Punishment
Turbulent
“When you are betrayed You go to hell”
A feeling place where
What I accuse can breed
So I may live what I judge
Next life
This way
To then succeed
Razor chains dragging horror
Swirled in toxic fumes
Gas ball oozing regret and hate
Chased me out of my room Nightmares Devoure my dreams
How do I know
I wasn’t caught?
What if it’s
A movie making team
Plot twist stirrer
Setting up and recording
Making sure I don’t get boreing
Eventfull dramma
Meaning designer
Not keeping me
Under Glass
The spectrum of pleasure and pain
Each one side of the other
Horror to ecstasy
You can’t hold one
Without cuddling both
Honor to shame
Like all good stories
Evil’s designed into this game
Tiny water spirits
Conceived in every cloud
Born in falling drops
Liquid bodies rush
Through the air
Alive in this bottle
Shower lake and pool
Granting every flush
A river animal
Yearnings in her waves
Dancing the bends
Falling down for days
Becoming the ocean
Manning the clouds
Can she wait
To be poured into a glass
Perhaps the ninety-eight
Deprive my soul thingy
Of stories to collect
Of desperate choices
Dangerous encounters
Clashing wills
Dark nights
Triumph of wills
Irreplaceable loss
Implacable spirit
Brocken open hearts
Catalysts story arcs
Unexpected twists
“I don’t understand hate.”
“I will never understand hate.”
“Yeah me either.”
“Just don’t get how people can hurt other people”.
I found this deadly conversation on Facebook by artists authors thought leaders the ones who are entrusted to know better. Sadly our short collective memory blanks out how very close to yesterday back in our church days if you were one of many of the popular American religions you were taught to believe homosexuality led to Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed. A whole two cities devoured by holy flalmes for tolerating that abomination.
It’s all interpreted right there in both Christian and Muslim religion’s holy writings. So, it’s something way different from the catch-all phrase “hate” that is causing so much pain and death discrimination and hurt.
For a minister at least one in this case the one in California to stand up and celebrate someone finally doing God’s will is pretty natural. It’s part of being “right”.
I’m reminding myself that my ancestors and my culture up till now have been violent. We wage justified wars that are still going on. We lynched black folks and have disrespected and rejected “sodomites” for centuries now.
Not long ago it was legit to kill Catholics then in turn Protestants for being Catholic or being Protestant then both killing Muslims. I’m pretty sure my ancestors being faithful and devout men and woman participated in all the holy killings back then because they continued right up to very close to the present being devout and holy killers. Being faithful and devout myself, I thought the “right” half of that crap was all good.
Holy killings. Fighting for whats right. Soldiers for freedom. We still do it. The least we can do is admit we do not understand “hate”. That we are it. Whatever that word has come to mean. We do it. We have been doing it together.
I have. I understand “hate”. I have lived and continue to live hate.
It stings so I tug at it to get it off. Wailing and whimpering I reach down grab hold of it. It feels like a cat clinging to my butt so I’m trying to shove it down and off, but something feels ominous about doing this. When I do this, meanness happens.
I look up and No is open. I wonder through distracted from the ouch.
It feels good out here. I get to shake the heavy naughty thing off here since no one will stop me or be mad at me anymore. Sucking in and taking small wiggle steps works. It falls to my feet and trips me. The ground comes at me. Wiggling it off my ankles feels better than crying. I get back up. My hands and knees don’t hurt. I don’t cry. No one will come stop me and the ground feels good.
Softness tickles my feet. To wiggle my toes here feels good. I’m feeling relief all over. Then I look around. I’ve never been here before. I don’t know the word for freedom. It just tastes good.
I look far away over the soft and see the hard place. Then across it to a place where nice people will be. The place over there where they will be nice to me. They will be nice to me. I’m going there and never coming back.
When I come to the hard knee hurting place my hands and knees tingle recalling the last time I tried to get away and fell on hard bumpy rocks tripped by holes. This one is smooth dark and shiny.
It won’t trip me. I stand there stareing at it wondering. I won’t fall on the rocks and step in holes burned into my body’s mind from last time I tryed this. I decide. This time I’ll run quick careful without getting hurt. Like when I fell just now and it didn’t hurt. This won’t hurt again. Just cross to overthere and and never come back.
I wait for a big noise thing that’s coming to go away. I’m waiting for it. This big noise thing is a light for some reason. It’s taking longer than these take to come and go. It’s not going. The light is here.
It stops. It’s not supposed to stop. This is confusing but I’m going ahead.
Now people are here. But I’m still on my way to the nice people. They talk to me but I tell them I know where I’m going. Then a lady holds out a yummy sounding bag to me. I take some of wht’s in it. It’s good. I try to get more. She moves back so I follow her.
She seems like a nice one. So, I don’t have to go over that hard thing after all. The nice people are here.
I try to tell them they are nice people so I’m coming with them. I know they are nice because they have food they don’t make me do stuff and they are not cross.
Just as I start eating, the mean ones come. They snatch the bag away and give it back to the nice ones.
I protest with all my might. Screams struggles kicks don’t help. I grab for the bag, then when it’s out of reach make a break for the real nice people.
The mean people catch me and hold me against my will. Then they carry me off back to the mean place.
I’m doomed.
Then, suddenly the mean ones talk nice to me and snuggle me.
“I feel ungrounded. No poems to read. No pictures to ruminate over.” One of my good reader friends complained on May 2 after National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo was over. When I stopped posting.
Hay, NaPoWriMo is over. No more poems for you.
But then, his unease started sinking in and reflecting how I was feeling. I realized. I feel ungrounded too. No picture to create, no poem to wonder into being. My life is off.
Only half of why I write is enough to keep me writing for the rest of my life. To stop writing wondering painting the reasons the wonders is to die. The other half of the reason I write is unrest or energy swirling, mind dust devils curiosity and ravenous hunger to ride to learn to grow to tell stories to inhabit stories.
Postaday on WordPress is still here though NaPoWriMo is over. So even though I can’t get the Postaday badge to stick on here and it seems a little contrived, I need the stucture to write and hope now. A game to ride the beautiful bucking swirling dust devils into ink seahorses to frolic on the page for you. Because I need to.
Weekly Photo Challenge and Weekly Discover Challenge also keep me wondering and going there admiring the world. Admiring the world keeps me close to the wind and tight woven with the magic of gratitude so they enchant this mysterious rodeo.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing. I love the ride. I love you guys.
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?
The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is 42. I get my own forty-two and it’s free for me just one year from today.
Ask the right questions and 42 will be the answer. Question is, what are the right questions?
Wondering could help with this. That’s what this whole affair is about so I may as well actually do it here. Do it here rather than in my usual paper form. Just for this one countdown.
A Waywardspirit Wondering Countdown to 42.
Yep my own personal answer to Life The Universe and Everything is on it’s Way!
Wonder-up the questions, I will. So when I get the answer to this meaning of Life, The Universe and Everything I may , hopefully, know what the question was.
For the next 365 then (give or take), Waywardspirit will be Wondering to 42.
Realms touch
Powers mingle
Magic born
Of fairies
In people
Impossible charmed
Wind alive
Unimagined desire
Dot a dot
Life on fire
Dream physics
Demand require
Honey-dipped moon
Mother heart
Solid revere
Human art
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 (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.
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…
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!
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.
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.
waywardspirit 
