Small Step

Snap!
Crackle!
Pop!
I stay in my lane
Grin
And rock
In wonder

Snap!
Crackle!
Pop!
I stay in my lane
Grin
And rock
You know how you know
Growths rhythm
By it’s stops and it’s transitions
The developmental maturing
Mystery organ of decision
When you check your gut
Regardless of the situation
You know where something ends
Even during it’s gestation
That knowledge of the end
That holds the line
From now to then?

Oh palimpsest
Of human skin
Her, last week
Now?
Now, this person!


Peekaboo
Yummy lunch!

Never boils?
So,
Expands time
The universe
Deepens an eternal moment
Opens up Life
And everything
Watch a pot
God is in the details
Exactly where the devil’s at


The moment tall strong suits
Live their sideways view
Do I bend over backwards
Lean to sideways crawl
Follow my own sense of gravity
Just walk tall?

My hero
Only as fine
As the villain
Also mine
Is woe

Tree Spirit,
Always is season
I am the reason
The tree in me
Loves it

Warm, glossy red
Tenderness
I keep it in my head
An everyday Christmas
Let me just float
In the now
Of my dreams
From before
Enjoying everything as is
Is everything
Wanting more and more

When you hit it
An edge
The lip of the pit
You’re always been
In
You wedge
You’re bodies
On that ledge
To relax
Then feel your life
Float

Being
My own
Magical
Uni-cone


It takes a village
It takes a Village


I captured it for you like this
Here, smell it!
Yur all them books
I’m wants ta reads
Them twisted nooks
Im-a-gi-nary leads
To wander inta timeless ways
Ways of knowing
Ways ta ways
Re-form-ing
Death inta days
Brimming laughter
Dance an games

If I could do it all again
This time
I’d leave
That salt taste on my skin

My human life
Could be
As mythical
As magical
As I allow
And see

The arduous path
The horrible death-like
The inferno path of redemption
Feels so much sweeter-alive
Than it’s “alternative”
There is just no fucking question

The trick to get power but not be insane
Give it all back
Return it just changed
Try to wield it?
Be happy in vain

This is-ness
Is
Is
Is
Some prism thingy
Rainbow
What was just light
To Thisness

Really?
How dumb are you?
To divide up normal people
Perhaps to conquer
By an aspect that’s least true
Repeating ”black lives matter”
Is dumber and more boring, too
Than foolishly insisting
Shouting like an idiot
The sky is blue!
The sky is blue!

If you don’t get it
Be an idjit
Now be off with you
Sista Brutha
My Fatha
My Matha
You not vanilla
Thank the lawd
Or of Africa
Not no moe
You’re ours!
You’re forged
You’re mine
You’re yours
You’re here
You’re ours!
Right here
In the land of the slave
To be free
To be
Of America
My nigaa!
My own dear sweet
Genuine
The best
Made in America
Magical irreplaceable nigaa

The lowest common denominator
Of lovely human noobs
Can just get on with growing up
Just like your normal kid-bro boobs
And let the grownups talk

I’m not talking to you
If you need this shit
explained
Your view
Makes you irrelevant
For now
Freedom doesn’t require
Your consent
No one’s asking you
You’re just uninteresting somehow

Y’all perfectly worthy
Wonderful cherished noobs
Wherever you are
However color-misguided y’all be
Or how
That, and how anything else
But, for the purpose of clarity
This lowest common denominator
Of human thinking beings
Now
Can just go fuck themselves

Can you
Try
Please
Try
To think of
Anything
Just anything stupider
To divide us by?

Having some wonderful now these days
Some wonderful wonderful magical now
Now now now
Now

Are always
Working out
For me
Water is cool
Air is free

I admire adore and swoon before
A mind that’s placed
Perfect on the untouchable curve of now
Forever
Forever incomplete and wanting more
I’m here for
Allowing everything to unfold itself somehow

I feel all fiscally responsible
It’s so good!- for myself
I feel so well-ithy right now
With no evidence of wealth

Perhaps treat trust
As we treat
A baby
They’re what
The future’s made of
Maybe

A living liquid all lit up
The spirit of a baby god
A mountain feeling comes along
Solid sunlight
Rich AF (as fortold)
So warm- like summer cold
Up lit in glowing
Moons of silver gold
That money matters not
If it’s a thing
It’s a thing You got

You’re done here Slavery
She’s mine
My sista
You can’t touch her
She’s mine
Because I love her
He’s mine!
My brotha
You can’t touch him
You’re done here
I chose now
I’m no longer an accessory
Watching, just watching
Jim Crow ii just casually go down
Now I see and bear witness
You go down for real
You’re done here
Exploitation thingy
Whatever you are
Or seem to be
There’s only one reality
The end

I respond to You
Then You are me
My dear
I cherish you, my inner world
While strange flowers just appear
Then flourish into nameless fruit
When now is always here


Meet my great friend Z
I adore his company
In my heart he pays no rent
Where no one’s guilty
Ever
Till proven innocent
When the world is crazy
When all contradicts
Crazy makes sense
Imsane arrows sting and kill
Till long long experience
Gives you a rinse
Then then then
Bully bullets
Stop in mid air
At will


I wonder what
That where is…
Pop off the top
of your Lifeberry jam
Lick off the knife as you spread it
That jar’s all used up
Before you expire
You bet it

“What we like best is not always good for us.”
That’s a statement.
It’s a statement that’s sorta like an equation.
You build stuff on it.
Or use it to try to fly.
Please take it to Kitty Halk and test it, dear.
You might be using the glider guy’s equation to build a flight machine.
Test it like a Right Brother.
I tested it.
Using that statement as truth I glided and crashed insanely. Repeatedly. For years. I couldn’t believe in flight then. Like the world hoped but didn’t back in the day.
Like Einstein said:
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.
I stopped.
Test shit honey.
It has to work to be true.
What you go by has got to at least achieve some tiny flight.
Then you have something solid that works to go ahead and get on with the space era.
Hugs

That mystical fourth
-Like May the 4th-
That Mystical fourth Metaphysical thing
To nurse
To care
To feed
Our inBetween
Like some living
Alchemy being

Add one spoonful of hope-i-ness
Stir into me like tea
Toss it back
Drunk on Life
Or sip the Day
Slowly

I wanna be an instrument
Database compass measure
Serving living being
At the pleasure
Of the Evolutionary Imperative
Thingy or whatever
Creating meaning
And me

Yuh!
Come ride with me my Morning dear
Delight me just like this
Shred the day in rapture
Life feels like a kiss

Can you skip a breath?
Can it really skip a beat?


Fuck Yeah!

Hi there Mr. Mistake
Thank you for the chance to make
You
Make me

Thank you Day
Today
For being mine!
To Day
To Day
Today
…

Where am I?
Where am I?
I just splashed in
Saunteted in here wet
just to get
a kingly fitting fibbing met
This brave desire to take
Or be taken
In
Line by line
Fiction threads
Entangled in exciting webs
Spun into golden yarn
Now fantasy transports
Delicious delighted scammed
It’s what you get
Unimagined yearning met
Captured
Fantastically converted
Relish
Falling
Captivated
Danced to
Dancing you
Book Club?
or
Strip Club?
Evil is the error part of this ongoing trial and error.

It could be
A way to wheedle out what’s
evolutionarily viable
Or how would Life know?
Without evil, err error
Surupy
Boring
A heroless
Story
Day without night
So what then?
What?

You sketch your lines
Your red letter days
blue places
A mystery wire frame
Scratched in permanent sky
Or something water color ink that never ever dries
These cities grown between us all live on
Forever?
While everybody dies.

When my eye holds only angles
They suck thought out between
the lines
Being lost here somewhere is my moment
Where paint-flow washes out my mind
The sweetest sweetness of all of Life
Might just be
In the footnotes

My writing corner, it’s ceiling light went out
It’s been six months
Here I am, Your avatar, amused
It’s back
In the midnight, the only night
As I sat here and cherished the dark’s dancing candle light



This Morning loves me
I can tell
When fist He brings me coffee
Then goes tempting my eagerness with
forbidden gumdrop fruit
Designed and built all just for me
He, then, He let’s me be

This moment touches you
Oh, we’re here, here, here
Joy and you hold hands just then
To breathe,
the atom splits again
Again, again, again
To live high on this delicious brew
All the fermenting is you
If you can’t be still and feel
Gratitud
You’re screwed

For God so loved the game that he played it.
John 3:16
That’s all I have to say about that. I only wish Clown Head were still here in the game and not logged out.

And why I adore dialogue with you on here.

Your insight is dramatically helpful in the monumental process that is a story teller turnings shame into vulnerability.
Your points give a clear much needed out for when us writers doubt what we are really doing.
We need this way out of our maze of fear and lies we believe feel and react to. Believing I’m exposing my friends makes me feel defensive and small like a weasel. I often suspect myself of something that makes me just like a
Writing a good story is big work.
It’s heavy lifting to process reality into an uplifting story that makes sense and creates meaning and change.
Figuring out how we got out of a tricky spot and how and why we succeeded who and what where the problems and what we learned worked or works is an art. Sharing it is brave.
Finding a way out of lives that won’t bring joy or flow properly no matter what you do or hide is priceless.
I think your points do something to help bring my personal imagination out of the bone yard. A place where I feel like I’m betraying and hurting rather than helping. Hurting isn’t my nature. So I feel paralyzed. So, I fight back.
tabloid producer and accuse myself mercilessly. So I figure the whole world is gonna see me like what I am, some Rita Skeeter, that horrid witch reporter for The Daily Prophet let’s her magical green feather pen stretch butcher and molest the truth about Harry Potter and his friends without a spark of conscience. She’s one of my least favorite fictional characters, ever. So, I’m ready and on the offensive and the defensive, when just like Rita Skeeter, I make this crap up about myself. Then, like the annoying Wizarding community I go and believe the whole thing.
So, then I’m defensive as heck.
I am not like Rita Skeeter!
While I am the only one in this “conversation”.
Only trouble: I wonder if all great writers must have this stupid “conversation” and find a way to end it every time and move forward.
You’re list did something lots of books on writing I’ve read didn’t do.
I’m not sure what it is, but I feel a little bit quenched. In a good way. : )
All the best writers write about what they know with a terrific purpose that’s got nothing to do with exposing their friends. For me, its It’s about helping myself. My friends are part of my life, and lots of what I learned is from my not-so -friendlies. What else is there to write about? How else than to tell my own experience of myself and how my friend’s and family’s crap has affected them and me and the rest of us?
But “Who do you think you are to judge you big meany!?” Still needs to be dealt with regularly. It’s gotta be dealt with. I have to do it. And I have to do it regularly, the way some other professionals have to build up their confidence regularly.
I believe the majority of great story tellers, have to do this. And your words are helping me now. And maybe, it’ll never get as bad as Rita without me knowing where the attack is coming from again.
I wonder if my inner critic identified with a sensationalist tabloid producer. I feel aversion to. I don’t know anything about tabloid writers, and don’t consider them great, or story tellers.
I guess I feel like they are infections. When we are not immune the rest of us wonder if we are also being paid to be contagious pernicious judgey gossips with no right to feel good about our calling.
Huh. I just realized something.
I guess I haven’t figured this out. I don’t know any sensationalist gossip writers at all. Not one person I know thinks I’m that way either.
I just realized. Me trying to avoid being that way is ludicrous. I spin in that cycle rather than just realizing I am not that way. Huh.
Well.
There’s really nothing to talk about.
Note: May get permission to use the points that sparked this. Gotta post my response there first and see if I am nuts after all.
When darkness is thick
Creamy and sweet
Your tongue is alive
It climbs up your feet
All wrapped in the moment
A being of taste
Is it what you are now
From what you have faced?


By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please

Unclasping
This facade
I shake it off
Unfamiliar breezes
Tickle my
Face
Mix it up
Us who
Disagree
To care dilutes
The care
About
Beliefs
Left behind
Unfinished
When I die
What if
I’m reborn?
I’ll give it
Another try
Between
A quest
A grind
Or afk
What to gain
This decade?
What enjoy today?
Slow panic
may congeal
Warm trust
Fires up
To become
What’s fluid real
Run jump
Splash
Into joy
Life
The game
Life a
Toy
Stylish words
Or
Stylish clothes?
Both!
Wide silence
Breeze fills
My being
Happy
I took a
Hike into
My mind
A trailhead
Into Nature
Human unkind
Kind
Together
Feeling good
Feeling better
Together
Than you
Otherwise
Would
Perplexed
hexed
Being reinvented
Fully digested
What’s next?
Next
Radical practical
As-a-matterfactical
Be the truth
Stump evil
Is spirit
In me
Battery
Opperated?
Beep beep
Battery low
How do I plug in
To recharge
Whatever spirit thingy is?
I figure you
May
Know
A
Soul sandwich
Body bread
Mayo spirit
Want cheese?
Get
Mind instead
Elegant destruction
Magnificent while mad
Stillness in it’s offerings
To re-create
was had
Catch a twinkle
Anything’s an eye
As you adore and speak
Your heart
Inanimate things
Reply
Plop
I forgot
Sometimes
My feelings
Drop
Take
The
Cake of life
And
Eat
It
Too
Oops
And eclipse
All I know
Up and flips
I sat on it
The sidewalk
Doodling a bit
Of ink talk
Waiting on the
Wind
Is a melody
Alive
When it makes
You come
Alive
Is it
Magic?
Shiver a soul
Asunder
mitosis
Violence or blunder?
Life plays
In expert chance
Willing to live
Being the dance
Cheat life
Cheat it
Choose
Suck up to death
Point my attention
Outwit
Lose
Confusing need
My mistake
With want
With love
With
Take
Take
Take
A soul is called
“The Witness”
Confused with
“The Creator”
What if each an
Artist?
What to me is obvious
All true
Isn’t even real
To you
Miniature gods
Not dolls
Gaming gods
Involved
I’m learning
Living by living
Life is
The book
The yearning
In city skies
All wounds and scars
The infinite
Is fifty stars
Breath
Move grin
Grow a glee
Joepordize insanity
Smiles and eyes
Tell
These stories
Our souls
Devise
Moon eyed
Exhale
Tune tried
So Frail
Brain fried
Prevail
Ether gels up
Like whipping cream
Making real
The fluid dream
I complicated it
with
A thin cut slice
of juicy wit
For
A simple bite of it
Reach up into
A story tree
Pluck and bite
A story
See
Another word
I so caressed
“I love! I love!”
I was
Obsessed
What’s above
The surface of
Below
What I know
Praise glows
Like trust
Full of fairies
A magic dust
Desire for sublime
This need for some profound
The tartness of serenity
Could make the world
Go round
Life without apology
Condemns my physiology
Till I die happy
The Wind
Has got
My back
Life of my life
Flows unstoppable
I flow gently with it
Relaxing allowing
Sweet new beginnings
All the finest
Story jewels
Only adorn
Crisis
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
The color of joy
Joy’s depth
May be pigmented
Joy’s spaciousness
Carved out
Filled first
Created expanded
By corrosive sorrows
My drive to find
Shared augmented reality
To see what we want to see
Might already be
Programmed
Gamed maybe
Surprise
Cooks in hot
Huge Vats of
Unpredictable
Surprise!
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?
Pet the storm
kiss the wild sky
Play the wind
You fall inside the rain
Rolling with that thunder
Dance into the hurricane
Higher stakes
Restacked odds
Character testing
Twisted plot
In real life
enthrall your soul
At the edge
Bitten nails
From your adventure
Journey movie
My own usual
Thinking story habits
Ways of cowardice
Till I name them
Beat me
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
Forbidden urgent
Questions
Straight and narrow
Answers
Sawing my invisible backbone
With a dull serrated knife
The heart of heart stuff
Lungs made of lung
Doing their own autonomy
Unaffected
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
*
Prophecy
Quest Guide
Mystery
Feeding that
Story collecting
Soul thingy
Meanings
For spinning into
Golden understanding
Empty reason
Empty thoughts
Empty bottle
Empty pots
Empty eyes
Empty threat
Empty lot
Empty net
People are asses
So diverse
Stunning breathtaking deadly
Acts of God
Just like our mother
Earth
“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.
Now I just wonder what I can do about it.
Wonder with me.
“I don’t understand hate”
Hate the euphemism for
All the crap
I didn’t get before
My sugary apathy
Hates back
Embarrassing whipped into fascinating
Chemistry fermenting magic
Trasforms the fundamental
Value of matter
Waterfalls, playful
Rapids let’s go
Tsunami to survive
Placid expanses make you want
Hurricanes to come alive
Smooth into it
It’s mine
For me
Flowing
Soap of time undid the smell
Aired out anger
Liquid distance
Shakes it loose
Splashed disappointment
All over this shirt
Washed in
The blood gone by
A spoonful of circus
A dash
Some leaps
A laugh
Six joys
Pour out pink
Mix with noise
An epitome
Individual curiosity
Lotteried kill sets
Oaths fall-downs
warped twisted intact
Personality chosen
Sides
Level ups death
Playing me
Like you
Into some being
New


Feast on dreams and verbs
Round glows festivus
Burn your dreams for firewood
Plucked by minds to smell
A dream to bite and chew
Washed the etherial dirt off
shucked
Peeled
Cut into bite size chunks
Chopped
sauteed
The flesh of juicy dreams
Invite your friends to eat
Harvest more from your fertile souls
Surrender bits
For composting
Brick by brick
Before building I make
brick by brick
Every solid symmetrical
Brick by brick
Each un-squared crumble-prone
Brick by brick
My precious bricks
A sense of time, what sense is this?
A sense of vision, no?
Vision Touch Hearing Smelling Taste
A sense of smell, now mean it like visionary vision
A sense of vision. What?
If vision can be expanded to the imagination
If vision has a passport to the future, but
A sense of hearing… Them voices you mean?
Why hold back the other senses from expanding?
What’s the expanded form of sense of touch?
Good taste may be yummy to all the senses
Our senses our sense of self or sense of selves
Why is only visionary rewarded esteemed healthy?
Hear into the future or imagination, smell feel
Taste these results
Feel how it will feel
Hear it’s voices
Fall in love



Shadow thread weaves
Webs of stands of real
Stubbed yellow tears
Brocken hearted glory
Stitched into a soul
By how I feel

Open window trailing words
Blue chemistry falling views
Gleaming explosions gusts of worlds
Wisps of stillness
Enchantment twirls
Life blows in
Inspirations waves
Smashes hurricane
To the page

“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.
He makes you
Belive the sun
It shines for you
All night
The crossroads is
It’s true
It is
Just not here from him
To you
Dissapointment compost
Dirt after it rains
The smells it grows
Feeds you from pains
Life Cycle
Somehow knows

To consume the beauty of the moon
Like cheese of light
On bread of quiet
Every night
Of smiles and time
Simmer disaster
Lock up the circles
Social out-caster
Armed the langth
unfurl uproot book
Show it defeat
with a look

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?
Between the streets
Accross tracks
Specially when magic
Stairs are invol-voked
Taken Takem
In life
How far is it from 43 to 42?
soul may be
a bibliography
footnotes
to moments
that time
that felt
like that
that makes
Me this
now
…
:
i love
them* this* like that* those* here* clip* him there* her so* it* now* soundtrack* no thank you* more*
yes* done* yummy* never again* image* mistake* restart* like*
About what the meaning of life the universe and everything else, I wonder if it’s particular to each person.
Then maybe each particular individual variation is a twist in a good story. Since every good story is about conflict of interests and growth from making growing choices then conflict of interests it’s totally a basic high quality story ingredient. So we would story- starve without our differences.
Just for the record. No diversity no story, no Saturday cartoons.
Then there is this other wonder. To just call the other interest, not my own, the guys who want some really no-way things evil could be really dumb or maybe just developmentally at a certain level. Like the ewww girls level. The boys have cooties level. Quite age appropriate even. Maybe part of the meaning of life is that as a cultural being we are age appropriate.
Then, if so, what developmental level in me and my species comes next? What are some of the possible new ingredients for tasty satisfying story foid? Are they an acquired taste like caviar? What do I pay to get them? Where? How? Where do I find a Why and learn to cook it?
Wait, that’s the seed of every new story vegetable. Maybe, it’s for planting.
Would you, if you could, plant and grow a story vegetable garden?
What do healthy home-cooked stories taste like?
Do “my” stories create and add up to my “me”?
Other wonders:
Are there GMO stories?
Organic stories?
Mass stories?
Hydroponic stories?
Poison stories?
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!
Wondering is a defense mechanism.
Last time I thought I know what I believed and thought and it’s scale of “rightness” I was on a different metric system. The whole thing crashed and blew up. People died. Lives were ruined. You know the king was naked and all that.
Wondering assumes I don’t know yet and could use some alternate awareness than what I have now.
Wondering is a bet that someone else sees what I don’t see and I can catch the truth in the glimmer in their eye or in their posted word.
Because wondering implies that I have what it takes to sort it out eventually then measure design cut sew it into a fitting world view to wear in the World.
When I feel the shouts “the king is naked! ” I wonder if I’m the one shouting or if I’m the king.
I wont always be right. I will grow out of the clothes even if they worked. I do prefer not to wear clothes sometimes. So, when I figure someone is totally off you know say like our pet scapegoats the 1%, if I really had an answer or a solution or something to say to one of these the best thing would be to start by seeing a person. A person, sometimes naked like me. Then move on from there to what each of us knows and feels. Then to wondering about that. Freedom of speech all it means is it’s safe to wonder. I wonder If the fancy 1% really even get to enjoy the first amendment. To many mobs bitching to even have a second to wonder.
This is what I would have written in my private Morning Pages. Not sure it’s too naked to be walking the streets of the City of Light. But onward to Forty-Two.
Experienceing the line between reality and fiction tastes indescribable, feels reality bending.
Reality, sometimes fluid often pliable can be the original awsome, even creepy, depending on the cultural vocabulary of images you can reach for when you attempt to describe what the hell just happend, or didn’t, either way, to yourself.
The universe isn’t so dull, is it, that each experiancer, always gets the same “unimaginable” experiance, always clearly describable in no uncertain terms, predictable, always positive or always negative or always neutral?
The boring-est movie ever is just like that. Zero ratings is just like the way I notice expecting my reality to behave: bland, unsurprising, predicable, all done before then institutionalized in some Bible or other. The terms, the code rules my experience snuggles under, folds into and creates itself by must be wearing a mass uniform.
My expectations must be so I can pass the boring enough test, sane enough test, scientific enough test, has it happened before enough test.
Then, if it happens to pass those tests, these ones will weed it out: The is it possible? imaginable? repeatable? duplicatable? Even the just credible tests I lay on myself cuz I sorta want to fit in turn my world pink and elephantine.
Does my world exsist?
Nah.
Squishing this me into a tiny cell I give myself as a sanity challenge doesn’t only look weird.
Squashes brain, constricts heart, deflates lungs, feet and hands cramp and tingle, tucked in tight.
I am gonna fit in. I wanna live in the world.
To live in here, is to fit in here.
Toes can’t even wiggle.
Wooooot! I am sane!
That and love began to exist the precise instant science figured out how to prove it does.
Before that, it didn’t exsist.
Let the will of the Lord be done unto me…
Don’t bother sweetheart, you don’t have a choice.

This Annunciation transforms Pietà into His Mama Cries in one simple step.
***
Two makes language. Two communicates.
Sad, I thought, when my sister hollered up the stairs: An airplane just crashed right into a building!
I don’t watch news.
Oh, my god! Another airplane just crashed into another building. Just now! Just now!
My mind flips into mode. I don’t react. I ask. What is going on?
My newborn is laying next to me, where I’m reading. I look at my tiny baby asleep safe on our shared bed. I gently snatch my precious two-month-old into my arms head for the stairs and march down with her nestled to my chest. I’m fixen to set to translating this language of two.
What is being said here?
But I lost my brain and train of thought waiting for the firefighters to rescue trapped people form that crash, to evacuate the first building. Two buildings side by side airplane wounded, bleeding smoke.
Tell me people got rescued. Common firefighters get up there already! Get up get out.
It’s about time for an update. Suspense isn’t joking. Are the people out of danger? Like when baby Jessica was in the well. I’m not sure I can stand them in there any longer when my body feels a backbone crushing from the bottom up collapsing me one vertebrae at a time. It disintegrated and went up in a cloud of dust I can’t breathe.
They didn’t have time to get out! They didn’t have time to get out! All those people. All those firefighters. I just commanded them to get in there! They did. They didn’t get out!
They didn’t have time to get out looped my brain.
I rebooted it. It turned to rescue people charred by the other plane. No way such collapse would happen again. It was a fluke. It was only a fluke. People will get rescued this time. This building will hold as buildings do. So get em out.
Get out!
My inner voice shouts. Hurry! It works as much as cheering a team playing a game on tv at making me feel better.
Nothing feels good enough and I can’t just sit here. Scouring the foot of the building hoping to see people come out is almost useless at so far off a screen view. Parched thirst for safety turns desperate like desert heat and blazing sun. The firefighters are in there. That’s no wet enough news. The spot on the ground I’m scrutinizing for exit movement liquefies. The tower squats down, shrinks, disintegrates, plunging my soul with it into a pile of rubble erupting ashes and dust of hope. Nothing makes sense now.
I look down at what I discover in my arms. Future in the baby face nuzzled at my breast vanishes. I can no longer imagine milk ever flowing out for her, again. There is no world now. No world for her to live in.
I ghosted back upstairs, put my sleeping child down in her un-safe spot on the bed, then went to find us some safety in a stillness, a quiet surrender to what is. Letting go of what I think and feel-a hopeless end. A world. Allowing something that just liquified and collapsed to begin to regenerate or reconnect in me, then to my world.
What desperate heart-piercing scream erupts in these two molten crushing voices?
I sit and search, finally melting into the stillness where life is.
Till I’m wretched out of a concentration maintained fragile focus by my sister. Another airplane hit the pentagon!
Goddam! War-cries explode into being inside me. Instead of lighting up with those, I flee to a quiet place to put out the fire and stitch the world back together.
Later the story of the plane down in a field jerks my mind the other way. That one did something to me.
I imagine my people taking out the pilot and going down with the plane. Finally, I don’t feel bound and helpless. My hero’s, my people, succeeded. They did stuff for me. I feel like my fellow citizens and some pretty sacred symbolic place got rescued.
The Brave. The cost! Imagining that person, those people, instantly facing death, trusting each-other, banding together, standing up, thrills me and cancels out the already-in-the-grave feeling of helplessness. At the last-minute choosing to go down with the airplane in a spot were no one else would be hurt, fired up hope again. These are my people! Fiction or not.
Then I thought of the hijacker.
The contrast for him. Alone. Thwarted. Failed. The creeps of failure along with death. The guy or gal who may have, according to the speculation, took that plane down dies a glorious death while even the children on that flight, doomed, where not enslaved and twisted into instruments of more destruction. This is a victory even in death-or something like that. Then I thought this is what really matters to me-to people.
One hijacker had the worst possible death. He died hopeless, a failure, crushed by letting down what he was willing to die to uphold. So, what was he upholding that mattered that much to him, then? What band of brothers did he feel like he betrayed? My emotions settled here, and everything started to make sense. This kid knew when he boarded the plane that he was going to die. He couldn’t chicken out. He couldn’t afford to really see one human being on that plane with him. No person could be more cornered or desperate, and sad. I wept for him. Then, I wept for his fellows.
When memorials were held, I scheduled my own. I’m already feeling like an American about my own American dead. So, I don’t focus there, were everyone else is already showing up. For each memorial, I brought a flower, to take time and felt the grief for each hero of a cause I don’t understand. And for his mother. For a kid compelled to shout-out that blood shrill for help. I don’t understand it. The kid, I figure, really didn’t understand it, either. We are equally lost in the world him and I. He stood for something just like my heroes. He was a person. He died failing, or triumphant. But that wasn’t what I wept for. I wept for the time he passed a beautiful American girl on a New York street and didn’t allow himself to see her beauty and love her, because he might have to kill her. She is them. This is not for me. Bitter tears dripped for the hours he spent at the airport, then on that plane looking at children, babies, couples in love, not seeing this was for him. Not seeing himself in them. I wept for his looking yet not seeing community, only death.
It took me a few years to tell another person after that first person I told. She looked at me like I’d swallowed the devil whole and alive. It doesn’t matter that I don’t agree with Osama Bin Ladin, even if he is not framed, but I let my heart try to hear the people he speaks for, is blasphemy. My position made me shake all over, but I can’t just pretend I feel different.
When Osama may (or may not) have been killed. I take it hard.
Every time the subject or name of Osama has come up for the last decade or so, I handle it by imagining Jesus getting accused. I don’t know anything, but he is my friend because I made a choice to listen to and honor him with my thoughts. I don’t know what he is saying, I’m just listening.
He just got crucified.
While my community celebrates, grief crushes me. I cry on my walk. Grief floods me making lunch, on my way to pick up my kid, while I play Runscape with my online friends, but I don’t talk about it to them. While walking off the feeling of indigence over my country taking-out my friend for me, my walking buddy Lois brings up the politics and his death. A lump grows and grows in my throat choking up tears I can’t hold back.
I lost my imaginary friend, today. Yet the grief is mostly over the idea of celebrating it.
natura morta (Photo credit: Circolo d’Arti)Become immortal
Drink it
Tried that last time
Oops I died
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
Close Up: Magnificent mosaic mural on the corner of 11th Street and San Marcos in Austin.
Close Up: Feeling Perspective on the corner of Waywardspirit Blog and WordPress Plane.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Color
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.
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
We want Five a Day!
We need Five a Day!
We get Five a Day!
Any Questions?
We take care of ourselves and each other.
No compromise.
Thank You for your kind support Facilitator.
Life is Good.
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…
Then. My reflection is a reflection. I am myself again.

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.
Response to: WordPress
The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Trading Places
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.

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.
Places have unique flavor color weirdness.
Sideways traditions.
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/
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?
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?

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.

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.

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.
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.
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%.
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.
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
Fist, you are a horrible human being-a monster.
Everyone thinks so. Everyone who doesn’t know you.
When we the people get our hands on you it will hurt. We will make you a scandal, an outcast. We will humiliate you with accusations, gossip, tabloids, trial, jail, hopefully death. We laugh. There is no way out of it for you. We are right and we know it.
So, betray your families. Let us make your kids the children of monsters. We will make them orphans. You did it to us. We are justified. We want to turn your loves, your wives, into prison widows. We want to cause you pain. We want to watch. We are right.
Why don’t you see justice?
Why are you fighting back?
We are right!
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.

Who with matters
It matters
because
It matters to me
Nothing else matters
Unless it matters
To you
Or to you
Or you
Or
By
Waywardspirit
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BORING!
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.
Until my conscience grows up, I’m dangerous.
A wild-eyed, grinning toddler.