Have You Ever Gotten Lured Into A Disqus Discussion?

 

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.

South X South

 

Inward South

Go

Outward South

Come

Upward South

Fall

Forward South

Be

 

*

Value

Sacrifice

Giveing up

what I want less

For

what

I want more

Sacrifice

*

art dying heart Waywardspirit

Out!

Closeted beings

Asleep in your bed

Body’s un-life

Crouched starved smothered head

 shriveled 

Dying – undead

 

Posted hung secret

Collectively held

Bodies melt to skeletons

The smell the smell

The smell!

Do People In Memory Realms Have Feelings?

wp-1459976155953.jpeg

 

Is kicking people’s ass in my realm of Memory  still human abuse?

I have assigned roles noted characters picked the bad guys in the plot in my mind realm. Since a hero in any story is only as amazing as the anti-hero of a story is vicious, does my inner dialogue need villans? Cuz these stories I play in here feel horribly wonderful.

I control this realm and I wanna do something about horrible people and be fabulous.  You know, deal out just what-fors to all the asses living in my mind’s holograph.  To rescue myself and put things right.

Is it wrong to beat up evil people, living or dead, in my mind?

Yeah, it’s unhealthy to beat myself up. I get that now. Gotta love yourself. What about everyone else though?  The bad guys for example. I don’t gotta love them. Ha!

Are these meanies victims now if I trash them in my mind blame them judge em? Can dead people be victims too? And if not everyone who do I get to beat up on?

I got a story to weave then to replay so I know I’m a decent person. To sence who I am relative to them others. How do I acquire one of these wonderful vicious evil guys so I can be truly great without committing acts of violence and being violent myself, I wonder. How else do I make life interesting.

Is it still wrong to judge and blame historical figures in the privacy of my own personal mind?

Are the really bad people I blame for all the bad stuff happening, you know, so bad I get carte blanch to eww them?

Is blaming and judging them mean or unhealthy? What if they deserve it?

What if I stop?

Then what?

 

 

Green Superstition

Superstition

Archaic

Modern device

Keeps a world

Coherent

Till green wonder 

More than

Twice

 

Misplaced

When

Misplaced genius

Swallows the sun

wp-1460320726665.gif

Then

Misplaced evil may

Swallow a black hole

wp-1460320893933.gif

What’s misplaced?

 

far away

 

 

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

 

wpid-2013-04-30-16.04.34.jpg

 

Do You Think Contrast Is Needed Again?

us_presidents_hr-1.gif.gif

Notice the lack of additional contrast?

I wonder what this lack of contrast says about the minds of woman in America. Do you?

Break the Pattern-Again

Please Catagorise US Presidents by Race and Gender

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of em Quests

image

It comes out of nowhere

image

Just a feeling with some understanding attached

image

May or may not interpret the knowing well…

image

Starts anyway

image

What’s this for?

image

Ohhhh this works

image

Whoohoooo!@

“Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It”
@My Waywardspirit

If You Could Just Bottle That

 

We Are

Bottles

  !

 

42 Math Wonders

image

42 Yous and Mes

image

The
Many Yous
For
The
Many mes
Lots
of
Mes
for Yous

42 Diversity Challenges

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.

image

No Thank You- Evil’s Interpretation Permanently Banned.

“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 PostIf you could permanently ban a word from general usage, which one would it be? Why?

 

Reality. Really?

Security richness joy
Already installed
Reboot

Power switch
Re-create experience
By feeling what is not

Neither is heart
Nor want

Not that
Not art

In this life model app
Desire attracts support

LIght Way

The Garden

Allure Magic : Waywardspirit Art

Come to me trolls!
Line up
Line up for kisses
A world needs some more
Lots more handsome princes

Wonder up
Sweet over something
Trip and break one mind
Frolic through answers
Feasting inside

Twist into existence
Leave this window ajar
Re-introduce
Magical spicies into our wild

magic window

Daily Post Prompt: Your Inner Dickinson

Kids Are Getting It – I Am Missing It No More.

SAMSUNG

The Other-Who Are They?

 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.

Dare

Government immature ineffective

I immature ineffective

Not only are
Bad guys bad
I am bad
For how I see
Bad guys

I am everything bad
Everything good

You need me

If I don’t,

It won’t

Become

World-peace

Done

A person lost

-A horse shoe nail

Modern horseshoes are most commonly made of st...

 

Imperfection-A Poem

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

Turn Turn Turn

Passion Wants You! Surrender  It Comes Out

The Seasons

Turn

Life morphs her form

Season reasons

Moon cycles burn

Creative season Springs

Work zodiacs then learns

 Favorite season creates

Contemplation Falls on me

Play dances us away

Random Harvests time

Dark Night of Winter’s Soul

Summer is Winter riding low

Two weeks vacation sweetens

Two month’s fruit

Then, forced a Season

English: Lunar libration. see below for more d...
English: Lunar libration. see below for more descriptions Français : Librations de la lune. Voir une description détaillée en dessous. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Daily Post

Daily Prompt:

Turn Turn Turn

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

Transporter

By Edward. Original painting  at Austin Discovery School.The Road for Transport-A Poem

My Most Precious

Willowy sapling Attention

Blown away

Oft transplanted

Run over

Mowed

Uprooted

You may be

A Presence of redwood ent

More than shade fruit or would

Transport-A story

It wasn’t the crush, or a temptation. Her shape and bright color captivated me. But more than that, and deeper. The choice is already made. Discovered this the first time I lay eyes on my iMac.

What is this?

The sales guy gave me the info to back up my preference. The colors enchanted me and fueled mysterious passion. It was so hard to pick one. The Steve Jobs story of exile and come-back woke my asleep. The sudden reinvigorating of the market and turn of share. When I stood close that wind of change, stands  my hair on end. I feel it blow. Right there in Best Buy, in the isle, next to the iMac display it blows.

Should have known by then, that choices click into place without explanation. Logic is not banished. It just lives in the other world. I invite her blindly back, slow, by comparing prices and waiting three days to bring my love home with me.

I wanted blueberry. Strawberry was the only refurbished model at Best Buy. That was back, way back before the Apple Store or the Apple Story.  In the days of three-point-something-percent market share Apple. When Apple still allowed Best Buy to carry her precious babies. More than the sum of its parts, love at first sight, experienced not described. Love got me. A love story told me.

To compromise with my wallet, I bought a refurbished strawberry iMac rev C. It was three hundred dollars higher than a way-more-options PC, even so.

After I brought Strawberry ShortMac home, two sample chapters of a Steve Job’s story found me. Couldn’t afford the book. That was all I needed.

I received a blueberry printer cover  in the mail after ordering a strawberry one from Epson. My taste for blueberry, satisfied. Having two printer covers is luxury endowed. What else can I upgrade with?

I download anything Mac compatible that did anything I might want, and didn’t have. install, try, it. The thing was a lemon. It had issues. I fixed it or called tech support, or both every week. Finally the tech support dude, asked me what I was doing to my computer. Strider wasn’t  always there, but I always asked for him, cuz he led you through a Lord of the Rings quest as Malady till your iMac worked again.  The guys back at support finally asked why I installed all those patches when the machine was working fine. They were mystified. I wasn’t satisfied.

The software it came with was all good but, I was swept away with upgrading. I wanted it to do things. To do something I didn’t know what, but it was irresistible, to try to find out.  That and surfing the net. My computer is the bomb. I love it. I play Nanosaur and Bugdom. My kid and I bought Bugdom before it came with all rev D iMacs. Then, we upgraded Nanosaur.

Chat rooms I discovered are dangerous. After three days achat, I vow to never return.

I love iMac so much, sometimes I just stare at her.

When I sat and just look, at this pink form, noticing it, pink love and wavy feelings bubble up then spout like pink gold, Texas tea. I noticed this and sometimes just sat on the bed staring at my iMac for the joy of the delicious feelings that came up. She was my first computer. I’d been hurt-bored by the sea of old sandstone hardware. She though, is gleeful to behold.

Sometimes I’d look at other beautiful things. The angles of my rustic pinewood chair, just so in the light were I’d set it to sweep the dining nook. It’s beauty makes everything soft, the world shimmer. Swept air tastes me, time stands still, the feeling delivers me to the glory my  iMac feels of. The floor is clean, a vast place to sit and be eternally swept away. So there I sit and let it. My iMac is happy. I’m happy, and there will there be upgrades for her, that really do stuff. The thought feels like a first encounter. Yes!

Again, pointless love at first sight thought.  Feeling rushes crashes on me like the surf.  New cool upgrades! I wonder what they will be. I sit in that meditation while a love for something that I want, that feels human, maps a place in me that has always been there. Steve Jobs and Apple are making something I can’t live without. When I checked out the newest stuff though, it was not there… There was noting I couldn’t live without. I was pretty happy with my Mac and printer, anyway.

Old iMac and older
Old iMac and older (Photo credit: goron)

This kept happening.

Meditation gets intense: iMac, Steve Jobs, Apple, making something for me surges up like candy ocean. When I stay there in the feeling intensity billows like clouds of light making it with lightning. They turn into a river of gratitude for this thing I want that Apple is making for me. It about bursts my chest, till I let it strike me, while I focus on Steve Jobs making this, and flow it to him. Then just like that chaos storm turns river. Washed through intense emotions of rushing light serene flowing, a delicious river in an artery of gratitude to the guy, who is making something for me.

Almost every time I meditate it happens. The feeling, this delight about the new something. It tumbles my feelings into explosive gratitude firing up water turbines, shooting a six-foot cable of light at me. I focus it on Steve Jobs and Apple. Like focusing on the feeling of being in love, with delicious electric current flowing fast as light yet still. A pre-emptive strike of ferocious gratitude. I sit with it till the fireworks turn off.

Multi-colored iMacs thrill me. I kept the folded pictures in my school bag. I can look at it when I want. Not because I need a new computer. The picture induces idolatrous transports like porn.

For a months this happened a few times a week. Then less. After a while I could look at my iMac and focus and nothing would happen.

Other things came up and turned into tornadoes and reflected different places. None felt like a heavenly river of light though. And every year even after the years of the experience dwindled, I’d check out what the hell I was expecting and still don’t find anything earthshaking at Apple.

Bought my second iMac.  Nothing special Apple is making for me happened. She is my friend. And I figure she chose to come home with me. She and I bond and enjoy each others company. My new mac is my friend, too.

Then, last year, I got an android smart phone. Blasphemy. I wanted an iPhone. This phone fell into my lap just when I needed it bad and had no other way.

A few weeks later, I’m out with my phone in hand walking in a fascinating wood feeling connected to the world in a friendly intimate way by my phone. A whisper from the Earth’s every voice resonates low in me. Wonder strikes my inner, deeper echo place. Not lightning struck, voice of the world deep rock struck.

Oh, so this is it.

Hmmh no wonder!

It makes no sense.

It makes perfect sense!

Ha! This is what all that advance gratitude was about!

Oh, I love my android, and the World it holds in the webbed palm of my hand.

I love my friend, my phone. I smile when I think of Steve Jobs.

I never met, never saw him. Never wrote and mailed, or talked to him.

One day though, my heart broke in an instant as I raked last years leaves in midsummer Texas heat. Grief torrents and whips me like a blizzard without provocation. Sinking to a log on the ground I weep like a child. My parter thinks I’m crazy for suddenly putting down the rake in subdued grief.  Sitting, there, I cry bitter tears for half an hour. Something about my iMac and a dear friend has died. I can’t explain it.

Next day I find out.

Steve Jobs
Steve Jobs (Photo credit: Kashmir Global)

Odd Couple-Polygamy

Passion Happy

 

 

Rumors preceded him.

She sneaked out to check out the rumors.

This new preacher had it real.

 

He plants passion

She thought he was handsome.

She was nineteen.

He thirty-nine.

She was a belle at high school.

He had four wives.

She saw him float right off the floor, lifted up by light, knew she would marry him, the presence of some horror she never met, leered at her from the audience.

He moved the crowd left them swaying, went off to a meeting.

She followed him, got his attention, informed him she would be his wife.

He said when I came back to town.

He did. She was ready.

 

Passion Wants You! Surrender  It Comes Out

 

 

 

I am their tenth child, counting the ones who didn’t grow up.

They believed in me.

I was their purpose.

Conceived in a Mexican jail.

Born while he stood trial.

She sold my home to bribe the judge.

 

Passion Lived Is Christ

 

 

 

To give the world my little brothers.

Their purpose was their passion.

They weren’t right.

 

131_4

 

Yet, in some matters, the matters of their passion, what really matters, they were right on target.

 

The Reason Kids Hate School

 

 

Kids and grown ups feel the same being bullied.

Being bullied.

Becoming bullies back.

The good old USA declared open season on Mormons, by Congress jokes and bullying.

They were not allowed to marry whomever their passion dictated, from the beginning.

They weren’t.

History would have been different if they had been.

But that would make a boring story.

 

Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Odd Couple

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

 

Trading Places/Happy Happy Joy Joy!

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

Idyllic – Creating New Worlds

I Play for Pay by Waywardspirit Art
Do You?

One thin slice of Idyllic

Whole when each shares hers

This is impossible

Possible, what I experience

Experience, what I want

***

Response to:

WordPress Daily Post

Daily Prompt:

Idyllic

Try it here:

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

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/daily-prompt-idyllic/

Austin Local Flavor – Tourist Guide

Flavor is in relationship. Yummy people! Tasty things. Breathable feelings.

Flavor is a recipe.  Subtle spice, people salt, texture things, color mixed, just so original ingredients, design place flavor.

wpid-2012-02-07-08.40.16.jpg Need fuel for Spaceship Blastoff 12-12-12
Need fuel for Spaceship Blastoff 12-12-12
wpid-1349360794081.jpg Flexible  Boundaries-Waywardspirit
Flexible Boundaries
My Mustache
My Mustache
wpid-1348151449157.jpg Waywardspirit Made Perspective
Made Perspective

The usual staple ingredients are pretty much the same everywhere. It’s the details that delight you. The details of landscape, story, living things.

The flavor of a place.

Local flavor is song of people in their happy places, letting bees buzz.

I keep Austin weird. Enough of us do to cook Austin a creative wild dish for the world to taste once and want to stay.

wpid-1351895740573.jpg Relationship With Our Passed Perspective-Waywardspirit
Relationship With Our Passed

Places have unique flavor color weirdness. 

wpid-1347889819796.jpgSame with sideways people.

wpid-1351895582335.jpg Waywardspirit
Perspective

Sideways traditions.

Writing Shoes-Waywardspirit
Writing Shoes

As weird as you really are.

In response to WordPress

The Daily Post.

Daily Prompt: Local Flavor

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/23/daily-prompt-local-flavor/

Impossible Things

2013-03-21 11.30.19

Dreams have no choice but to come true!

Waywardspirit Art- Te Sun by Jessica LeBaron
Te Sun!

What would you do if you were a dream?

ITNJ Writing Challenge-iEvil Mastermind

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 (introversionintuitionthinkingjudgment) 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.

 

Self-Serving

image

I serve Humans. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I serve Humanity. If I’m lucky.

Killer Looks

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

Bloggers for Movember

http://m.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fexpatspost.com%2Fcreative%2Fbloggers-for-movember&h=LAQEfjwOQ&s=1

My Mustache

Postadays

image

Some days just don’t feel like postadays.

Without Conscience

It’s hard to tell if my conscience is more like a tar baby, or more like a hand rail.

Maybe it’s a tar covered hand rail. A handrail along the straight and narrow that get’s me all sticky, and glued to it. I’m wondering if my conscience is meant to keep me on my path, or meant to keep me stuck.

Or, it may be meant for something totally different, perhaps outdated, or just very basic.

wp-1460319734240.jpeg

Conscience must be one of those special use tools. It’s like a hammer. It works real good for nails, but not for scraping ice off a windshield. Or a tool like the weather station, which may predict hurricanes, and tornadoes, but isn’t any help with earthquakes or volcanos.

If I count only on this conscience of mine to guide me, I still get into trouble, and karma. I stay stuck. Or even dig myself in deeper trying to defend it.

It seems my conscience plays by the rules I already know. It does not cover what my consciousness doesn’t cover. Whatever my consciousness is, so is my conscience. If my consciousness is narrow, so is my conscience.

By narrow, I mean it has a small umbrella, doesn’t cover much. I can do everything wicked outside my umbrella without a pang. It’s how, when I’m a soldier, under orders, committing murder somehow doesn’t equal murder. That’s conscience for you. It plays.

Or maybe it’s following some life purpose or blueprint like what I came to learn or perhaps what I learned in a past life didn’t work. I don’t think it covers what I haven’t, at some time, already learned.

As I grow, so does my conscience. I have to believe something is wrong for my conscience to work me. It doesn’t function with what anyone else believes. It only works with what I feel, and believe is right or wrong. When my beliefs change, so does my conscience. I don’t have a conscience, without something to base it on. No one has the same conscience, I guess.

So, now, I’m only counting on it for what I already know, or have known, sometime.

The unexplored worlds beyond my present experience, for these, I figure, my heart knows, and will know what is right for me. My feet know their path, too. They can keep me on my straight and narrow: straight, because it is always the step straight ahead. It’s narrow, because only I fit on it. My path is only mine. My heart figures stuff out, then tells my conscience. That’s how I must have come to have some conscience so far.

I learn by experience, vicarious or otherwise. My personal conscience also seems to be made up of what I’m taught, when I actually believe it. If I don’t believe it or feel it, no conscience for that one. If I believe a lie, then my conscience may bug me for something like walking barefoot, or telling the truth.

Until my conscience grows up, I’m dangerous.

A wild-eyed, grinning toddler.

The Nibiruan Council’s Formula of Compassion, article

The Nibiruan Council’s Formula of Compassion, article.