find shelter from my internal storms as they are all self inflicted. A much cooler man would have shared a harrowing journey, cats that jump and bounce and play for some, that would have been better. But I am the kind of guy that writes an entire book and waits too long to rewrite it. A true writer needs to be watched. He also needs something besides his own internal wars to talk about.

The key is to leave this train of thought. I am not that interesting. It has been 10 years since the day I decided that I would be a smoker. In that time I have told myself many things but capped the moment off with the lie that smoking cigarettes really isn’t that bad for me. Since I started this action my days have been rife with far more ups and downs than most. Is this my own chemical imbalance? I wonder if it truly had cropped up since my infatuation with tobacco began.

I don’t remember these nervous rickets before then.

My smoking has made me outside the general community as I nervously try to decide where my next pack is coming from. But these are my own social rules and I admit I create the world I live in. This world is rather good, but one might add that the expense of buying these smokes far outweighs any benefit to smoking. So I tell myself that I should quit. But I don’t.

This procrastination stinks with the other ideas that I cannot change my habits. These ideas stay with me from day to day, creating a foul air about me. It may be the very chemicals in the cigarettes. I think it is the denial. It is best to say that if I truly wanted to quit smoking I would. So do I like the habit? No, I want to quit.
And this mania that I stay in seems to have began with that phrase.

I am a stubborn old kook, level headed at most occasions and for ten years found with a coffee and cigarette. I am twenty-five years old and only began smoking at age fifteen. It was a thing to do to make me cooler. This didn’t work. I feel that it is a habit that reminds me of both good and bad things, mostly of wasted youth and primal triumph.

I have been diagnosed schizophrenic since the age 15 as well when I started to find that I was having delusions of grandeur and mashed nonsense. I thought things were coming to an end for a bit, but it seemed to balance out finally one time with a cigarette.
Once I remember thinking that we were finally one, the cigarette and I. Making time to practice every day for a year I could finally claim to puff like the rest of them.

This was bad planning on my part, but I think the best thing to do is allow extra words in drafts now. Because the best things in life are free but the rest of the world needs to earn their own money. The delusion that sings now is the one that you are simply an old man compared to your crafty youth. A twelve year old me would have never thought that I would be here.

For some reason I am trapped in a thought and can’t get out of it. This is because of non-compliance with reason and a dream that you were wouldn’t you. The grandeur in the statement is off. It seems true. The question remains, does smoking make one simply delusional or do the delusional simply smoke more frequently?

And there is a societal gap, too. “So what have you done?” She asks, “What is your occupation?” I have little to reply except, “I am a smoker.”

saving grace

2010-02-16T12:38:00.001-08:00

The saving grace and all the other instances that led to this peculiar definition.

I am unsure of the others. The dilemma is to just write fast enough to edit using the spell check that let me in the first time. Otherwise it is just pants less drama.

I have been a person without medication and acting like a loon for about five years now. I refused to accept that there was anything wrong. When I finally decided to ask, for the most part they told me the answers that I wanted to hear. It was a strange vacation that led me to their care. I am very glad those people were there to pull me out of the haunted building that caused my quick and immediate demise. That was worst-case scenario.

The best case was that I had worked vigilantly to create a body of work that I could be proud of and I was speaking to people who were not there. This happened again last night. I remember ranting and raving for the last few years mindlessly, bridging the psyche’s gap for myself and then acting in silly and stupid funny ways. Sometimes my art was tremendous, but to the real of my friends I was acting like a fifteen year old who began to live at twenty-five and began to beg for my saving grace.

A saving grace is one of those complex ideas that mark the path that anyone takes in light and happy sovereignty. My saving grace has always been music. And this mania has led to a very good place where I realize that I should listen to the doctors. When I had been up for a week talking about those strange things like AIDS has been made in a lab and our shadowy rulers being anyone but the trees or the whims of the great magnet it was me in a manic state.

Our shadowy rulers are the mountains and the trees because we have the free will to listen or not to any manic man who had been radio before his fuzzy state. I hope those that read and listened to my manic and rude musings about such cruel things as the home that Richard Channing destroyed while being scared to be gay will realize that I am just telling lies on stage. It is what I do.

I have imagined our leader to be some cruel nemesis mostly because he has decided that he should wield power over me. This is common. So just as he had told us that we are not committing war crimes I should add that I look at the world differently than most. The doctors have proclaimed that I look at the work I have done wrong. I honestly didn’t think anyone was listening.

The doctors that know me say the cure is to work on my music and media. And that is important, because I can’t be sure what I said while thinking I was a still around King of Spain. I met interesting people and made a long progress out of these thoughts. The background is an actual schizophrenic. I have to admit that now. I was just on the train I planned with my friends. We played music every night. Before my father told me that was all a lie. He said the doctors were not to be listened to and that I must respect him. If there was one thing that I can do is that.

My saving grace is this article.
Still Alive,
Jon Pelletier

2010-02-10T17:07:00.001-08:00

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is surely a body of work.

There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see.

That world is just a distraction. The world I see is a momentary lapse of reason and thought. That world is mandatory and the other worlds are not real was my belief.
I had regressed about six years ago and I could not be the man I wanted. It was a constant struggle of good and evil, I thought I had passed. I suppose I thought that before but I thought that now.

2010-02-09T17:59:00.001-08:00

This should be taken as an open summary on life and everything because this book is about the new beginnings and the world revolving around the low watt light bulb.

This is the sort of diagram that a siren named Lost Tiger devised. She would discuss life and everything with interesting people all day and get paid for it by the government. The idea relied on an eternal soul though she was she had very small answers when asked by her husband. They both found it better that way as they rarely came to the slightest bitterness in their voices during their discussions, which included the world as it lay in a box and some little caves that surrounded the very real mountain.

They say there is gold in the caves, hidden during the last passing band of Juggernauts that by now are far into the backcountry and singing their merry songs. But all the common country folk avoided the land of the Juggernauts. This particular troll was strange and an avid learner so all the back trade letters that and the other temped you empty. Formal words and that little rose that made him more like a devil and tired in the heart. The poetic justice that needed to help the people was 60 years in the past and they now lived in peace.

Each side had great heroes and in the end of the recent one hundred years war they simply could not recall who had struck first. The mothers of children regaled stories of the heroes in the hat room or barrooms to sustain brawls between two men of the same race in order to keep the metaphysical balance.

Two other men are charged with an offence where needles and monikers reined.

They needed to be battle weary and play tunes to a different tone. The best men knew where and why they needed to crawl. But the phenomenal to mention is about these two children, but the book should not be like them at all. The man wanted to leave stage for a while and write. He is allowed to do that. And maybe he will be with grace. Perhaps he can carry the old world draft roads and quarries that lined the route to where the great battles had their end.

For sixty years ago two men like Sampson were born on either side of the long valley and each became king among the valley dwelling men.

The nomadic trolls are awkward and subtle and little else. All parties are at peace though they know they are stronger. Or there is a wizard and he is saying nothing to the men. I see him real and modern like the pest that would go away. His manners are Soviet and he carries a light goatee, and light to the touch he is briskly walking my way.

I have little else to be less than a socialite and blessed in the touched of everything worn. They tell me my name and I am left to the house and they march in and take care of the champagne. This had to be work, it had to be real and if it was not funny than it could not be for children. It could be for children and the children that came next, they are whom this tale is about.

The latter part spent for the mention of sentences slept and an ounce over the snide bouncing is out. The martyrs are conscious and light their old ounce with it and he past the dockside in a drab little stride and looked as the bouncers led another drunk man out the bar. It was too early in the morning for a character like that. He must have been up all night. They were elders and humble about their beginnings. He had little red cigarettes bounced before his eyes. I had nothing of the sort. All that he gave to me was his regret. He said he sounded rather like a musician in there, I’ve surmised.

And letters where there should have been men and letters that they had about a drafted colleague that lived in Festin too. The place that nary a man left in Festin was made for a message or moniker still. The parameters left in a world such as this could be foggy cold days and much time spent inside. The drip on the rain from the large tumbling pines lets him settle and be right tonight. He felt better than he ever had. He never knew the war, and had met many Juggernauts in his travels. He felt like an outsider over there but no one truly tried to harm him. There wasn’t the hate they told him their used to be. He had told him they used to be because of the men that she’d rather fancy.

The hairpiece he had was a metaphor for the symbolic relations of fierce accusations that led the people to believe that only a few men had accomplished that much. If otherwise occupied men settle in they have Montreal mindsets and are much better for it. They symbolize the nomenclature that haunted this desk and the typist of these words. The Trident stood strong and exterior agents felt wrong those words held his wrists as if it laid some sort of prayer. The chief and his men approached a dropping point and needed to bury all that they had. These metal machines are behind me and they leave their old rocking horse pastures that push you from the edge. This world was lit by on single light bulb, and the unruly men had their hands on the power.

So fear him, no I would never fear him. I have all my faith in the church. They will and always have been right. Do the right thing. Hold your heart strong and you will flutter but the nonsense is quivering and lit by this light bulb. It was all he had. Without the bulb he had nothing. Yet it scared him, he would have rather had nothing. These were the ones who walked away. These however drastically needed to make this man over. All those that settled his wary soul. Breathless she replied, “I will.”

Only the pattern in my mind holds me back. The spinning of the looking glass and her awkward medicine that needed to lay down the open in doors and freeways and the like a bit of the answers that sheltered his mindset they wanted to be fair and were monitored by the license that held their vase open and needed the overrun to be lit by the fire. But this meant they would go too slow. Or would they run to fast? It was something in the middle. They knew not, but this trip would be somewhere around average in every aspect.

Nothing to vicious went array. Jack Platt would have it the other way. They all sat in line waiting for Jack. He was late often and wore a suit with a black fedora. “Everything looked better through a black fedora,” Jack would say.

In agents of ceiling fans buzzed and the doors spun him through to the bank in front of him. He marched across the floor and waited in line near the teller. They knew every step was in the wrong direction; the men faced their doom. It was three in the morning. Blissfully the sheep were told that minds and hearts matter. I fear that the poetic justice perused by my character should be harmless.

The poet justice of this character must be harmless. And with that Decree I proclaim that the one true road north is the table salt and pilgrimage to Bethlehem.

This is a religious man. I fell no need for the near and sideways glances that giving this sheet to an editor would do. The best way to write is to catch yourself writing and then find your old journals and counter their actions. The only way to start writing is to move past the first barrier and then face the barriers that come later on. And with this I should smoke, as my eyes are beginning to hurt and I feel like a poet in need of opening drafts. The writer is the character in all recently read journals but the self-righteous struggle is epochs in scale at times. This is another muse I have about mental illness. These states lead to a perpetually wiser and safer conclusion. These conclusions are difficult to grasp and I suppose the normal person who let such ideas just be. The mad mind is the one to reach inside. So even as weaker minds do not prevail I wonder in writing what I’m doing to my world I have found the brief manuscript and by chance I read that one. It told me what I’m doing I am doing right.

Though I try a simpler note. A smoke, yes a smoke. That is what I need. At any rate a smoke makes me want to discuss literal things. Why? Or study the word why. I should do a brief synopsis on the word ‘Why.’ Lets look up the definition: “Interrogative adverb asking for what reason or purpose.” Why do we do the things we do? That is a question she asks me. Why do you put that there and not someplace else? Well I suppose that is just the best-shaped drawer for that. Yes, It would fit somewhere else.

Why do I live in Penticton? Is Penticton a real place? Is it my indoctrination in some world that lasts more so in thought than in image. I think it is that idea the doctors are telling me is that simple idea that I am a musician and writer with my time. I am leaving a trail of designs and templates for people to enjoy. The doctors convinced me I was there, truly doing it. They told me I am successful.

This breakthrough can be found initially in a repressed memory that flooded into my subconscious about seven years ago. Since then I had only heard one strange image of a horrid man who kept me locked in the relationship, both these men acted the same. They took pictures of my subconscious and abused me with nattering names. The whole time I thought these two people were real and the invisible world should not be trusted. The time before that I thought I was in Primus.

So is Penticton a real place? I don’t know. It seems to have an economy and society of people doing likeminded things. It seems to have a coffee shop for those who dream. The lights and glitter that is show business show that some men play stadiums and some men can see them. To be fair, quite a large number of people in show business can see the audience. I haven’t really yet. I remember I used to draw a crowd to a small place called Voodoo’s near purgatory bus stop. The spooky numbers were drawn out of that dive.

I never played a stadium but it was because I never saw it. So I had a revelation.

Because I know there is an audience, I don’t know if I could do it if I could see the thousands. I am now discussing not touring and sitting at home writing a book. And thank you for all the memories. It was a wonderful time with friends for me. Hopefully it was for you too. For now, pals, I am going to sit and write something that sounds like the above chapter. It will lead to me writing something of some sense. I just want to be like Frank Zappa.

But do I really? That is the question.

2010-01-29T15:21:00.000-08:00

I built the Statue of Liberty in 1967 and it is meant to inspire women everywhere to hold the flame high above their heads. The remarkable resemblance to the Lady of Shalot is intentional. I build the statue with one other person and the city of New York has never paid us. They claim the statue was a gift from France. We maintain that we were commissioned. Here by I continue to lie.
The joke is a lie. This could end anyone's career.
A lie is not a joke. I see.
The paradox of a joke being a lie has decommissioned me. It was the very reason that I sought psychiatric help.
This has been a funny joke.
Which ruined the joke.
And then again, it seems to have gotten worse.
And two men need their payment from New York. That is the option we are given. The press pass I hold says that I can effect people who read my material. The opinion is in the hands of the recipient of such a message. I record nearly everything I do. Maybe two men will get paid from New York.
On the plus side, the City did give us sandwiches on the first Thursday.
They were also helpful with some of the grout near the end of our endevor.

So, perhaps I invented something. This was mentioned by a little girl I could finally see. She was far away at first. It is not a cure for anything, I would not recommend driving an automobile while using it.
I feel my life has been leading up to it and I have said too much. The patent began pending today.
I am thinking that this questioning of myself by the media may ensure that someone else had gotten to the patent office first. It is a possibility as many things have been invented twice.
I have invented before. That is why I have the time to write and play music.
I think if anything the computer helped the symptoms of blind as a generic malaise. I learned recently that images from the computer are important to those who read braille. This video explained that much of what was taught through books is available to the blind with computers.
This image is shown clearly to blind people machine... It exists already.
This is just an advancement in that science, which makes my nerves feel better.

2010-01-20T15:52:00.000-08:00

Type Like You Had A Letter
Speed off of distant shores. Take the men who marched you over and people always have their home. I live in a world that I feel like I can actually do this. The trick is to not play my friends. No dice on the inside, like a formulaic message of hope for all mankind. That is a difficult thread to approach correctly. Let the players be played might work.
Deep inside every one of us lies a hopeful person that needs to feel good.
This is difficult without the right people.

I was trying to make it again.

2010-01-05T10:13:00.001-08:00

More pens than pain and the utmost remedy, like a still pass and the daily grind coffee shop painted the picture. He bustled into the city every day in a white Cadillac car. It was a couple of days before the white man became a liar and unleashed his half loose nightmare on to Baker Street. He shot a man in Reno at noon on Sunday, claiming it was a strike against the diner being open on a Sunday.

He fled to Las Vegas to find the hopes and dreams that could be repeated by a winning ticket. When he arrived he simply stepped down to the end of an alley hearing the dull wail of dry desert blues. He thought blandly that the music ricocheted through a dead man. It calmed him, as if it was okay to do what he had.

This is when he came across a man from a periodical magazine. This second man saved his change and more or less drafted himself into any sort of indoctrination towards belief. The drifter made a point of trying to scare the writer until the man bowed before him. Quickly, and at risk of a knife the second man knelt and watched as the first turned into the ninth embodied, a knight, speaking those words while he changed his stance and looked skyward.

“That’s some more dead humans, and a mean man charged with nine drinks.” The drifter stated calmly, “They call me Mr. Draft. I usually sit near the back.”

The writer stammered and begged the man softly, “Come on man, most people are good people. You can’t keep me here. Send me back to the street man. I don’t have any money.”

But this fell upon deaf ears. The drifter was soon moving slowly through that alley holding his newly prized suitcase. It was black and shiny and saved from the mess that was made earlier with the knife in the alley. The question is do I continue with this dark story, or should I move towards the psychology of this situation that I am hoping to discuss? Of course, it will be the psychology.

I was talking about my stage act.

The basic premise of our act is that this may have happened to anyone.

But I was a special case. There were other murders that weekend in Death Valley. I just woke up at an orphanage. We all survived, as far as I know. And the family that I have is a loving one. I refused to accept that my father was different from me. He taught me the blues and how to play the fiddle. Very few people know that. It is sort of a stage kind of family and I often tell people that my father is like me. We are very similar in tonal style as well. I suppose that proves that life is learned and not genetic.

But there is an argument to everything. So seeing as life is proven to be genetic our DNA should be tested. It is very similar, and I relate a story about finally learning was racism is. But that is a different story. This is about the psychology of being someone who I know the whole time while not understanding why the people I could see did not make sense. These people were in my head. That is proof of schizophrenia. So the man gives me medicine, and I take it without the spoon of sugar.

i'm not believing that last letter because it does not support my delusion.

2010-01-04T11:50:00.001-08:00

I wonder who that lady is... I had a dream again. I started at the epic dream hotel with all the options and they told me I won a contest. I got to fly to my own personal room that has been named for me, though the name would change after my use. And so we did the dream fly thing (me and anonymous lady) and wound up at this beach covered in smooth dark gray rounded stones. It was kind of cold, and the hotel room was just a wrought iron table and two chairs on this spit jutting into the ocean. So we landed at the table and a sun tent popped up, followed by a crowd of women. The lady told them all she knew to ruin the chance they would take me with them and then she told me that every time she did that it was because she was scared, and she was sorry that she ran away. Then she explained that we had signed up for a mini triathlon and it started (gunshot) now. So we dove into the water a swam for 13.7 kms. This was no problem for a guy of my physique, though I may have cheated by pretending to be inspector gadget. When we reached shore we had to run 8 kms to be half way, and there, we were told, would be rest. So about half way there on my map me and this lady were in a field and she gave me all these suggestions or something and then jumped towards me and I caught her. But we were so tired from the run that I fell over and couldn't carry her the rest of the way. At that point I fell asleep in the grassy field and was back at the rocky beach and table that was my personal hotel room. There were fewer women, but we were going to walk across the rocks and they were filled with broken glass. So I was picking up the broken glass and I was shipped back to the race. I ran down the path and got to the midway point and it was the same old two-room hotel in the woods. This time it was empty though I was so tired from the swim and the run that I didn't even nail this brunette who told me she wanted to during the swim... and while I fell asleep on the rickety porch of the forest shack I was back to picking up the broken glass. This is the point when you entered, (or my pretend thought version that I invented), and explained that there was no point to cleaning up all the broken glass because all women wore bras that were made of glass and as I break their hearts for other people's unrequited reasons, nonsense possessiveness and insecure ramblings than the glass is strewn on that particular beach. So, the brunette told me, I should care very little about anything I’d thought up to now. Even if I had left those notions behind since the last time I entered this triathlon.

I seriously keep seeing a little girl that thinks she's my daughter. I’ve told her a few times that she's not born, she leaves, comes back and tells me she is. When I explain that is something that I would definitely know for sure, she mentions that her mom is just somewhere thinking about me. So I figure I’m going to live as if I’m supporting her and her mother. It will be good practice if nothing else.

2010-01-04T11:09:00.001-08:00

Missing his chance our hero sat by his typewriter reflecting. His proudest works is this, a song he came up with after hurting an old blues mans career and eyes. Other than the sight since his death Richard Channing had not heard this tune again. He believes that most people heard this song through Cats – the Musical. It is the same tone the others can believe is a psalm for death. It starts out in a droning wail that is drowned in a run of pure adrenaline and fear. The causing of pain to others that need pain to feel good themselves. Our hero was certain it was a death march.

A Blessing Requested should be written here, I would guide you bloggers to an epic poem that is a few pages back. I would rather not repost it here. I have many other lyrics to this song… I’m not sure where it actually came from. I think it may be from a poltergeist I lived with briefly in Nelson. I could have sworn that man killed me dressed as my best friend. So a source lit in darkness and pain and the light a man claiming he knew Mensa sorts took me from that foggy house near the lake. The checkerboard floor in the parlor and the bushes blocking his tree seemed to be the thoughts that he found in me which upset him. So the saints stood in line on checkerboard floor. Or it may be one of the tones of which one can read Poe’s “The Raven.”

I’m not sure about this poem but I asked a number of people if I was dead and they only worried. My doctor, by the way, gave me a clean bill of health. Maybe there are many blessings in the church of schizophrenia. I have a tendency to reach into my brain or the air around it to grab music and books that I wrote on a typewriter that nobody seems to know about but me. That is an interesting wonder that I have encountered.

Sure, I fought an ornery spirit of two that night, but I spell cast and banished him later that week. And only I saw these characters. This experience wrote four albums that by and by have been enjoyed by lots of people. This makes me think that the book should be about how psychiatric medicine is a blessing and curse quite in the way the symptoms of mental illness can be.

Everything seems to have an equal and opposite reaction in physics. Maybe bacteria are our overlords. These creatures could wipe us out and in the end it is more productive to their civilization to keep us alive. Is this a conscious choice?

I’m just trying to keep people paranoid.

Lovingly,

Jon Pelletier

everyone hates papparazi

2010-01-02T12:13:00.001-08:00

The terms were set in gold standard. The harmful effects of smoke were blatantly overused in the common media. It is not, for all extensive purposes, illegal for the former to smoke. The morning regiment of these ailments include various prescriptions that are bought at the pharmacy yet not listed as anything other than the drugs they are. It is silly, he states, that blind men can smoke but most are not allowed. The funny drugs that he takes no longer get him high. They never have, nor will they ever affect our hero like they do most. This is a perk of being an adrenochrome victim.

The common militant feminist comments that he obscenely makes in songs that describe his undying love for a vice are the best and most dubious of all these marks. This is hard to make sense of yet the best thing that happened to him is the love of a woman who filled his attachment syndrome. A moment of schizophrenia, caused by the strange childhood he made an invisible argument that his wife understood. It appeared he felt that she would leave him and this stained his repute but most of all made legal matters worse for his newly born twins.

The issue laid not in his parenting, but his fame. This abuse that was suffered by our hero shook my core when he told me. His youth was marked by his only seeing memories. These include his feet cut open while his eyes were filled with glue and other horrible incidents that came to the climatic ending with his blinding by small knife, simply so that this anonymous figure could scoop out parts of his brain that create street drugs internally. These memories haunt our hero. This is the essence of his illness and dark artwork. He is quoted saying that “This is basically the premise of our show.”

The arguments that he has with these memories are based around the images scarred into his consciousness by said incidents. “He does not ever yell at me specifically,” his wife stated, “But I am used to him yelling at his brain. He did say that he did not want to have this argument because the figure he saw was only his memory of a man who claimed to be his father.”

“This is terrifying, but she has not left me yet. Hopefully I can deal with these things that haunt me.” Our hero states, “I used to refuse to speak with the people that I could not see and only discuss matters with those I could. This is that scarring of such a childhood. These are the crosses I have to bear. I know now what love is, my daughter taught me that.”

His wife adds blatently, “He is not, never has been and I doubt ever will be an abusive or violent man. He just yells at himself sometimes. I’m honestly used to this delusion and it is getting much better. I used to hand him his guitar to play it. He lives in a world that includes only 14 tattoos on his covered arms. These are the recent ones, not all he has.”

“I used to resent the word Dad, although I have a couple.” This issue is not due to the drugs that have been issued by prescription; our hero would like to say, “Most people make all the plants on earth in their head to begin with. The man who may have stolen me as a baby and carved up my brain to eat and such may have had some issues. Nobody is sure who this guy was. Although my brother goes by the name Brain because he was able to save me from this man. He is only blind in one eye.”

Our hero is trying to live a life on stage and that goes with various issues. “One of these is dealing with the paparazzi that basically make things like this up so that they are cordially denied in actual papers. I think I actually was rude to that person personally. I had him arrested at one of Jello Biafria’s funerals. “I said that I would go to all the funerals in his family and take pictures of him.” This is the man who sent the video of our hero yelling in a corner of the studio and only took that quote from his actual message. He would like to rescind by saying,

“’...’ in that sort of tabloid means that he is basically lying. If there is one thing that I have been trying to do for the last 25 years it is ban these momentary lacks of insight and memories from my subconscious. I think now that blind people only see the inside of their head. It makes me think it’s a gift. I usually record the album a year before I actually do. I am trying to prove that it is all a blessing in disguise. I can pull creative things out of the air. Nobody else sees the shelves that I pull the notes from. Long ago I just put a cease and desist order on these people. Me and my wife have been married over ten years.”

“We were rather open about it.” She adds.

2009-12-21T15:52:00.001-08:00

Amor de Cosmos thinks he is a reptile from space. It is cute.
So I chase the man around as he sits on stage although I must do more than this psychic mumbling in my back yard.It must be my young age. Sometimes my neighbors here a ruckus and I get told that I as talking to thin air from over thefence. I trust him, but have since explained that it is a backstep to the worlds of ancient times. People used to listen to thebroadcasts of old dead blind saints through thier minds. The saint would type sit spell into a looking glass. It is odd that thisis something that has been broadly forgotten.
I have been thinking too much about the news to write of it. I simply was afraid to say what I wished to. It still may be best to avoid anything that is going to burn bridges for the Rhinoceros Party. All I can admit is that though I feel all the othermembers of parliment we have are intelligent and honest, we would be better with a Rhinoceros in office. That is not to askfor your vote I honestly hope I get enough to break even monetarily but a man like me has no place to lead the seeing intomy blind shape. That is why I fear the Russians may not want Whitby square. The tentitive deal has been cordially deniedby both the Prime Minister's office and the Ukrainian ambasador.
We are the change you really need.
If I had my way, this whole city would vote for me to fund the resistance movement against Dr's of Journalism or Law.If Whitby had 100000 voters casting thier ballot for me the Rhino Party of Canada would have a cheque in thier bank account soon after worth aproximitly $17500000. This may need checked in editing, if not please leave this sentencein the article. Actually even if I am wrong I would like to recant that my impression was that the party recieved $1.75per vote. This is meant to cover the election so even if your party is far from ready to win the election, do not feel likeyou have no hope. The cash deserved is nessecarily held not by the politician, but by the club he is in front of.
But back to the title. I fear that some people may be seeing reptiles without psychiatric medication. I wish I was a reptile from space because then I could go there. I am a freemason but that is not truly a secret society. It is the recording of the work of God and normally considered the English Sainthood. The whole orginization has been publishing its reasonably priced books accounting the history and the matters that are spoke of in the hall. To be fair, I have never attended a meeting at the hall that is at (address of hall- specific). I have been an Oddfellow for a long time. We are easily tricked and usually jokingly at a fued with the other famous open society.
Masons build buildings and fences with stone and grout. They once had a guild, like most people have. Their guild discoveredsome of the formations of the stones would lead people in and out of churches more quickly. These have been used to helpshell shocked patients in psychiatric wards and at the Fibinacci's coffee shop to clear people out of the way so that they neednot hire waitresses. It is also free to learn these secrets. I guess the guild has simply not broadcast this for of Feng-Shui loudand on the internet, except for the site: (odddfellw). That is primarily where you can get true information. The Oddfellows, on the other hand, are simply the various people's guild and a stage. I am more of a blind stage person that a brick-layer so Iam not a member of that guild. They were told while building churches that other people should be given the informationof the famous English Feng-Shui for free to everyone.
It is an important note that any inner circle of people will hold secrets from the rest. And people who seek power are, in myhumblest opinion, sort of arrogant. That is to say that people who do not choose where street signs go are better and do notwant to listen. This is the oppisite. These sentences that I am writing are important to me.
So as the only Rhinoceros in the running, my running partner Grey Wolf and I are promising little else but thetruth. The better man is the wolf. The better leader is the Rhino.

മുസ് ദി സ്റ്റെമെന്റ്റ്‌ നോട ദി ഫറെ.

2009-12-10T16:18:00.001-08:00

Furthermore:

Politics are preformed on stage. The charade is the show. The men state opposing versions of mainstream ideas held by their respective constituents. These people are elected to positions where they are supposed to work for the people of their land. Many agree that it seems they are blowing hot air, filling the minds of their supporters with false hope and turning to the same old horse and pony show that parliament has always been. The trick is to tell the people what they want to hear in order to keep their job. That is not to say that these men are born liars or even professional liars, it is just the truth behind their position.

This is even true in the ancient monarchies of Europe. If the people revolted the King was generally executed, not just asked to leave his represented situation. So why would Barack Obama be any different.

To be truthful, I want to speak highly of this person. He is an intelligent and eloquent, elegant man. He was, in my opinion, the best candidate for that position. But someone must stand and be his critic. If nobody else will, I can.
But that argument can be read in the less recent post to this blog.

This is a furthermore, so let me begin with some cussing:

In other forms of happiness the perpetual donkey fuck that is the job is basically chasing around a paper trail while trying not to leave one. Besides this aimless bureaucracy and the name-calling from both your colleagues and the general public, one is not allowed a personal mistake. The idea of chasing around sordid ideas without poking a hole in the middle of the paper is a little obscene. It is a wonder people want to have a government position at all. Perhaps they are simply the sorts that want to pick where the automobiles merge and stop. It is the credit they are given.

Our new African hero had to admit in a book that he had done cocaine. And he smokes tobacco. What an everyman’s hero. Much easier to digest than the former, a big time little rich kid who simply never admitted he loved cigars and tried cocaine. It came to light after his election. The former pulls on the heart-strings for some reason, perhaps it is the latter never got his shit together.

These staged thoughts may be meant to pacify the left wing. I am suggesting this only to raise paranoia and to prove that I distrust any person in power until they prove themselves in a way I feel suits my beliefs. It is a personal opinion, but Obama is an Anti-Bush. He is a character foil who has been handed leadership during an economic decline, perhaps decidedly so.

Just in order to keep you paranoid, I should suggest these whims of the great magnet.
All is balanced, the fates keep telling me.

Muse. As a statement, not the fate.

ബാരക്ക് ഒബാമ ഈസ്‌ ആന്‍ ആര്യന്‍ ദിച്ടടോര്‍ ആന്‍ഡ്‌ സ്ടുഫ്ഫ് വിത്ത്‌ ഫ്ലെയ ആന്‍ഡ്‌ സനൂപ് ആന്‍ഡ്‌ സലിം ആന്‍ഡ്‌ les

2009-12-09T15:06:00.001-08:00

Barack Hussain Obama is and eloquent speaker and intelligent man. In my opinion, He was the best candidate for his position. He speaks as a member of the American nation and has the remarkable ability to bring people together. One may want to note that he is a rather obvious character foil for the previous American President. He told us numerous times that what America needed was change, not in small doses.

Following Mr. Bush’s reign what the majority wished for was the drastic, that which seemed up until now impossible.

In this blessed nation we now feel that we do have the power. Democracy works and we can vote for this change. Though it is funny that 50% of the American world believe that he is now a horrid leader and about to ruin America. That is the balance of the great magnet. This new light in an old boys club was a senator from Chicago gave us little doubt who would win during his historic campaign. And he acts like a president. This is good.

He is a smart person. He has proven himself a good leader that will be honest and true, as it seems to be his character. Mr. Obama is a good speaker who promised the world we wish for as an African man. He was the best candidate in the official running with a strong face and voice that marks the American dream as alive and well. The idea is to reinforce that you too could be President one day if you remain strong, smart and live as a good and honest person. I fear that this is why he won the election.

In the fallout of the reign of the former President nearly any man who spoke well could have come to light and seemed brilliant compared to these show-business goons that used to run the world. Any man could have called himself the change we sought but the chose the best man due to little else but this necessary flip in skin colour. The previous group were known as Neo-Cons, which is as interesting a synonym as the men who truly love plastic bags. For lack of a better expression, it seems that trusting this man due to his race may be similar to what those opposing Bush-Cheney are accused of doing.

The issue that can be found in this blind trust of Obama as a saviour of American democracy is that it is entirely possible that he is every other politician. He could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Many people are aware that he is related to Richard Cheney and it has been admitted as true by our President on at least one late night talk show. It is for numerous reasons that he may be as crooked and honest as Stephen Colbert.

His speeches are of healing the nation. This divides the populous and has been accused of truly holding back progress, though I feel that he is a very good figurehead and able to walk the tight-rope of politics balancing metaphoric plates. This is a trait of a good politician. He refrains are beautiful tones that soothe the ear and his written work is highly provocative. The thing we are trying to remind you are not to trust this man for other reasons than his motives and actions.

The wary eye can note that he seems to be at about the average rate for keeping his campaign promises. We needed this man in America but nobody can be sure that he is not the liar and deceiver his predecessors seem to be in retrospect. The thought, paranoid as it may be, is that it still remains entirely possible he is whispering in our ear eloquently while being less graceful in the sidelines. We cannot rest and watch these men continue to dance on stage lying. Barack Obama seems straight because he is simply a character foil.

Paranoid people will find fault in any leader. If somebody is in charge people will claim they are reptiles from space, Ayran strongmen, inbred, masochists, sadists in need of hanging or Muslim leaders of America. This is common the world over. People do not generally trust the people who choose where the merge signs go on the street. They have a tendency to be generally rotten. There is a chance that the descision to follow Bush-Cheney with a man of African descent was made in the sixties as a backlash to the war. Nobody can be certain and that is why people speculate.

Everyone involved in this article hopes that he is remembered like Thomas Jefferson or George Washington. And he probably will be. The issue is this common thread, finally a stated phrase: Please do not trust Barack Obama because he is African-American. Keep and open and slanted paranoid mind. Never trust your government.

ബ്ലെസ്സിംഗ് എകുഎസ്ടെദ് ഓര്‍: ഓടെ ടോ എഡ്ഗര്‍ അല്ലെന്‍ ഒഎ

2009-12-08T10:32:00.003-08:00

I have written and re-written this poem many times this year. I first heard it in a state of mania while I was burning bridges and dropping out of school in Nelson, BC. It scared me because I thought that I had been killed as I lay in bed with my wife. I learned otherwise because my friends are the same people they were before and they do not treat me as a ghost.
So I began to believe I was immortal and I was place in the care of my Mother.

This is the song:

With a blessing requested
And a man such as dressed as you
Said to the other Saint Witness alive
Open your mind, she smiles
I can’t hand you that weapon, friend
It’s a blessing of all time
And a test that’s a blessing too

So see all these things I do
See through a martyr’s eye
Scenes of unhappiness
Or quest for the mindful why
Does it truly matter?
Do these shadow stay in Montreal?
Exist in a satyr’s mind
This man sits drinking gasoline

So pull yourself in the water, sir
And bring your friends too
These checkerboard floors tore
Minds that were scattered
And lights that speak nothing of them

So this requested blessing
Since these selected sections
Are best left unanswered
And these tests they are blessings too
Does it matter what things I do?
While leaving these minds on time
Peering with minds eyes
When these men who drink gasoline
Sit as innocents
Like popes

So I have suggested
A requested test
Marked times here is martyrdom
And illness shapes predators
Or the shape shifting mimes who wrote
To take this black powder
Or save yourself face

As these checkerboard floors tore
A mind that was shattered
And hearts that know nothing
Of them

With a blessing requested
And a man such as dressed as you
A holy for all time
Dressed best for this setting tune
Feel all these things we do
Fortunes and fame we wrote
Sit in the cipher
These men sit drinking gasoline

So pull towards the water
Because salt that we wrote
These checkerboard floors
Looked like water alone

So pause a dear minute
And sing if it’s true
I have requested a blessing
And these tests
They are blessings too