Category: Humor

Have You Ever Gotten Lured Into A Disqus Discussion?

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person looking searching clean
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

 

I just did.

I Just got lured by a Disqus discussion…

Question that trapped me?

You won’t belive it. I didn’t.

Since I spent all my writing time on Disqus tonight I have no choice but to horrify you with my unsuspected wayward answer to that pirate question.

Here goes.

Question:

What home appliance has helped you most?

That’s when my answer surprised me.

 
Air conditioning, and refrigerator.
No, refrigerator and then air conditioning, that’s what I thought at first.

But then I remembered.
The rest of what appliances to you can hire someone else to do for you.
But you can’t hire someone to keep you cool or keep your food from rotting.
And a fireplace can keep you warm in winter and sorta cook your food.

Oh dang. That’s not the question though is it?

Don’t we, all of us take appliances for granted?

No, we all don’t.
I don’t.

I’ve roughed it for years with no appliances and I know just what it feels like.

I got stuck “pioneering” for about seven years on a ranch in the middle of the Sonora desert in Mexico when I was kinda young and child labour was a thing.

You get used to being hot as hell, all day and all night. You get used to cooking over a fire or on a makeshift stove. You get used to washing your own and everyone else’s dishes in a split oil barrel. Even cooking over another shape of the ubiquitous 50 gallon drum, wasn’t so bad.

Using your own hand or your parter, that’s an adventure a small hand held appliance doesn’t do justice to. I didn’t know about that then though. But scrubbing embedded mud off of piles of greasy jeans, that feel like leather in your hands.

You lean over the wash tub or a taller cement version, called a lavadero if you are super lucky, and move up and down rubbing the garment over across the washboard.  You are all bent over, till your back burns and aches.

So, you just started on this fluffy queen size quilt that you need several people to help to wring out. You are just stretching your back  into shape again, I used to imagine Plastic Man going back to his human shape, and letting the burning subside for a seconds. That little break is great, but that’s when the acrid smell of the weeks worth of soaking baby diapers reminds you of that feeling you are going to get when you put your hands into the slimy freezing water to grab a slimy diaper and wiggle that last bit of poop off it. That is when desperation overwhelmed you even before you snatch the slimy thing out and start wringing the nasty water out, before you even start rubbing it with the big pink bar of Zote, then scrub the hell out of it for as long as it takes.

Once you are scrubbing, its mind numbing endless repetition, diaper after diaper, but getting in there is the hardest part. I’d take them all out at once so I didn’t have to reach back into the pail. That was the part that still gives me the yucky-shivers.
That is a red-knuckled, chapped handed, broken blistered palms nightmare that goes on and on and you get all wet. It takes all day.

Your week is ruined just from thinking about it.

You never do learn the way the local woman scrub mud covered dirty stained rags into bright clean shirts, and emerge with softly calloused fine hands that don’t bleed.
When I got back from my expat adventure, I went back to school in Texas. To save money since I lived on a grim student budget, I opened windows and turned on a fan not the AC.
I didn’t even once consider washing clothes by hand, though. I would have skimped on our meager food first.

Instead, I collected scarce quarters for the laundromat, and washed three enormous one whites one coloreds one darks, every two ore three weeks, in the commercial washers, till I got an old used washer.

Okay, okay, I saved money again, for several more years after that and spared the environment, too by hanging laundry on a clothesline in summer months. I still do it. Sun brightens whites and bleaches out organic stains, plus there’s the fresh breezy smell garden smell, that lingers on the clothes and feels like home, not perfume. But no, I freaken never ever ever washed or scrubbed clothes by hand again.
I love washers!
I heard there is a new one that doesn’t ever break down. That you can buy when you get married and leave to your kids in your will, and it will do the same for them. I want that one!
I think it’s a new type of Speed Queen. Anyone know if this is true?
If it is, is there also a legendary refrigerator and AC system with that kind of reputation that anyone knows of?

The two next in line:
Real badass AC and refrigerator I can get that’s not just marketing hyped.
On a lighter cosmopolitan note, the bread machine and crock-pot are two of my three best little friends.

What home appliance has helps me most?

I know the truth about this. It’s the washer.

Join !

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Stairway

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Stairway

to heaven

Stairway

From hell

It’s about

Were you start

Or how far

You fell

 

Design

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Mountains jet up
By design
Bored with Kansas
Explode red-hot paint
Lose the cool Colorado
Slash the canvas
On land and on psyche
Welcome to Oz

*

Jubilant Wonder

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Basic Needs

 

Why

 the Jubilant faces?

What was the Misery?

 

 

Stairway

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Stairway

To heaven

Or

Stairway

From hell

Depends

Where you start

And how far

You fell

*

 

 

Imaginary Landscape

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image

Imaginary landscape
Introspection
Enchantment
Infection

far away

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to return to

far away

before this devise

shrugging the atlas

just no

 

this now-with terrorists

beats that then

with supposedly none

 

Johnny Browns

Black Felines

this damp bomb complexity

over spears

any now

connected by this

-chosen

 

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Dog In The Details

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Where do terrorists come from?

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42 Wonders-Where do terrorists come from?

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Now you know

42 Diversity Challenges

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Best way to “fix” a human with zero regard for humanity?
Expose ’em to others just like ’em.

I would say: “That’ll learn em!” if I wasn’t talking about myself.

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42 Favorite Things

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Been away
Delivering
To top secret site
Losing tracers
So they don’t
Crash paradise
Godiva chocolate shake
Fresh roast coffee
Omaha steak
To Dagny Taggert
Henry Rearden
John Galt
They don’t belive
In iPhone
Plumbers
Pizza delivery
Eny of it
They love it

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Mystery 42

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If to be physical is to be gaming
An objective, rules, setting, bounderies
Timed
Not to be gaming is to be god
Play
Life
Through the glass darkly
Delicious wondering
Mystery known
Goes lame

Forty-Two Way Satisfying Story Hunger

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Basic Needs

Wondering: Is storytelling is a game an art a meal? Perhaps the recipie requires some fine story ingredients. You may want a fabulous chef. Mostly does story proceed from the hunger. Formed from desire, from hungry eyes and ears and hearts and wanting to play and taste and feel and be becoming. Or something like that.

Like Runescape, or a sport team you want to be a part and play in it or just to be tied in, for it to matter what happens. People play to lose. People gamble to lose. How I found that out is it’s own story. The life of a story where it goes, how it trips and falls and what it falls into, how that into splashes, oozes smells. What it taste like mixed with blood in it’s mouth. Why it went there in the first place and won’t or can’t turn back. Or why it does or is or is not. What twisted it’s arm into doing That? Here it got cornered. There is the mess from when it totally failed. This is what other stories are telling about it.

Then you mix the two and get a person and their story it is even yummier. When you drop that story and the person into a group it gets even thicker and creamier, more satisfying comfort zero calorie food. Then you spread it out over a culture that bakes it and adds topping information density takes it gourmet.

Stories pop you right into the middle of them to sink or swim and swallow or take on water, or rush crash float spin. Like a player in a game you come out having won or lost. Can’t beat the five-beer feeling of a narrow escaping win. The feeling of your sports team getting creamed lingers the angry mob rousing bitter taste of tragedy in your mouth. Makes desire for sweet dessert of revenge rematch. Persistant hungry wondering of how and who and when that will set the world right and fill Thanksgiving appetite.

Story-Life invisible imagined game character life, might be effecting the actual evolution of life. Nothing is fascinating and delicious like the story of a person. People and stories fascinate. We hunger for this story like for food. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if its stalk story or fast story.

That’s must be why we have outrageously popular thriving Fast-Story chains.

Super-size me!

Study Evil- These made me laugh

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The Ultimate Comunication Method

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To Be Creepy-Unexpected

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Out of Sync

urgency flashes
a storm of wonder
tripped angling twirls asunder
drank two into three
gives away four
has five more than just before
of six impossible things
unexpected
un-suspecting me

SAMSUNG

Is Choice the Magic Ingredient?

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Let the will of the Lord be done unto me…

Don’t bother sweetheart, you don’t have a choice.

Virgin Mary, You Don't Have a Choice
Blessed Virgin, who said you get a choice?

 This Annunciation transforms Pietà into His Mama Cries in one simple step.

***

Ruben’s Annunciation

Annunciation by Murrillo

Waywardspirit’s Annunciation

Which hat? Choice can go a long way–Raptitude.com

Leonardo Da Vinci Annunciation

No Longer A Mere Mortal? – You’re Dead

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natura morta natura morta (Photo credit: Circolo d’Arti)

Become immortal
Drink it

Tried that last time
Oops I died

wpid-1352567483927.jpg Delightful Solitude, Waywardspirit,

Game over
Re-group
Re-design
My Earth-Game-Plan
Gather more supplies
Wait for the team
Return

Start over

Damn
My character falls
For it

Hoping like hell
I won’t have fell
This time
Messing up my glorious
Virtual-reality-
Multi-player-adventure-game
Again

Still mortal?
Yes!

Onward!
Fun
To
Quest Complete!


“You’ve imbibed a special potion that makes you immortal.
Now that you’ve got forever, what changes will you make in your life?
How will you live life differently, knowing you’ll always be around to be accountable for your actions?”

Daily Prompt: No Longer A Mere Mortal

 

Your Filibuster Life- The Artist’s Eye

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“I can’t believe I still have to stand here and hold this sign!” Woman supporting filibuster outside Texas Capital.

So I can take a pill to take back my period.

“Being gay is not a choice, but being a bigot is.” I instantly re-tweeted from God@thetweetofgod. It’s funny, not true.

Took me a while to figure out how it’s not true, but like art which is not true, it points to truth. Like the Pietà, Michelangelo’s sculpture that shows Mary the mother of Jesus strong and tall while her crucified son is like a child in her arms. Not necessarily true proportions, just true about a mother’s heart.

I don’t believe being a bigot is a choice. It’s not a permanent state of being, either. Gay is permanent, judging from my straight perspective, though I might be off. But bigot is like pregnant. It’s a state. It may or may not be a choice. It can and will, usually, end. It’s story and outcome are what epic is made of. Plenty of bigotry ends in abortion. Other bigotry ends with new life. Bigotry, yes, is human. Mine and yours. It’s a place on a journey, a grade in school, an incomplete quest. What we do with it may become art.

High school kid calls fifth-grader stupid.

Well, she don’t know The Grapes of Wrath isn’t fruit!

Art doesn’t make sense, it helps me make sense-of people.

This “Yes-we-are-allowed-to-end-a-relationship-before-it-bigins-filibuster is pregnant.
Art is being made here. Bigotry is a shiny material.

Inspired history feels like community committed art. HIstory is being made here.
Could making history be making art?

An attempt at a discrimination graphic.
An attempt at a discrimination graphic. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Daily Post: The Artist’s Eye
Related articles

No Thank You- Evil’s Interpretation Permanently Banned.

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“Evil” is permanently banned from usage. It’s the way we use it that sucks.

 

Evil Eeyore
Evil Eeyore (Photo credit: ybnormalman)

 

Not ban the word evil. Just its use, its interpretation.
The word “evil” is a cop-out.

 

Daily Prompt: If you could permanently ban a word from general usage, which one would it be? Why?

 

Young Helen Keller is evil in our current interpretation. Anyone who can’t see, hear and so, speak human, and therefore acts in an incomprehensible way, terrifying, terrified and violent and we feel we can do nothing to stop it qualifies as “evil”.

 

Evil is where communication failed. Evil is an un-touched child in a grown-up body. Evil is an impossible extreme were only an Anne Sullivan destined to attempt the impossible finds purpose and fulfillment and something priceless.
Yet, once the magic word “evil” gets applied, challenge extinguished.  You don’t have to stretch, work hard, grow, come to understand or be accountable for your actions toward anything tagged “evil”. You can do the same things “Evil” did or does without becoming “evil” yourself. It works, I promise. It’s a game of tag. It’s a magic bullet. It is the most useless word for getting any peace and happiness, except for in the form of entertainment. Movies and stories of “good” vs “evil” are fun.

 

If you want action-adventure, to fight and be right and win, if you want to use the essential word “evil” to set up this story-game, set it in Middle Earth, a galaxy far far away, or The Matrix. There is no place for this word among human beings in this realm. Here, when tempted to label any person “evil”, consider it a sign of ignorance. Maybe it’s a moment to reconsider what you believe and an opportunity to connect a Helen Keller with her Anne Sullivan. It may become a heart warming story. And perhaps, only the one right person may be the answer.

 

Photograph of Helen Keller at age 8 with her t...
Photograph of Helen Keller at age 8 with her tutor Anne Sullivan on vacation in Brewster, Cape Cod, Massachusetts (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Failure to see the truth and find the right solution and connection does not equal “evil”. It just makes a mess like failure to find the solution that works in any other kind of problem. It’s just an unfinished adventure story, success story. When you see “evil”, you are on that exciting catalyst dilemma part of the story where you can’t see the truth yet. It’s one of the best parts of any great story, though it’s challenging.  If you tag it “evil”, there is no adventure, no story, no growth, no fun for your superhero. And you become what you see. By seeing “evil”, you become the antagonist. Have fun being the antagonist while thinking you are the hero.

 

“Evil”, like “sodomite” is a magic bullet irrelevant interpretation of a word. It only works like “Tag! You’re it!”, or normal people transforming into Agents when they see “evil” , if you are playing tag or plugged into the matrix.

 

Possible interpretations for the word evil:

 

I tried everything and failed.

 

I don’t know were to find the person who has got the medicine for this.

 

I don’t understand this person/problem. Can someone else f-ing figure this out?

 

That is an “evil” person, project problem, we need an Einstein.

 

No satisfactory solution or balance has ever been achieved here, yet.

 

It seems impossible, but since it needs to get done, it is possible.

 

WTF! I am so not the person for this issue!

 

Help!

 

Evil

 

I know there are lots of other options, just can’t think of them just now.

 

Daily Post: If you could permanently ban a word from general usage, which one would it be? Why?

 

Are You a Sodomite and Don’t Know It?

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A mosh pit, uploaded from flickr
A mosh pit, uploaded from flickr (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The handsome strangers whipped the towns people into a frenzy, a witch-burning riot for blood-relief extasy. They just had to take them. They had to have them now. You know, like a mosh pit out there, no one willing to take no for an answer. There was no security and no manners.

Bring them out that we may “know” them!

The mob of rioters surrounding the house didn’t chant “please”.

The towns people broke down the door to get at and gang-rape the two fine men.

These irresistible men where Lot’s house guests. Lot helped his fabulous angel friends make a Hollywood escape. Then, he had to get the hell out of there before the town lynched or raped him instead. Probably just lynch actually, he wasn’t that hot.

English: Fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah Русский: Б...
English: Fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah Русский: Бегство Лота из Содома (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The townships were Sodom and Gomorrah. Both towns got nuked for their wicked behavior that day.

The one and only problem here is the town-mob not gang-raping women. That’s why  sodomy means gay. So, gay is really bad. Like Sodom and Gomorrah fire from heaven bad.

Lot leaving Sodom, Woodcut from the Nuremberg ...
Lot leaving Sodom, Woodcut from the Nuremberg Chronicle (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ugly Mythical Creature

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Waywardspirit Art, Ugly Mythical Creature: Abortionist

This Is Not a Trap

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Part ii of:

Because Every Day Is Fucking Magical

Watch your step. Come in. Come in!
Right through this door. No mater that you don’t see it.

You step over the threshold into an aura magnificence. You can tell by the eager faces behind you.
You feel it. You bow your head. You bow because the person if front of you bowes.

The line of visitors behind you eagerly push you forward. Ceiling is lower. You bow deeper.

wpid-2012-10-21-15.31.40-1.jpgYou are compelled.
Reverence by low ceiling. 
Lower, lower. You bow.

Then you kneel before the Alter of Le Clown.

The passage is narrow. The way through is forward.

You do obeisance to LeClown. LeClown trademarked God™.  Waywardspirit heisted LeClown’s magnificence™.
So God™ is in Waywardspirit’s pocket.
As you bow before the altar of Le Clown owner of God™ your power got sucked out of you and into Waywrdspirit’s Magical Power-Saver Gene Jars™.
Your power just got sucked out and stored up just like when you sign your signature.

Thanks for coming.
Invite your friends.
Come back next week for great rewards in heaven™.
You’ve earned them!

 

Part iii  …coming next week.

I Need to Kill Something! -Mind the Gap

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I need to kill something!

I need to kill something, but, I hate to hurt things and people. I know I don’t like it cuz I have tried both.

Never got over all the cacti I chopped down pretending I was slaughtering the enemy. No I was not clearing land. Just fighting the enemy. Moaning succulents and cactus’ tears didn’t stop me. Falling limbs from soft giant weeping cucumber,warriors thuded my heart a flutter. I still did it, in spite of the sinking feeling. The exhilaration one was intoxication. A great feeling – cutting down the enemy. But I felt sad, too. Sometimes I said sorry under my breath as the lovely star-shaped  slices thumped and splatter on the ground. That hurt my heart. But I couldn’t stop.

Organ Pipe cactus in Arizona
Organ Pipe cactus in Arizona (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like I couldn’t stop playing violent video games. Like I can’t stop blaming other people and making them wrong, and into monsters in my mind when I judge.

Nope, the games and the t.v. didn’t make me violent.

Fighting for peace, and for liberty did. The epic war stories. The Bible heroes. But I had to enjoy them first.  Nope, I was born a howling kid. Violence is my birthright.

Thank God for violent video games!

I need to kill something.

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“— an effort to pin complex social or psychological issues on an enemy that can’t fight back.”

Weekly Writing Challenge: Mind the Gap

by Michael Pick on April 22, 2013

The Missing- We Miss Out

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Missing people strangers

Out of art’s mind

Mis-fitted driven mad

Beauty un-enjoyed
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Curated eyes

Delighted edge

Seeing un-made art

Deprive a brocken world again

Already locked apart

Of crazy

Is insane

The Other-Who Are They?

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 For MORE Live Birth Abortions!

Vote For Me!

Anti-Abortion Propaganda!
Loving Life! What A Wonderful Choice! I’ll Do This Again Soon!

We Want More Live Birth Abortions!

Anti-Abortionists Want Less!

Fight Back!

Abortion Lovers Unite!
For MORE live birth abortions
Vote For Me!

You know you like it.
Don’t let Anti-Abortion laws stop you from having all the lovely abortions (preferably live-birth) you want!
It’s Your Choice!

Vote For Me!

There. We Now Have The Anti-Abortion’s Opposition!
Sadly, it didn’t exist before.

Imperfection-A Poem

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Human Perfection

Imperfection’s part of love

Wabi sabi‘s story of

Frayed edges of insane

Being ecstasy and bane

Cracked heart chipped cup

Shattered then not giving up

Hero and villan of our tale

We’re  all the same

 Be real

 cherished

Evolving imperfection

EqualsDaly Post

Daily Prompt:

Imperfection:

http://wp.me/23sd

Color-Sideways CrossRoads-Weekly Photo Challenge

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Waywardspirit Art Austin 11th Street Mural Close Up
Where I am

Close Up: Magnificent mosaic mural on the corner of 11th Street and San Marcos in Austin.

Waywardspirit Art How I feel, Story Told in Color
How I feel

Close Up: Feeling Perspective on the corner of Waywardspirit Blog and WordPress Plane.

Daily Post

Weekly Photo Challenge: Color

http://wp.me/p23sd-4vd

 

Five A Day

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Daily Prompt: Five a Day

You’ve being exiled to a private island, and your captors will only supply you with five foods. What do you pick?

I am vacationing on this private Earth island.

Been here for a while.

So far I have bought into the limited.

You will only supply me with five foods a day now will you?

Well that is not good enough. Not anymore.

I am not your captor.

Five a Day

Here is the list of what I am having:

All five food groups each for each of my five bodies every day

Cooked and served please

Spirit Body

Mind Body

Physical Body

Emotional Body

Body of Work

Waywardspirit-Body Support

We want Five a Day!

We need Five a Day!

We get Five a Day!

Any Questions?

Waywardspirit-I'm Loving My Team!

We take care of ourselves and each other.

No compromise.

Thank You for your kind support Facilitator.

Life is Good.

Trading Places/Happy Happy Joy Joy!

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What Everyone Needs

I’m so wanting to believe in people-including the weaker sex.  The tits-bated weaker sex.  The devoid of reason and control by tits, lured to their death by mermaids, trapable weaker sex.  I’m wanting to believe they are not a mistake.  Girls-next-door, church lady or stripper, it’s a continual, universal wonder.  What’s up with men and tits, woman or whatever?

I’m wondering.  Wondering and asking for four years now.  I always get answers.  So what  then?  What?

Looking at my breasts in the mirror, to me, is about as enchanting as looking at my hands without a manicure.  At least done nails thrill me like adorable outfits. I love looking at my outfits, any outfits.  Fashion, outfits, hair, makeup, yummy costumes captivate me, but not bare tits.  Tits in lift up lace or leather?  Hell yeah.  It’s the leather.  Trust me, it’s the design, the angles, the style shaped around the tits, tits in a bodice not tits themselves. For sure, not my pretty tits.  Not mine, not anyone’s.  But really, much less my own.  Breasts are for decoration, as far as visual pleasure.  That’s it for me.

Breasts and feminine beauty make me feel lovely and captivating when I see them.  I never want to touch them.  Except maybe out of curiosity, or the softness of the fabric they are tightly laced up in.  When I see it, it makes me feel: That is for me!  I am this beautiful.  Same reason I love romances.  It’s how it makes me feel about me.  It’s about me.  It’s how I feel romanced, loved, worshiped, adored.  Tits have almost nothing to do with it, except the feeling seeing them gives me that mine are beautiful.  That I am all this beautiful.

Men though, they go retarded instantly over any pair of tits.

Yeah, I don’t trust men.

There is just something sinister in their weakness for tits.

Not only chaste wifely woman think so.

Why do guys always try to get a twenty-dollar dance for  ten?

Oh, I so hate that!

It’s so insulting.

I know.  It’s belittling.

I just turn around and walk away.  I won’t even deal with that kind of customer.

I know, it just brings you down.  It devalues us as dancers.

Yeah, it makes me so mad.  How would he feel it he wasn’t paid for his work?  When ever I go for that stupid deal, I just feel not worth full price.

Yep, ruins your whole night.  They keep insulting us with stupid offers.

Grabby guys and ten-dollar guys, the worst!

I don’t know, but what’s up with men in general?

A tits-switch flips their brain cells off.

Just like that. You can’t trust it.

I want to. But.

Oh, god, I know!

I buy into Michelle O’Donnell’s view that God or Allah, or Universal Evolutionary Impulse, or Whatever,  did not make the obvious mistake. I mean didn’t make a mistake (even the obvious one) when men were created or wired or whatever, wrong.  Wrong.  A mistake.  But Life doesn’t make mistakes so….?

I mean when I love someone, any other flexed biceps are irrelevant.  There is actually only one man in the world.  This wonderful  utopia doesn’t seem to apply to men.  Even when they sing about it, cuz it’s what the stronger sex wants to hear.  Or something.  I don’t get it.

This question had a lot of chances to be asked.

Wow, this guy is not asking me to have sex for money!

Wait, he is.  Who or what do you think I am?  Pause.  I defer to the mind of “God” on this matter.  I understand there is a bigger truth I do not see.  I defiantly do not see it!.  I trust men are created right, for a reason and not a mistake. Takes deep breath. Sighs.  I need help.

No thanks for your kind offer.  I dance.  That’s all.   I only dance and the laws apply.

The question burns like the bright incandescent lamp that always goes out.

My wtf idea of men, is not the truth about men.  But I don’t know what the truth is.  I really don’t.  It’s super annoying.

No, you can’t touch.

Little Tommy, you can’t touch Little Betty that way…

But that day, that one day, everything changed.

It was a normal day. The ten dollars left in my left fitted jeans’ pocket feel good.  I had paid my bills and paid off all that debt. I’m ten dollars ahead and ready to start saving. Yeah.

I’m in the zone dressing to go out running when a glance up at my topless reflection in the bedroom mirror captivates me.

I glance, in passing, in the mirror its my tits.

Those. Yes!

Tits! It’s a instinctual wild animal reaction. My whole body shouts out rippling joy.  Joy’s crashing waves of smashing euphoria irresistible pleasure.

The mirror’s treasure, edible bliss!  I must have.  I must touch, now.  Reaching where no does not exist.  Water after dry days in desert intensity, this cool waterfall of deliciousness palm trees shade smiles all for me to swim in taste, feel with my whole body, tongue electrified, lightning stricken mind, on divine fire, missile target smitten emotions lunge at all this satisfaction just for me.  For me!

Oh wait, I better something… as I leap, one arm reaching grasping for heaven, the other reaches for the bill in my pocket. Here!  Take it!  I must touch!  It’s all I have!  Take it, please!

If I had 500, I would say the same thing. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. Or whatever…A man and a woman performing a modern dance.

Then.  My reflection is a reflection.  I am myself again.

Round breasts that project almost horizontally
Round breasts that project almost horizontally (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The earthshaking  pleasure, in a river of chocolate I taste with every pore of my body, and the vast space of tasted mind, the ease the universal delight of dessert, tastable delights walking around everywhere in my whole world vanishes.

I don’t’ know how anyone can live, or not live, like that.

No words suffice for the world men live.

Goddam God!  No mistake made!  Question answered.  Got it.  Okay.

The intense rushing cascades of joy from just seeing and feeling, wanting to touch!

Never felt anything even remotely like it.  There are no words.  Nothing comes close.  My emotions are just as intense and delightful, but its even the same taste bud.  Indescribable heaven of physical desire.

I don’t even understand how men handle this so exceptionally well.  I, I couldn’t handle it.  I’d go around tasting everything, begging, borrowing and stealing, more, more!   What a wonderful world!  Wow God.  You knew what you were doing.  What a sexy world!

I understand now why a man would feel like he is hungry and being deprived of all this amazing food.  It sits there wasted while he starves. He steals it, of course!  What starved person wouldn’t.  It’s stupid like: “A mans steals a loaf of bread and shit goes down.”  I might even have just taken it in that moment.  No handle on restraint, no practice,  no understanding of the harm it could cause to the wonder of beauty dessert.

Hopefully “she” would have been a big enough slut to accept my ten.

Porque yo no respondo!

Because I can’t be held responsible for what I might have done!

…Men are intensely vulnerable, sweet and  lucky.

Creation is fucking awesome.

Dance Floor

Response to: WordPress

The Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Trading Places

http://wp.me/p23sd-4qN

Judgement Day

.Reading time 6 minutes.
This is a "thought bubble". It is an...
This is a “thought bubble”. It is an illustration depicting thought. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: Line art drawing of a scorpion

Remember when we were dumb?

Seven-year-olds looking back at being six.

Remember we thought we ‘d get lost if we walked over there behind those trees?

Yeah!

We were so dumb!

Remember when we were dumb?

We used to be so dumb.  Every year.  Then, the next year we were smart.

One of my sisters or I would inevitably pop the question.  We laugh at our old dumb selves.  Then start remembering something even dumber.

Remember when we used to fight for Roundy?

Yeah!  That was so dumb!

No it wasn’t!  Food actually tastes better when you eat it with the one-and-only round spoon!

Remember when Sandra decided to just keep the dang thing in her pocket all day?  She could instantly win the fight to eat supper with Roundy?

Well that was smart.  Till it fell out of her pocket into the outhouse.

Remember how mad I was at her?  She was so dumb!  I chased her all over to get her to stop and listen to how mad I was, and how dumb that was.  When I caught her I punched her.  Wow.  She slapped me back. So I had to chase her to hit her back.  I was so dumb!

We were thirteen when it dawned on us that we were always going to have been dumb.

What are we going to think is just dumb?

What are we going to know was really dumb?

What is gonna be really, really dumb and what will be, cringe, so, soooooo dumb?

Remember when we used to believe snakes and scorpions would chase you as soon as they look at you?  Remember we used to practice out-running snakes?

Yeah!

Remember we thought scorpions were gonna be as big as squirrels. They were going to chase us with their stinging squirrel tails curled forward to jab us to death with that one deadly poison sting.

We were so dumb!

Scorpion
Scorpion (Photo credit: patrikneckman)

We could try to avoid some of those.

We tried.

It hasn’t worked.

I can still sit and ask my sisters this same question and get the same kind of answers.  Still makes me cringe. Still embarrassing.  Still unthinkable.  Still nothing we can do about being so dumb.

Remember when we thought “bad people” were all going to hell?

Yeah, and we really felt dark skin was inferior, too.

Yeah.  Don’t remind me!

Remember black people just were never going to add-up?

It’s to soon to remember that one.  I don’t want to remember when we were dumb.

Well, we really did believe that.

I know we did!  But it’s so embarrassing.  I’d rather remember squirrel tailed scorpions.  Remember we argued whether scorpions were furry like squirrels or reptilian like lizards?

Remember when I found a lizard that curled up it’s tail when it raced by?  I ran like hell.  It was a baby scorpion and had a momma scorpion, like a mamma bear, near by.

Yeah and I took you to find that lizard to prove that scorpions were lizardy not squirrelly.  Remember we figured hunting a dragon.  We crept into a dragon’s lair, over there between that cactus and those two bushes.  Glad we practiced running like hell.  This scorpion might attacked us.

I was so going to prove to you that scorpions were more dragon-lizard than vicious-squirrel.  I had already practiced my acceptance speech.

Remember a tiny scorpion.  The stare in disbelief at the puny thing after we shook, ran just from the name?  Just a weird insect thingy.  After we named it we ran for our lives.  Deadly!

Remember we thought gay was an abomination, condemned?

Would you please shut up!

Remember when….

I’m not listening!

Okay remember when we puffed our bangs up into that big forward arch?  Remember we thought that was tho only pretty way to do bangs?

I try not to!

Oh, but even worse, we thought there was one right way to heaven and we were on it.  All ten of us, while everyone else was going to hell.  That wasn’t the worst part though.  Everyone else was going to hell unless we showed them the right way.

Yeah, okay, I remember, unfortunately… See ya the hell later.  I’m getting out of here.  Want anything from the store?

***

Judgement day sucks!

Judgement gained:  Priceless!

In response to The Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Judgement Day

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/27/daily-prompt-book-cover/

Competition-Daily Prompt

.Reading time 5 minutes.

Competition focuses, reaches, catches, traps, evolves, gives, takes, glorifies, laughs. Competition is a god.

Competition is like love. I don’t want to give it up! Like love, competition puts the fun in everything. Competition makes games. Games make fun. Fun makes community.

Think, Olympics without competition.

Imagine only one football team.

Games, all about not winning?

Business, drooping like some Communism.

Events, not planed to out-do the one before.

Competition is god. Sometimes though, we stand up to god. We can pick how we want to worship. We get to say what games we want to play. Vote with our feet.

The game where a few smart and amazingly talented people beat the rest of the world at the Monopoly is not fun. The point of a game is fun right? Fun on both sides. When the game is over, it stops. Or when we say it’s over, it stops. It’s a game. We made the rules, remember?

Play a new game.

Corporate Manisfest Destiny-Waywardspirit

1904_tug_of_war
Tug of war competition in 1904 Summer Olympics. Photo taken from Wikipedia.

Tug of war is no longer fun when it’s people against a machine. Maybe this game got dropped from the Olympics for good reason.

Give us bread lest we die.

It’s that old story. Growing up I always thought  the protagonists that the God in the Bible Stories helped were the good guys.

But Joseph Sold Into Egypt he was more like a Red Ocean dreamer of dreams. So, like Warren Buffet, he could tell what the economy was going to do. We get the story that his prognostication was fair and based on the weather.  Maybe so.  In that case, so is the economic climate: There was going to be an inflation then a drop. So he invested and bought up all the corn. Yeah, people ate nothing but corn.

Then when the Great Depression err famine came he did the usual.

The people spent all their money on food the first year of the seven-year famine, Great Depression.

Second and third years people traded their cattle for food.

Next years their land.

Then the clincher:  Give us bread else we die!

So, our righteous Joseph-Sold-into-Egypt accepted the lives of everyone in the kingdom in exchange for feeding them. Viola!

He was the king’s deputy. Kings are servants of their people. Not the other way around. They got their jobs backwards.

I don’t know if a God did or didn’t give him the heads up or the vision of patterns and the wisdom to save the world from starvation.  Enslaving everyone was not necessary, though. Or was it?  It was four hundred years later that, well surprise, Joseph’s own descendants are enslaved to the system that he started when he might have just served.

They wanted out of slavery and vicious miracles got them out in our Exodus  Bible story.

Key to being enslaved is both sides play the game.

Oh, so you want just you and the Pharaoh to be left alive then?

You lose us, you lose your kingdom. Ayn Rand glorifies this outcome.  In her popular novel Atlas Shrugged, just a Pharaoh and a Joseph and a mighty girl are left after they didn’t help the people. Try and get dumber than that.  No one else was worth it.  Some folks do seem to think that is a great story.  (Note: I was one of them. People change.)

“Give us liberty or give us death!”

It’s just an attitude, as opposed to:

“Give us bread else we die!”

People are more important than game rules. Rules and games are for people.  People matter.  Public servants are for people. Smart ones are great gifts to all of us. Smart people matter just as much as not-smart-in-that-way, people.

Joseph and Warren Buffet can serve and care and offer their gifts how their hearts desire.

We have hearts, too. We can dictate what we experience and believe by consciously making choices.

We don’t have to sacrifice liberty to live. We don’t have to kill anyone, or die.

My childhood hero Joseph Sold into Egypt no longer impresses me.

Re-living re-rewriting this same story now.

Heroes, step up.

 

In response to WordPress The Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Competition

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/daily-prompt-competition/

 

Stranded Runaways -Daily Prompt

.Reading time 11 minutes.

Tosh was like that. Her voice electrified empowered, drove like a wireless tool.

You guys are getting out of here, now. Her tone is final. Get your asses out! You will never come back here again.

It came to this.  A long whispered navigation through our non-options, huddled in the visiting room hoping it wasn’t being recorded.

You have to get out of here. You know it. Her voice went down instead of up. You will disappear.

Goodbye good luck and good riddance.

We knew she meant the situation, not us. We huddled and hugged. I don’t know how, but you are going to do it. I am willing it. So, you know it will happen.

It started to happen.  We did our best. Now, instead of visiting her in Tuiles County Jail again this weekend, we are stranded. Stranded on the Mexican side of the border in Nogales with no money, no gas, not a crumb of smuggled food left. It’s hot, hungry, scary as thirsty hell. No friend, no place to show up. Not even to park. No gas to go on. Nowhere to sleep after two bat flying nights and bleary eyed days without a stop on the oil dripped road. Except to pee re-oil.

We were six. All under seventeen. All running away from different foster homes in Salt Lake City. All crammed into the belly of the beast, taking turns driving. I am fifteen, but my twelve-year-old brother drives my turn. I just prayed and shook, shook and prayed. They drove the thousand miles to the freedom of the Mexican border.

We got across it too, with just a social security card.

Mexican delightful air feels free light, a breathable shout of joy. The morbid weight of being caught, taken back to testify again vanishes. I’m too tired to shout, so I skip a little, smiling with my whole body. When I look around, five others had the same relived triamph glow on their faces. The air in Mexico tastes good. But it is hungry air, going nowhere.

Gas should have run out near Flagstaff, by Estephania’s summer school mile-per-gallon calculations. That was hundreds of miles ago.

We hadn’t expected to eat. Who knew. This car hadn’t been pillaged yet. Estephania secretly bought this beast three days ago with school clothes money. We stole licence plates for it off a same looking abandoned, sorta, car. Then kidnapped our younger brothers. They searched my little brothers, did, and scored 50 cents from between the seats. So from nothing we went to having a whole kilo of fresh tortillas from a Tortilleria. The best tortillas I ever remember smelling tasting, slow chewing. The only thing left from the picnic basket was salt. We didn’t even dream of butter. Okay, we did, but salt was still perfect.

Pulling over out of town parking and sleeping on the ground for two days didn’t improve our mood. The boys found water. That improved our survival.

I found acorns in the leaves we laid on. If you can stand the bitter, and focus on gathering and cracking little handfuls, you don’t have to stay hungry, a germ at a time. But I was still so hungry from not wanting to do that and the bitter was worse than hunger. Fasting is at least worth something.

So, I am fasting. Pretending I am fasting. Way to bitter not to.  Finding a way to survive in the wilderness had been on my bucket list. Check.

We will survive! We will make it back home to the kids.

But shit! We need a better plan.

None came. Every possible one failed depressing us more every time we talked.

Two edgy sweat-filled ravenous days drowning in knowing we couldn’t go forward jackhammered the resolve in our eyes. But it didn’t move the picture of resolve in Tosh’s eyes from our inner eyes.

That last night driving to the border knowing gas would run out any second was war. The invisible enemy guns aimed at us. Ambush any second. We would be caught and skinned. Being caught, just the thought, made my stomach fall into the bottomless pit where my heart was.

All it would take is one cop to look twice. Out of gas and no way to buy any was a ticket straight back to foster homes. We wouldn’t see Tosh either, then. After all Sgt. Vogtechy wouldn’t bother to drive six of us all day to see our sister once a week, again after this, would he? Now we ran. The hollow spirit creeps of murdered eye sparkle, sucked at my soul. Life would suck unimaginably worse than before if we were caught and taken back there again. We would be caught prison escapees. Cruel. Punishing. Looks.

Besides we would have failed. Failed. So, so much worse! The wrath of God was supposed to be worse, but wrath of my foster parents totally trips me.

I feared the betrayal in their eyes. In hers it wold be shooting aimed fire. Withering. I know it’s there. They won’t understand. Can’t explain it. Those looks I sense drive me mad. Mad!

Betrayal is in his eyes. That I dare not even imagine. I can’t be thinking of it now, it drives a tornado ice drill. So I don’t. His eyes, hurt more than hers in wherever something I don’t understand.

Nothing to do.

Drive to where the gas will take us.

It takes us to the Judicial checkpoint outside Nogales. They won’t let us by.

Vayanse! Get out of here. You can’t come through.

Nowhere to go. The relief from being out of the USA is tangible.  None of us is willing to go one inch closer to that place by turning around and driving back.

You kids aren’t either Mexicans.

Show me your papers.

The car’s got no papers either?

Go back were you came from or we are going to have to confiscate your car. It’s not ever your car is it?

We looked at him shrugging with our eyes. Looked at each other. We know judiciales pick and choose what they confiscate. This old four door green dinosaur Ford wouldn’t make the cut. We are embarrassed driving it. Though just then, we were beyond all embarrassment. Unmoved, we just sit there. He just stood there. Crossed his arms. Fidgeted.  Walked away. Came back.

You guys are not getting by. Please leave. Now.

We didn’t. He hurried off to check out new arrivals.

We are frozen. In limbo too exhausted to move. We sat there indefinitely.

Quitense! Get out of the way! Other people want to get through.

We pulled the car to the side. Nothing else came to mind. Nowhere to go. Stunned we sat staring straight ahead staying out of each others fried terrified thoughts.

I need help! We need help! Falling falling into the well, down down were my heart is in the pit. I give up, whatever this is. God You gotta handle this!

The dust doesn’t settle. We do, right out of the way, on the side of the road next to the through lanes. We parked and stayed.

We just stayed there.

Then a surreal crazy man in a judicial uniform burst out of the dust and sun and silence.

Vayanse! Vayanse ninos!

A frustrated Judicial was waving his arms shouting. Get out of here kids! Just get the hell out of here! This time, he was waving us forward.

We drove on.

No gas. No money. A few hundred miles through the desert to Caborca.

We drove.

ITNJ Writing Challenge-iEvil Mastermind

.Reading time 8 minutes.
101_7 (1) Waywardspirit Art
Evil Mastermind

Why not just suck out all the money? Everyone is creepy oblivious. It’s simple, easy and just a mater of tweaks and time. The law is on my side. Besides it’s a big fun risky game of Monopoly. Not like there is anyone who can play against me. It’s boring when you don’t have a nemesis!

I turn evil and do LeClown wicked when I can’t take it like that anymore.

If I were a money mastermind, though, I would have to answer the question to myself, for myself.

Who or what would be my Lady Godiva?

Lady Godiva by John Collier, c. 1897, Herbert ...

ITNJs, two percent of the population? That’s it? We are rare awesomeness! Each with magnified unique gifts, too.

No wonder…on the grandiosity issues. How do you feel when you figure out you have this crazy super power? No one would believe this!…Till you show them like Steve and Warren and Aaron.

How the hell are we supposed to meet each other when we are so few and all hiding out with our extraordinary, opposite gifts?

fancy logo/writing for use in MBTI articles
fancy logo/writing for use in MBTI articles (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Oh, yeah, intuition and serendipity…Can you consciously count on destiny and “divine intervention” when you are totally logical? The two don’t mix here.

Must be why we are misfits, not-well-adjusted, misunderstood, gone evil, so often.

What does it take to intervene for would-be-evil-masterminds before our gifts rot from un-acknowledge, misuse, misdirect, too-avant-garde-reject?

Irresistible game, that money one. If I could see money-flow patterns like I  see other patterns, I would need to do something with it, like Warren does. I would need a Lady Godiva to help me answer my question about it, too.

If I can’t find an outlet for my genius, something that matters to serve, I will turn evil. I will play. Or I’ll just kill myself, like Aaron. Or kill other people, or systems. I am dangerous or a super hero. I am a mastermind.

What inspires me to help the 98% when I decide my goal?

I will play you my 98%. I will play you some way.

It’s not like I have a choice. It’s the game fire in my heart. I have to find it and keep it burning, like Mary Lou Retton said, or go mad.

My dad was an evil mastermind. I am a mastermind. It’s up to my environment whether I turn evil or serve daring greatly. I think it was sorta up to his, too. We all have a choice, yes. Dumb people make that choice lean pretty steep toward evil for a rejected superhero. The story and interpretation matters, too.

Either that or he was Lucifer’s immaculate conception. Makes me one-third daemon.

Thanks dad for the genes. Thanks everyone else who “knows” my dad is evil for the daemon part.

And if you don’t understand. You try on being Hitler’s kid for five minutes.

Who’s your daddy?

Adolph Hitler.

___________!!!

Really. Try it.

Ervil LeBaron
Ervil LeBaron (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Being Ervil LeBaron’s daughter, that’s what it fucking feels like. Well it did.  Till I realized: If he is Darth Vadar, I am Princess Leia. The probability of my turning evil greatly decreased with this story. Beware anyway.

Initial rough concept sketch of Princess Leia
Initial rough concept sketch of Princess Leia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The funnest part of being Ervil LeBaron’s kid though, and no amount of explanation or Luke Skywalkering changes it, is that half of my brother’s and sisters are in prison, or mental hospitals. Did I mention evil?

Weird that those of us who are not institutionalized are rocking the world with awesome innovation, leadership, character, technology, art, emotional work, vulnerability, love and daring.

Except me. I’m the one who lost the rat race. Too introverted, intuitive, thinking judgement all to an autistic degree, and way to into stuff, way to far, way to long before it trends, to be useful.

So, I figure something is a little off in the system. I love the system and my family and people, yet we are all still off. You know, the usual. Everyone and everything is off. Off, sick, painful and lovable.

Just like our evil masterminds. Just like me.

I am the 98% to other evil masterminds.

So, Ninety-Eight Percent, we create our own leaders. We focus our own genius mastermind’s hearts.

Lets get better at it. Blaming whoever we give away our power to when shit happens or shit doesn’t is fishy and fail.

We masterminds are at your service.

Getting everyone out of messes like all the bad things going on in our world, piece of cake to us. Impossible to you.

wpid-1358108062051.jpg Waywardspirit, Gift-not given not received
Not Given Not received

We want and need understanding, respect and honor just like anyone else, no matter how much money power or whatever pattern we master. Serving thrills us like it thrills you. We value meaning like everyone else.

We will play.

Might as well charm us into playing with you, for you.

Or we will rot, die, or be charmed tricked or tempted into playing against you, or killing you. There are lots of ways.

When you need the one of us who is the Jaws Of Life, you don’t have her. You have imprisoned her and rusted your own precious tool.

wpid-1352567440191.jpg ITNJ Waywardspirit
INTJ

Now, she can’t help you. You get to watch people explode, bleed to death.

Note: Society’s best mastermind tool X Men solutions are likely in prison or mental institutions, homeless, starving artists, or sliding there now.

The solution is always found inside the problem.

Yeah, I know. This topic is not trending yet.

It will.

You are ahead of the game now, weather 98% or 2%.

101_36 Waywardspirit Art Growth
Art Creates Value

Link to INTJ definition:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/INTJ

INTJs are one of the rarest of the sixteen personality types, and account for about 1–4% of the population.[2][3]

INTJ (introversion, intuition, thinking, judgment) is an abbreviation used in the publications of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator(MBTI) to refer to one of the sixteen personality types.[1]

This article is about the Myers-Briggs personality type. For the Socionics INTj, see Logical Intuitive Introvert.

 

Not A Hail Hitler Work Ethic-Post SXSW 2AM Photo

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

image

Manager sent:

Her text pict went wherever texts go when not instantaneously delivered.

Thought it was my alarm at 2 am.

Snapped out of exhaustion into alarm-focussed-sleep-attention.

It was this note posted at work.

Best text ever!

-Slept till now.

 

Daily Post Wring Challenge: 2AM Photo:http://wp.me/p23sd-4le

Bone of Contention-Who Leads Us?

.Reading time 3 minutes.

It’s super cool to stomp away from stupid people who are too pea-brained to see the truth. Then show up among people of inconsequence where we are gonna get it right. Just watch us!

It’s awesome and miraculous to flee the slavery of Egypt into the Promised Land, then show them we can do better as we wipe out all the people of no consequence occupying the lands we have promissory notes to. We are gonna get it right.

You know, flee religious persecution in the Old World and come to the New World where there are no people of consequence, and show them back home we can get it right. Just like this. 

Flee German slaughter into ancestral land strewn with people of no consequence, and no promise, and show them Germans that we don’t treat people like that. We can get it right, just like this.

We flee United States persecution into the wilderness of Utah among an uncivilized people we bring consequence to, where us truth-bearing Mormons are gonna get it right. Just watch us.

We escape the persecution of the gone astray Mormon church into the Promised Land of Mexico among a lost and fallen people, were we are gonna get it right. We are getting these bloody drug wars right. Just watch us!

Flee the zombie hordes of corporate America, of this corrupt government, into survival mode, and watch the thing go up in smoke. We have miraculously escaped. We are gonna get it right this time. Watch us.

I hate my fail parents. I’m gonna get the hell out of here and get it right! Seriously, just watch!

It’s the Pharaohs’ fault.

It’s the kings’ fault.

It’s President Van Buren’s fault.

It’s the new president of the Mormon churches’ fault.

It’s Hitler’s fault. It’s Hitler’s fault, again.

It’s corporate greed and the system’s fault.

It’s _________’s fault!

It’s all my idiot parent’s and family’s stupid fault.

While here in my tiny all-encompassing  world, it is ALL evil monster Ervil LeBaron’s fault. The bastard!

But, I’m gonna get it right this time. Just you watch me!

This is how I really feel:  

***

Response to WrodPress

The Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Bone of Contention

http://wp.me/p23sd-4kX

 

Abstraction-Weekly Writing Challenge

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

image Abstraction-the voice in my head

image Abstraction-the voice in my head

As I read this, I hear the voice inside my head reading this.

Hello Voice.

As I read, I hear you reading.

When I notice.

Why are you an abstraction?

Oh!

Hello Abstract Me.

Crushed

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

141_7

All Seeing iApple

.Reading time less than 1 minute.
iWaywardspirit's new currency with the illuminati-seeing philosophy
Ta Da!

Screw Johnny Appleseed

.Reading time less than 1 minute.
Srewing Johnny Appleseed
How did Johnny Monitize?

Apple Wannabe

.Reading time 16 minutes.

Endless adventure-less days dragged behind and drooped ahead then, but now I’m free.

Free from boring. Free, not shut in the house all day with my little brother. And there will be lots of kinds of food, every day.

Everyone else gets home from school or work where all the fun is happening, but can’t tell me about it. It’s great to go to school, I know it, but no one can tell me exactly why. When they try to I don’t understand. I ask so much why about everything. No one answers anymore. They have adventures. I don’t. They get to do things at places I can’t go. Relished embellished tales my third grade sister Tosh spins to enchant me to envy, do.

Mom, in full regretful consternation, obeys the law. She sends us to elementary school, nothing else. I beg to go to kindergarten. She said I wouldn’t get to go even when I was old enough. No one else in our family ever goes, or would go, to kindergarten.

They don’t make kids go to kindergarten so you are not going under any circumstances. I wouldn’t send you or anyone to school at all if I didn’t have to.

What are circumstances? I wonder out loud looking back and forth from mom’s face to Tarza, fishing for an answer the best way I can in as many languages as I know, all at once to see who will help me. I need to find a way to go to kindergarten!

My oldest sister Tarza likes to and can answer almost anything. She explains in patient sing song:

Circumstances are something, that could be a good reason to go to school this year. What mom is saying is that even if there is a good reason, you are still not going to go to kindergarten, no matter what. We are against it.

All I hear is: “good reasons to go to school”.

Good reasons to go to school. I know of a whole bunch of them, and one of them has to not be the “no circumstances” one.

Something is wrong about us even going to school at all. It bothers mom like me not doing the dishes after breakfast does. But I still don’t do the dishes after breakfast when I’m told to. So, I can still go to school, in the same way, even if it bothers her. Mom does not agree.

It’s not about that. It is because school corrupts you. The danger tone switches on in her voice. She tells me about how other children have become corrupt. Some have even had to be stoned by their own parents, for it.

“Corrupted” shakes me up. Grave and scary shivers erupt on the inside. I can almost feel the ominous evil spirit trying to. I don’t want it to happen to me. I know this is bad and it can happen to me in school, mostly in kindergarten, I guess. So, I’m really glad to not risk it this afternoon.

Mom, I promise not to get corrupted, if I can go to school today!

How will you do that?

I will just not let corrupted do it to me.

How will you know what corrupted is?

Because it’s bad, so I’ll know.

The thing about getting corrupted is it’s tempting. Mom has stopped dressing and is looking at me in a sudden way. She sits me down on her lap on the bed. She never does this anymore and it feels tender nice and awkward. After a minute of balancing me on her lap she maneuvers me next to her at the edge of the bed where she can look at me. I swing my feet in the air bumping the box springs while she looks at me with a very important look. I stop swinging my legs. I’m craving important.

You want to know how corruption starts?

I nod wide eyed, knowing that however it does, it won’t, because I’m not gonna let it.

Corrupted. It is when you start to like your friends more than you like to do what God wants you to do. When you think your friends are more important than God is, the devil has you and it is almost impossible to ever get away again. You get dark minded, then you don’t even want to get away anymore. She pauses and takes a hearse breath. That’s how the devil tempts you, she sighs.

I know that my survival depends on understanding what she is saying.

He leads you astray with things you like more than you like God, and you become corrupted. She looks at my face for signs. I know this is solemn, and not time to shout how I’ll absolutely win and she has nothing to worry about!

I won’t let the devil tempt me! So, I’ll never get corrupted. I’m resolute, fierce, not smiling, only knowing and solemn. I feel solemn. It’s so much nicer than the shivers and horrors feeling.

You won’t know it’s the devil because he pretends to be good and you aren’t old enough to know the difference.

I am old enough though. Only dumb people, and bad people don’t know the difference. I can too tell what is the devil and what isn’t.

How can you tell?

I just know I can.

I’m imagining a serpent whispering for me to eat that apple. I won’t eat it though-no matter what. Then I start thinking, obviously the snake is wicked. And obviously it was Snow White’s wicked stepmother, in that old lady suit, too, that made her eat that poison apple. Snow White wasn’t as smart as I am. I’m smart enough to skip Snow White, though since mom says fairy tales are simple-minded, and corrupt and have no moral, but Eve wasn’t that smart either. And see, I know what corrupted is, too, I muse. I know which story is the right story.

I won’t get tempted like Eve did! I’m sure of it. I always double-check, make sure people aren’t the evilest ones, or the devil’s servants, and I will make sure that it’s right before I do anything.

How can you tell?

I just can.

The devil disguises himself to lie to you so you will believe it.

I tell mom how I will always not believe a lie.

How could you tell it’s a lie?

Because lies aren’t true.

Every few days a new reason pops up that hopefully wasn’t under the any circumstance clause and so would get me on the adventure bus in the mornings . I follow mom around when she gets home. Different ways, surprising times, wondering aloud about a different angle, for a loophole, and  bring it up in conversations, comment about it, nag, then remind her that I still want to go, to school no matter what, too. Nothing works. But the peak of my day is the hope.

I resort.  Whining, begging, weeping, screaming “It’s not fair!” and being locked in my closet till I my head pulses as hard as I have sobbed. Charm fails. Getting up and being ready for school fails. Trying to sneak on the bus failed when my own sisters didn’t let me try.

Close to the end of school, all hope isn’t lost.

Mom I will be happy to go for just whatever days are left, please, please, please! Please mommy!

Ouuuuwh! This was the wrong way to get to school, for sure because mom is suddenly madder and meaner.

You are hurting my ears. I have a headache. And I’m so, so sick and tired of you nagging and begging me all day long! Under no circumstances, whatsoever, are you to ever, ever mention school to me again. Do you hear me? One more word about school and I will spank you. One more word. Don’t even say school! Her face wrung the words. The words squeezed me dry.

The best reason yet, for me to get to go to school, is that there aren’t even enough days left for me to get corrupted anyway. The feeling jambs my thought. It squashes my breath and gives me a gripping voice ache.

Then, all is lost. The “lost and never to be” void gapes wide, dark, open, tunneling through my whole chest. My sister Tosh has fun tossing things through the tunnel.

The morning of the first day of school mom is a weird mad. I whooped a piercing triumph war-cry at the top of my lungs in the house smirking at her when she reminded me to get ready for school.  She did not deliver me to the inevitable dangers of first grade that first day. When everyone else walked, she refused to take me to register.

You are not going to school today.

The second day I didn’t turn the dryer on as I was told. So my fist-day-of-school purple corduroy outfit isn’t ready in time. Mom is mean and won’t let me wear it wet.

I try to show her how it’s the second-day-of-school anyway. So what do first-day-of school- clothes matter anymore? At first she tried to explain first impressions to me, but I didn’t care about those. I just want to go to school today.

I don’t have time anymore to go by the school to register you anyway.

I howl searching for any clean not wet clothes to wear. She threatened to make good on that spanking if I don’t be quiet. And you will not be going tomorrow either. Meanwhile I couldn’t find any other clean clothes and all my underwear are shame for shame dirty. None pass school inspection without washing, and she hadn’t washed any with my outfit.

My outfit is the only thing in the dryer, she had washed it by hand quick to get the stains out. It was to be clean and dry, on time.

Remember I told you not to wear your new clothes till school started? She sighs accusing.

I did remember. But it has a big yellow flower with pretty orange trim on every petal sewn on the front. This big flower is at the bottom front and to one side. A perfect spot on the front of a blouse for a big flower just like this one to be.

I could not wait for the first day of school. I couldn’t wait or change before I went outside to show everyone then stay to play. I couldn’t wait long enough to change before I ate sloppy joes.  I was too hungry.

You be a good girl or you aren’t going to school at all this year. I don’t care what the law is! Her voice hung at the end of thin rope. So did I.

On the third day of school I’m walking for the first time with my sisters. I’d imagined myself on this day skipping and whistling triamphantly. All of the “I’m free!” whipped right out of my body language though. Guarded, regretful and talking to myself in “what if’s”, and “When I’s” I lose my self in sidewalk cracks. My sisters walk on ahead and turn the corner.  Lost and left behind stings my eyes. Then, up ahead, Tosh is part telling part pleading part commanding Nickie: “It’s funner this way!” But Nickie comes back and risks a peek around the corner just for fun, and gestures for me to catch up.

School is wonderful.  And after a while, I discover this irresistible apple. The un-poisoned apple of desperate need to be the teacher’s pet. No one offers the apple to me. I want the apple. I poison myself with it.

Mayan Calendar-Special Photo Challenge Inspiration

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

Hijackers Crawl

Behind

Walking Away

Yellow Seed Sunny

Bright Way

Now

Day

…

No Better Time To Follow

Special Photo Challenge Inspiration

Killer Looks

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

Daggers

In the heart

Kill

The Anti-Christ

To free

The Christ beneath

Another way

To find Christ alive

That doesn’t work

I think

image

Green-Weekly Photo Challange

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

Green Writer aka Noob