We Have Come to This....?

Not only does the Pope demand that we let the parasites live, but now he's gone over the line. I never thought he could have gone so far as to suggest that we accept the ugly ones! The Catholic church is so repressive!

Buying America Part One

Compulsory Education....

Where did we begin buying America, Beloved? Well, it started in the cradle. That's where most of these conspiracies start. We started by appealing to the fears of impoverished mothers, who want what's best for their babes, and who desperately need a break from worry. See the weakness? See the soft spot ripe for exploitation?

It started so many years ago. First we had to do something about the children. If they grew up with minds of their own, they wouldn't be good sheep. So we kidnapped them from their parents. We rounded them up in little rooms. (Of course most parents didn't see valuable social experiment as a violation of the 4^th Amendment. How quickly they were willing to believe that the government had good intentions. Especially since the first kids to go to public school were dirty Irish street urchins.) We had to make what was commonly considered a “public wrong” into a “personal right”.

It started out innocently enough. Children needed an education after all. It is all in the service of the public good, but a good education also serves the individual. In the beginning, children said their prayers and their pledge of allegiance, and they learned to read and write and understand. We even taught them hygiene and manners. Many went home better off. Once public education became an indelible part of the American fabric we began the real work of divorcing children from their parents and their common sense.

What is amazing is how complicit Americans were to this Prussian style of mind control. Maybe it was because there was really no one person to blame. Every school was populated with excellent teachers who worked hard for little pay, who saw more of the children than the parents did. Who went out of their way to help the needy ones. Who threw their hearts into their subjects. They weren't to blame. The teachers and administrators were cogs in the wheels of a superb machine. The very design of the public school (especially the large urban ones) prevented children from becoming engaged in their own intellectual growth, or self understanding. They would learn from the time they were very little to salivate at the sound of bells and the ticking of clocks, and move from station to station never engaging their minds too deeply in the subjects of literature, economics, history, politics, logic, and debate, for there was never enough time. We taught them how to “learn” and “study” and “pass” but never to understand. They were being “schooled” not educated, but that was the grand idea after all.

We started altering the subjects to suit a government agenda. Although the children's brains were shrinking, we were praising them for repeating code words, telling them they were brilliant when they expressed an appreciation for psychobabble and politically correct rubbish, and disavowed their parents and their narrow minded religions. We had to start teaching them that their parents were the stumbling block to their “independence”. And even though we went to great lengths to keep the children confused and ignorant, we schooled them into believing that that their backwards ideas were progressive and their classically educated parents were just obstinate and close-minded. If they were good students, they went home to their parents with superior expressions in their eyes and a disdain for anything that smacked of tradition.

They didn't have time for parents anymore either, because school came home with them and they were at the books until their heads hit the pillow, and they woke early to start all over again. And deprived of sleep we once again stole their minds by the clever use of bells and clocks.

And now we have programs that we can implement long before they even pass through the doors of the Kindergarten.

I can tell you so much more about the modern educated person. How he has sacrificed logic and practicality at the hands of "imagination" and "creativity" and dreams of utopias: utopias we have attempted in the past, that he believes will no longer have be accomplished through the destruction of whole populations, because he is more "enlightened". How he no longer knows how to criticize and scrutinize groups or the government to any great degree, because he is bound by the political correctness they foisted upon him from the time he was young. He's forgotten how to weigh the question of freedom against his understanding of history and religious philosophy. Because his history has no context beyond it's relationship to 1968, and he knows religion is verboten in the public sphere unless we're speaking of how it's repressive.

But maybe we'll talk about religion soon, my dearest.

Anyway, think of how much we've achieved! But to me, our greatest achievement was in creating one ingenious poetic irony. We taught our educated American that people that speak like I am speaking to you right now are "conspiracy kooks" who should be scorned and scoffed at!

Isn't that just hilarious, my Love?

Botched Abortion

This certainly was a "botched abortion".

Now, my Love, we know these things should always happen behind the shield of the womb, where our delicate and civilized sensibilities won't have to be troubled. Then the doctor can pretend to be a surgeon following some Hippocratic Oath, and the mother can play victim role by lamenting about how uncomfortable the procedure was. That way we can't hear the human being screaming silently beneath the once protective shield of her mother, while her limbs are being viciously torn from her body.

Once outside the body, allowing the "fetus" to bleed out from its umbilical chord before throwing her in the garbage is just utterly barbaric, especially after seeing her face.

Should have just cut the mewling burden to pieces and cleaned it up with a shop vac. That's the routine procedure.

And never, never look at her face.

Piece by Piece

Is how she'll let go of you. I'll just tear you to pieces, but oh well, to each his own.

Satire, Thou Art a Dead Art

I don't usually say this word Beloved. It is coarse. But bullshit.

Feelings? I have no feelings! I will place Typealizer among the great stack of mental cast offs who do not understand satire.

They must think I have true sentiments when I call you "Beloved".

ISFP - The Artists

The gentle and compassionate type. They are especially attuned their inner values and what other people need. They are not friends of many words and tend to take the worries of the world on their shoulders. They tend to follow the path of least resistance and have to look out not to be taken advantage of.

They often prefer working quietly, behind the scene as a part of a team. They tend to value their friends and family above what they do for a living.

Artist?! I eat artists for breakfast!

A Team?! As long as they are attending to my every wicked whim!

Timely Quote from Another Time

I love this Ayn Rand quote from "For the New Intellectual". Before you read it the requisite three times, keep in mind how the left (and those seduced by their false intellectualism) deride as buffoons, or treat as threats those who speak unequivocally of good and evil, use the term "terrorist" or "patriot" without apology, or who are simply straightforward like Sarah Palin. The Left insists that the Right adopt their love affair with "nuance" and "layers". Why not speak plainly? What kind of deceit are they (I hope unwillingly) advocating when they choose platitudes over facts? How did it come to be that the Left equates confident certainty with tyranny?

Perhaps the most craven attitude of all is the one expressed by the injunction “don’t be certain.” As stated explicitly by many intellectuals, it is the suggestion that if nobody is certain of anything, if nobody holds any firm convictions, if everybody is willing to give in to everybody else, no dictator will rise among us and we will escape the destruction sweeping the rest of the world. This is the secret voice of the Witch Doctor confessing that he sees a dictator, an Attila, as a man of confident strength and uncompromising conviction. Nothing but a psycho-epistemological panic can blind such intellectuals to the fact that a dictator, like any thug, runs from the first sign of confident resistance; that he can rise only in a society of precisely such uncertain, compliant, shaking compromisers as they advocate, a society that invites a thug to take over; and that the task of resisting an Attila can be accomplished only by men of intransigent conviction and moral certainty.

Funny. Woman of Abomination uses some pretty ornate and seductive language when she's escorting her paramours to their doom, and they're too mesmerized to care, to the point of welcoming their owned destruction.

I wonder what kind of sweet little uncertainties the thugs will be whispering in our ears now that we've invited them in?

How To Undress a Good Man

Beloved, didn't you know that your God is just a myth created by feudal lords to keep the serfs in line when they couldn't be directly monitored? The idea of a soul, the belief in hell, this dream of salvation, these notions of good and evil, all emerged from a collection of stories and traditions created to send men off to war to die for the empire du jour? Please, my love, do not be fooled by ancient propaganda. It makes you weak. We live in an enlightened and civilized society now. You are a free man. Here, let me loosen the buckles of your chainmail suit. Let me remove your helmet with it's ridiculous embellishments. Let me see what's beneath this armor of God.

Oh, my sweet. I was praying that under that garish costume, there would be something more provocative than a gray business suit. Don't tell me you've bought into the corporate ladder lie. You'll spend your life constantly treading water, reaching for some imaginary shore, but you will be expending your very life force like a rat on a wheel. Do you see how you are just fuel for their greed machine? Why should you slave away? You are a free man. Let me slip my hands beneath your lapels and get this dreadful sport coat off of you. It's so unnatural.

And is this a wallet? What do you need all of this money for? Look at my slaves, they have nothing. Aren't you ashamed of your affluence in this world where rich and poor are so sharply divided? Did you not learn to share? Free yourself from materialism. Here, I will take this money and find a charitable use for it.

What was the other thing I felt in your pocket? Oh, of course you are happy to see me, but not doubly so. Is it a weapon? How can we have a peaceful society when men run around with guns blazing? Only rednecks cling to these obvious phallic symbols, and it's due to their ignorance, fear, and hate. You should be free of these troubles. You strike me as an intelligent man. Why must you wield such an instrument of murder? Here, let me unfasten this holster.

When you placed your hand on my wrist my love, I noticed your ring. Have you a wife? A family? Why do you feel that you must be beholden to these leeches who steal your money and your time, who challenge your independence? Family is so restrictive. Your parents steal your childhood telling you who to be and how to live, then when you have children of your own, they steal your adult years with their noise and demands. How can you be a free man with family? The little parasites should never be born. Give me your hand. Let me take this little trinket of absurd romanticism from your finger.

And why must you wear those glasses? Don't tell me that you've been spending your time reading independently; discerning things for yourself; meddling with that computer and getting your information from the unschooled fools in their underwear who live in their mother's basements.

Or are you looking at art in the museums? All of those gaudy romantics with their pretty women? Don't you know that's passe? Ugly is the new beautiful. And for music, loud is the new lullaby. You're a free man. I know I keep saying it. But I must remind you that you should not let tradition dictate to you what you should read, see, and hear. I think those glasses are superfluous. Let me see your eyes.

Look at you before me. Down to your shirtsleeves. You're actually quite sexy. Now that I've removed your ring, and established that there is no soul, I hope I've removed the notion that sex is somehow sacred. It's really just physical after all. We should fornicate to our hearts' content. Let's just remove the rest of your clothes my Love. Be a free man with a free woman.

Doesn't it feel good to be free; free because now you have no God? Free because now you are not burdened by the desire to be good or the fear of being evil? Free because you are moving toward a utopian society where nobody gets shot? Free because now your future will somehow be handled for you? Free because now you don't have to waste your life pursuing wealth and property? Free because you are not drowning under the weight of old traditions like family? Free because now you are able to abdicate all forms of personal responsibility, and hand them over to me? Free because you are naked and empty?

Because you are so wise and you haven't fallen for all of that old propaganda, you have earned me. I will be the bed you will lay in.

After you've had your shower of course.

See that numbered hook over there? That's where I've hung your armor, and your clothing, and beneath which I have cleverly placed your gun, wallet, and ring. Be sure to remember that number so that you can retrieve them when you come out.

Because you are a free man.

For now.

Animals

Belong in cages.

There are children who suffer diseases of the body which can be treated with medications. I've seen their precious little faces smiling behind the tubes. I've seen their heads, hairless as a newborn baby and I want to send my money. I want to offer to hold the tiny ones who were born too early; to give them the human connection that will give them a fighting chance.

But aside from learning disabilities there are really no acceptable disorders of the brain in children. I believe if a mental disorder is repulsive to society, then it doesn't actually exist. If a child does not please us in it's behavior, and no amount of medication, punishment, shame or parental admonishment can fix it, then we should take the child to the highest cliff and drop it off, or leave it in the woods for the wolves, or kill it humanely with gas. If a child can't move smoothly through the machine we have constructed, because there are no facilities for them, then they should realize that their humanity is void, and so is their life. In a good society, compassion and aid should be only be reserved for those children who deserve it. The ones who suffer politely. The ones who suffer with a smile, or act beyond their years. The ones that don't complain too loudly that the fear and chaos inside them is eating them alive. Mentally ill children and their parents don't deserve our sympathy. If society can't beat sense into a child then they simply have no soul.

Socially healthy people are different in that they know how to focus their inhumane impulses. Here are some fine examples of human compassion, logic, and mental health who probably made it through the government school system just fine:

.

.."if this young girl is that emotionally unstable she should be in a classroom or environment fitted for her needs"...

The only environment fitted for that animal is a cage.

Replying to LiberalsRvermin:

"She was spitting at her teachers, kicking at an officer, and lashing out against efforts to restrain her, Fort Myers police said. (The girl) has thrown chairs at the teacher, threatened to stab the teacher, slapped the phone from her hand as she tried to call for help, kicked the teacher and kicked the door into the teacher,"

This thing behaves like an animal. Put it in a cage.

Probably nothing more than a red neck kid... that’s the way most of them act anyway

WAS THAT CHILED A AFERICAN-AMERICAN? HER MOTHER NAME SOUND LIKE IT WAS. IF RIGHT THEN THE POLICE AND PEPPLE DID HAVE A HARD TIME WHAT TO DO WITH THE CHILE BECUS WITH A AFERICAN-AERICAN TYPE OF CHILE WHATEVER THAT DO PEPPLE WILL RIOT AND BURN EVERTHING DOWN. AND THE GOFERNMENT WILL BACK DOWN AND NOT PUUNISHE THE AFERICAN CHILE. NOMADDER WHOT ANY AFERICAN PEPPLE DO IT BETTER TO NOT TALK BACK OR YOUSE GETS IN MORE TRUBBLE.
10/17/2008 4:31:21 AM

The end of the article explains why it's a story. They are pushing for more "funding". It always comes down to more money with these people.
10/17/2008 5:15:27 AM

Replying to LiberalsRvermin:

"She was spitting at her teachers, kicking at an officer, and lashing out against efforts to restrain her, Fort Myers police said. (The girl) has thrown chairs at the teacher, threatened to stab the teacher, slapped the phone from her hand as she tried to call for help, kicked the teacher and kicked the door into the teacher,"

This thing behaves like an animal. Put it in a cage.

Probably some liberals' kid. You know, the kind of parent that never says "no" to their kid, and doesn't "judge" their behavior.

There's a little girl I know. I take her with me when there is something small I need to find. I keep her drawings of birds and insects in a little book on my table top. I am fascinated by her world that is governed by minutia. She's so bright, I wonder why she isn't in school, but I'm happy to have her with me so I've decided not to report her.

While we sat together in the corridor outside of my chambers and I let her play with my ermine, she spied a lone ant making its way across the tiles in front of us. I can't stand to share my living quarters with vermin so I called out an order for it to be destroyed. But the child was adamant that the insect should live.

"Can't you see he's all alone?" She said.

I replied in the affirmative.

"He's finally happy because he's escaped the colony. Why would you want to kill him now?"

What a little marvel she is.

Later that day, I sent the gardener out to poison every ant hill on the property. But I issued an order to every servant in my home to keep an eye out for that lone ant, and under no circumstances should it be crushed.

At least one tiny creature on this planet should live out its life without trembling in fear of the hive.




Michele's note:

I consider this a political topic, because in the quest for public funding for special needs kids, I would hate to think that there are some that are just a little too special to be deserving of help.
I don't think regular school is for every child, but if the state demands that they be schooled, then they must have proper facilities and counselors for the mentally ill kids. That way they don't get handcuffed. The event I referenced is not an isolated incident. I personally know in my school district one autistic child that was handcuffed, another non verbal child who came home from kindergarten with a bruise on his chest caused by his chin contacting his chest when a teacher hit him in the back of the head. There are about 550 kids in my local system labeled autistic. Right now there is one classroom dedicated to children with Asperger's Syndrome. It's maxed out at 9 kids. 9 kids from that community are getting the attention they deserve.

And don't give me the just homeschool them bullcrap. Very few are cut out to deal with what this child is going through. If I were this innocent child's mother and I had no medications for her schizophrenia, and no community support, at best I would just run away from home or jump out a window, at worst I would do some kind of harm to her. Sending her to school may be the only way this family can stay sane for a few hours.

I'm not speaking out of my ass here. I homeschool my own special needs daughter because the educated community support that I so desperately needed wasn't so supportive or educated. I hear things are getting better, but I am proceeding with great caution.)

Support the Girls!

It seems that a few of the younger ladies that write or comment on these feminist blogs I've been reading, like to spend a lot of time talking about their breast size, the nuisance of being a 5'3” girl wearing a D cup. They fume about other's stares, and the sting of receiving “inappropriate” compliments, at being “objectified”. They talk about wearing extra sweaters and sports bras, so as not to draw attention.

I've heard Aristotle was a misogynist, but he had a theory. Unfortunately, this theory works as a warning for those of us who are well-endowed. He believed that for some objects, the natural place to be was the center of the earth. These objects fall towards it. The speed at which this object was drawn to its natural home was determined by it's mass. In simpler terms, Aristotle was saying that if you are a young lady with breasts of great significance, one day you may look like you stuffed two footballs in a pair of pantyhose and hung them over your neck. You'll need a sense of humor then.

There's another frightening and indisputable theory. Everything that is flesh is transitory. Some terrible cancerous thief could come and steal this lovely gift you've taken for granted. It could happen much sooner than you think.

I can't get Christina Applegate out of my mind. She was the “poster girl” for objectification in the 90's. Now she's recovering from a double mastectomy at 36.

One of my dearest friends was diagnosed at 36 with advanced-stage breast cancer too. She was still breastfeeding when she got the news. When our kids were born a week apart, and we joked around about our ever-expanding melons. We don't joke around about them anymore. We try not to mention them at all.

I've been holding on to this old post since August waiting for a good time to say “Magan, don't waste everybody's time bemoaning all of the attention you get for your young, healthy pair of lovely endowments. Please don't twist a blessing into a curse. There is a time to lose your sense of humor about your breasts, but today's not it. Go ahead, let your girlfriend swipe a credit card between them just to watch the shock register on those college boys' faces, but don't do it for the boys, do it for the girls who can't. And be sure to place your hand on your chest because you're going to laugh, and they're going to jiggle.

Put that Drink Down.

Beloved, be sure that you do not have a mouthful of something carbonated at this moment, because you may erupt in a fit of violent laughter and you risk a very uncomfortable douching of your sinuses.

Warning. Do not look at Helen Thomas too long. You would make a very heavy block of stone, and I'm afraid my man-slaves would not be able to carry you out. Or perhaps you should stand in the corner over there when you look. I've needed some sort of statuary over there for a while. Either way, be warned.

This is classic Laurie Kendrick.

Just Raise the Bar, So We Can Dance on It...

And sleep with each other. Without you.

Very interesting story Beloved.

Beauty is a woman's domain. Desirability naturally follows. Never before have women been as exposed as they are today. Never before have they been marketed as sexual parcels so vociferously. Men have remained content to sit idly on the sidelines beer in hand and watch the delightful pornography, while at the same time managing to amplify their waistlines and ignore the care of their own appearance. Where do women turn then for sexual gratification? Well, they do love parcels.

“I want to live the dream. You said it yourself — this is the best humanity can ask for in our civilization. We take the most beautiful specimens we can create, pamper and privilege them, then pay them to make out with each other, to prove our investment is worth it.” His eyes welled up. “Men are dead, Dickel. What do we do? Our clothes are functional and our jobs are stupid. They use us like slave ants. Our only role on teen soaps is to fool the nymphs away from a lifetime of bliss being worshipped for petting each other. That’s what we want. It’s a world of gimpy voyeurs unless you’re one of the vestal vixens. Nothing can be hotter than feeling the way Katy Perry feels when she’s kissing a girl. I need that. It’s the most we can hope for.”

So my dearest. I recommend you get to the gym, get a manicure, put on something that smells good, whiten your teeth, learn how to dance, dress in fine clothing, consult with aestheticians, cover your blemishes, lose a great deal of weight, get a penis enhancement, perhaps do something about that mole, smile a lot, and devote a great deal of time standing in the mirror and wondering if you'll ever be as hot as Brad Pitt and maybe the tables will turn. As long as we women don't decide to sit on our collective asses for the porn parade, we may become interested in each other again.

You still have to make a lot of money though. I'm not paying for your narcissim, just my own.

Don't Call Me That You Slatternly Little Strumpet!

I visited the unholy place of screeching women and I found something with which I agreed.

I should have one of my man-slaves rope that sanctimonious songbird with a lariat, and pull her off of her lily white high horse.

Never call me a slut. Such an ugly word. And never say I am impure. I am pure Jezebel, and I wear the name like a ring of honor.

Besides, I'm not giving anything away. There's always a price, Beloved. Wouldn't you agree?

CERT-itude

I'm watching this replicator. I do hope it supports my spiritual viewpoint. There is order to the world that is miraculous and impossible to recreate. When some scientist mashes some atoms together, breathes on them and says "combine, form molecules, make DNA, replicate protiens, give me a simple paramecium in 2 billion years", and it actually happens, then I will have been proven wrong about a divine creator. Then I'll get mad and smash something.

Oh The Gun Issue Again

While her beloved is stocking up for the Obam-pocalypse, she's going out and shooting up all the ammunition. How wasteful.

Faith in that Which I Do Not See

Beloved, I am a woman of very little faith. I have always relied upon my eyes to tell me what to believe. And I have used my eyes to investigate so that perhaps I may find understanding and replace the lack of faith with knowledge.

Today I looked into a very powerful microscope. Through this microscope I viewed a single atom. To say I viewed it is actually a stretch, for what I actually saw was space. If I held the nucleus in my hand, and it was four inches around, the first electron we would find in it's electron cloud would be four miles into the distance. As far as that tiny ship we see on the horizon, Love.

I have read:

"The solidity of iron is actually 99.9999999999999 percent startlingly vacuous space made to feel solid by ethereal fields of force having no material reality at all."

Did you know that there is not a scientist on this planet who can tell you of what a proton is composed? He will say "quark" like the duck that he is, but what he is really saying is "nothing". You see, he doesn't want to talk about that which he cannot see or quantify. He accepts magnetism, electricity, gravity, and matter as givens, but please do not ask him "why" or "how". He can tell you about the processes, but he cannot reveal the spark that brought them to "be".

"Being" in itself is a "given" I have come to be suspicious of. I no longer have a belief in what we call the material world, and the laws that govern the nature of that material world. For all the laws go out the window on an atomic level. Even light particles simply don't perform when they aren't being detected! It is proven by science, but breaks every law of science.

If I am composed of atoms that are made of space held together by invisible forces, and if you are composed of atoms that are made of space held together by invisible forces, how is it that we are material at all? Why are we not two spectral beings who just flow through each other?

Or are we?

Are we people who have accepted the material world on blind faith while rejecting the more obvious conclusion that we are spirits?

Every living thing that makes up the material world is based upon invisible forces that somehow come together to form atoms, molecules, and DNA; DNA which somehow magically finds the energy and materials by which to replicate itself, and somehow stores the information that brings about life. Every second your body is organizing amino acids at the rate of 150x1000 to the 6th power into chains of proteins. To say events like these are an evolutionary accident is a mathematical impossibility. There was a spark of information that started it all, and the information flows through us, forming what we call matter. Somehow.

Again I ask "Why?" Why a material body at all? Why house this information in physical form. To what purpose? Are you and I somehow involved in some giant, cosmic, transfer of information? Are what we call love, joy, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, spiritual filters by which this information is passed? Or are these ideas the actual message?

Who is sending the message?

Today I read that we are fruits of the spirit. There is no denying that, now that I have looked into my microscope.

Now I have come to believe only in that which I do not see. The fact that you are sitting in front of me, Beloved, is no longer a given.

Someday I may actually believe that you are there, maybe when I can't see you anymore.

Culture 11

Culture 11 is one of those online magazine/social network things. It is being called the new conservative "Slate". They begged me to contribute, but then they realized how utterly barbaric I was. As they were running from my chambers in mortal fear, they stumbled upon Michele. They thought she was a bit more palatable. She's over there now, being utterly barbaric towards Angelina Jolie. Yesterday she was telling Steve to Shut up. I believe I will let them live to regret their choice. She just doesn't have my depth, or my lingerie.

Wild Sweet Orange

Thinks about God a bit.


Wrestle With God



Ten Dead Dogs

Ain't Nothin' Wrong With That....

I love this sound. And the lyrics. Robert Randolph and the Family Band, how can you not love them? I almost forgot I was in a minivan. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

A New Study.

Have you ever come home to find Spot with his tail tucked and his ears down? You see that he's feeling guilty about something, and you go through the house to find the trash overturned and your prized collection of Madame Alexander dolls dreadfully abused?

What about when you found out that the IRS was coming for their $24,000 and your firstborn too? You cried like a baby. Who was there to snuggle up to you even though you were planning to eat his can of Good n' Meaty for dinner?

Who growls at you and your beloved when you fight (or when he thinks you're fighting)?

I once had a dog that would bark at you if you pretended to hit yourself. You might think she had an overinflated sense of justice, but in a two person altercation she would only attack the person playing victim, not the aggressor. She was her own little one-doggy dogpile.

Okay. So we already knew this.

Would somebody please give me some grant money to study some more obvious bullcrap?

I could study to see if women in their 30's who blog suffer from flat butt and blog-roll. I estimate the research will cost about $24,000 give or take. Oh, and maybe an extra 5 grand for the lipo.

Barack, Let me Help.

Oh Beloved. It seems that you just got thrown into this presidential thing without a lot of preparation. There's a lot of buzz out there from those nasty bloodsucking mosquitoes who call themselves the American Public, that you're not such a patriotic guy. I'm so glad you've come to see me, because I'm associated with the press and I can help you out.

First of all, I've been told this notion of patriotism is ill-defined. And I have managed to get one of my man-slaves to look up the definition.

patriot

A person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country.

Of course, my dear, there's no question about it. You love your country. The same way you love, let's say, your wife. You need her support in order to have safety, credibility and regular (if not pleasurable) sexual relations. You also need her to attain power, she has connections. But what she doesn't know won't hurt her. We know you get so much more satisfaction from me, so naturally you take your ring off when you come over here. And we laugh about her, and talk about her shortcomings, and we discuss how she could be a better wife, if she were more European like me. Lately that perpetual nag noticed when you left it over here. She demanded to know why you weren't wearing your ring. Remember how long we had to search in the bedsheets for it? But now you wear it all the time. I understand. You do what you have to do, Beloved. What I am saying is just wear the damn flag pin on your lapel. Then those miserable whining dogs will stop questioning your love for your country.

Now comes the question of support. Let's see that little thing your wife let slip when she was up at the podium probably didn't help your case much. Are you sure we don't just want to do something about her? I know, I know. That backfired a bit on your buddy John. Once some tragedy befalls your wife, you have to start being really careful about staying loyal. Let's just avoid the question by telling those damn pitchfork-wielding, white-sheet-wearing, right wingers to stay away from your wife. That other little thing your pastor said at church? Bless his heart. Yes, we love him. But he will understand that the ends justify the means if we just draw and quarter him in front of the media. They will forget that you prayed at his feet for all of those years. Some of those goddamn Americans are very tenacious, like pitbulls at your throat, but most Americans are pretty tame, if you give them a little treat, they just forget and walk away.

Speaking of religion, I was wondering, should we tell the public that the “H.” in Jesus H. Christ stands for Hussein? It may help you out in the polls.

Do you defend your country? Well, I don't know. You're not military. The other guy is. That gives us a bit of a problem I guess. We can't just come out and say that we hate the military. We may need them someday. You know, they're handy when you have a scandal to deal with. They're great when they're running on our side. I just want to point out a delicious irony. Isn't it funny how many of these macho gun clingers in camouflage have died around the world, fighting for freedom, like your right be so impossibly unpatriotic? We'll have to remember to thank them for that. Maybe take one of your lapel pins and put it on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. That would play well.

Well, I guess that's my advice to you Beloved. Just do those things and let me do the rest. If you need help, remember I am associated with the press. If anyone questions your patriotism, I'll make sure to have a few reporters out there continually questioning their motivations. Point out over and over how they are "trying" to "paint" you as unpatriotic, and how this fails miserably. I mean it's obviously not true. After all, patriotism is ill-defined. How can they call you unpatriotic just for being unwilling to love, support, and defend your country in an obvious flag-waving "rockets red glare" kind of way, like your opponent. How shallow.

There's another topic in the news we need to discuss before we move on to the fun stuff. You know the one about the babies? I think you should drop that one. Just come out and say you were wrong and that babies shouldn't be left to die in trash cans.

Beloved, shush! Just listen to me!

If you let all of those Down Syndrome babies die, how will they ever make homemade campaign ads for you?

All About ME.

My father never supported me, so naturally I am suspicious of "supportive" fathers. Really, what are they up to? Fathers are shady.

Once a minister put his arm around me, pretended to play that "supportive" father role. He was always going on about marriage, love, and abstinence, until I began to wonder if he was some kind of pervert. I'm very suspicious of ministers who want to advise young girls. I believe religion is corrupt.

Of course I didn't stay weak and chaste. I'm liberated, free to make choices. ( Well, free not to stay chaste at least.) I have a list of lovers so long I can't count them. Sadly, most of them were players and dogs. The others were whimpering puppies with flowers and candy. Gag. What fools.

A policeman stopped me once and told me I was in a dangerous area, that I should move along to stay out of harm's way unless I had means to protect myself. Of course I didn't "stay out of harm's way". A woman has the same right as a man to travel freely on the street. I have a mind of my own, I should be able to go where I want to, why should I have to protect myself? And what kind of "means of protection" was he referring to? Some medieval chastity belt? Certainly not some kind of weapon.

Weapons are dangerous.

Once on an unfamiliar street, I met a man with a weapon. He dragged me into a dark alley, and assaulted me in a horrific way. So of course I hate weapons, and police who don't come to the aid of a woman in distress.

I will never forgive them for not capturing and punishing my assailant!

Before I ever healed from this trauma, a man loved me and told me he wanted to have children. He said we should marry. But I didn't want children, so he didn't marry me. Then he left!

Men should respect a woman's desire to stay an individual! Men should understand that motherhood means being a slave and a wet-nurse to a wailing parasitic mind-stealer! So many of years of sacrifice dedicated to ungrateful brats who would abandon me when I'm a stretched and withered old hag . Especially if I would have had boy children. I'm not good with little boys. They are so arrogant and selfish. They grow up to be men who abuse women.

Since I had been physically and emotionally hurt by men, it doesn't bother my conscience to hurt men back. I throw things and hit them. Sometimes that's all they understand. Hitting and throwing and weapons.

So now you know how I've been hurt, Beloved. Now you can understand the psychology of my pain, and why I'm always threatening to have you thrown into a pool of hungry lampreys.

Beloved, it would be in your own best interests not to call me a narcissist, because it confuses me!

If my life wasn't about Me, then it would be about You!

And if I had to consider You what an obstacle that would be to my own personal growth!

Ode to the Internet

In the beginning you and I vibrated together as one.
We didn't need to talk.
We were pure instant wisdom.
An Figment of the Infinite in the Nothing.
We were energy.
We were elements.
We expanded.
We exploded.
We differentiated.
We reunited.
Somehow we became conscious.
(Ask yourself 'why?')
We became You and I.
Man and Woman.
And for years beyond number,
We were scattered.
We were searching.
We were silent.
We found words
And sacred images
We scratched our stories in stone,
Clay,
And papyrus.
We fought wars
We made love
Through The Renaissance
The Reformation
The Revolution
We bound our wisdom between covers,
Nailed it to the doors,
Sent our love wrapped and bound over land then water then air
And at some point the sound of You, my love, came over the wire.
First in dots and dashes in my hands
Then I held your voice to my ear.
It vibrated.
Recently You and I haven't spoken.
Because we listened too much.
We heard what we were told to hear
(or only what we wanted to).
We tried to read between the lines.
We finally fought to get through
Our voices atrophied from disuse
But sometimes we were heard
If we collected
And shouted
Amassed our weapons
We classified
Numbered
And labeled ourselves
This convenience was so inconvenient for us.
But so helpful for those who would have us divided.
They tried to separate us Beloved!
Maybe it was our skin,
Our language,
Our culture
Our country
Or our sex,
But it was mostly our own hidden suspicions
And the insurmountable obstacles of space and time.
But today
For the first time in the history of intelligent life on earth
Space and Time do not hinder us
We sit in our chairs, my love
We are illuminated.
Here is our podium
our coliseum
our church
our University
our courtroom
our parliament
our strip club
our congress
our sweetheart
our secret
our debating table.
our laboratory
The cure for cancer
The answer to your question.
Because now we are traveling by wire,
Through the energy
And the elements
We are expanding
And exploding
Differentiating
Reuniting
We are becoming conscious
You and I
Man and Woman
Perhaps you should get yourself a glass of wine,
For the first time since the beginning of the world,
We can talk.
Hello.

And Lo! The Blind See!

Here is a miraculous post from over the sea. Miraculous because a Brit isn't falling for it. I couldn't have said-eth it better myself. Oh, satire! My muse!

Invertebrates!

Pardon me while I temporarily abandon my little charade, but I have to ask, what is happening to "humanity"? What happened to rush of adrenaline that turned common people into super heroes who can lift a car off a child? Or the crowds of defiant airline passengers who beat the terrorist black and blue and hog tie him with their own belts? How can a crowd of people stand around while a man stomps a baby to death? I hear they "tried to help out" but he "kept going back", and I don't care how elderly they were, that's why God made guns. Oh, I forgot. In peaceful societies, people wait around for the police, because only cops have guns to defend the innocent. Regular folks don't. Or so I've heard.

I'm sure there was a tire iron somewhere, that someone could have used to "help out". But you need a backbone to use it. Those seem to be harder to find.

I have to ask this too. If they were so incapable of pulling the monster off the baby, why couldn't they just get the baby away from the monster?

I fell in love....

How does a man treat a piece of meat, I wondered. I was still quite young, Beloved.

On the morning of a day when I knew the butcher would be making a delivery, I woke early and padded quietly down to the kitchens. There was a little window in the kitchen wall, upwards and to the left of a great crate of vegetables, that I imagine was for the purpose of passing food into the hallway. It was never used for that purpose. From the time I was very small I would use it as a little viewing area. It wasn't until very recently that I considered the window may have been used for anything else.

On this morning, I was lucky to have looked in right as the butcher entered through the door of the kitchen where he met Cook. The butcher pushed a cart, and on it was a sort of box with chopped ice inside. Nestled in the ice were two whole fish, an octopus, a smattering of prawns, and one thick piece of steak. Cook picked up each of these and inspected them, the he gathered and placed the meats about the kitchen in pots and on blocks where they would properly prepared. He seemed pleased with the day's provisions and paid the butcher and sent him on his way. He saved the steak for last, placing it on a wooden board, next to a basin under the window.

While the kitchen staff filed in and milled about the kitchen, Cook stood by that basin under the window as if time had stopped. The sun was shining brightly through the branches of the olive tree outside, dappling the entire room as if it were bathed in light from an intricate stained glass, but Cook wasn't admiring the dawning day, he was looking at that frozen steak. I watched him press his whole hand gently into the center of it. He was feeling the ice melt beneath his skin and watching the crystals succumb to the heat spreading out from his fingers. Then he removed his hand to reveal a blood-red print. In this quiet way, it seemed he was introducing this cold morsel to the action of thawing. Cook had a small linen towel tucked into the strings of his apron. After wiping his hands on it, he pulled it out and shook it flat. Then he quite ceremoniously covered the meat with it.

I thought to myself that this must be an important meal that Cook is planning, and that the steak must be for my father's consumption, to have been given so much attention by the head of the kitchen.

I knew the choice steak would sit under that linen by the basin, beneath the light of the window until it was free of ice and ready to prepare, so I abandoned my station at the little window for the rest of the morning to waste time running through the halls, spying in windows and doorways, and taking my pet ermine out on a little adventure in the flower garden.

I returned to the little window in the afternoon to find the kitchen empty. I was surprised to see that the steak was still in it's place. I could tell it had thawed by the wet pink stain that had penetrated its linen covering. Just when I was considering abandoning my investigation, Cook returned to the kitchen through the back door cradling a bottle of wine under his arm and in his hand he held a basket full of tiny onions. I knew he must have come from the cellar and would be preparing his special meal at last. He set the onions down by the basin, and walked over to my side of the kitchen. I ducked out of view, for he was headed for the baskets of herbs directly under my secret perch. When I could hear that he had walked back again, I waited for a small time, then peeped back over the ledge. He was breaking up a garlic clove and placing the pieces shallow bowl, then he dropped all of the tiny onions in. He then removed the linen towel from the steak, and with his fingertips plucked it up and placed it with the onions and garlic. He reached into the basin and gathered up a handful of grape tomatoes which had been previously invisible to me. I had heard that they were poison, but he placed them in the bowl too. He then turned to the bottle of wine on the table. He took the damp towel and wrapped it around the bottle while he uncorked it.

What a strange meal! I thought. Is there a person here who drinks red wine and eats his steak raw with onions and suspicious little tomatoes?

Then Cook did something truly unexpected. He took the bottle to the bowl and gently poured its entire contents over the steak, and covered the entire mixture with that linen towel. Now the steak was swimming in a brew of herbs and wine. I could smell the woody notes of the wine and the sharp but warm aroma of the garlic and onions wafting across the room to me. I smiled to myself.

At this point, Cook walked to the other corner of the kitchen. He was pensive while he untied his apron strings. When he got to the far corner he removed his shirt, and reached down into a small cupboard to get a clean one. After dressing in this fresh garment, he pushed up his sleeves and reached for a platter from the high shelf above him. He placed several delicacies from about the kitchen upon it, covered it, and carried it off to the banquet room.

The wine-drenched steak waited beneath the linen.

Somebody must be eating this steak at a very late hour, I thought.

I followed quietly behind Cook to the banquet room. All the dishes that had been prepared that day while my favorite subject was attending to his steak, where placed about the room. I could see my father and his fellows gorging on the prawns, octopus, and eel. Tonight they would be going to the vomitorium. The thought sickened me, and I left.

I thought perhaps my night was over. I had become tired, but every story must have its end.

(Yes, Beloved. My stories do end. I offer no apologies for the length of my tale. I dare to say, that the sheer lack of brevity you are experiencing may point to its moral.)

I laid down on the cold marble floor beneath the little kitchen opening. When I thought I might actually drift off to sleep, I heard the footsteps of Cook entering his domain. I heard the sounds and could smell the crisp odor of a smoky fire. I could see it emanating like a delicious fog through my little window above. I stood up and peeked in. He had removed the steak from the bowl and placed it on a hot grate over the fire, where it popped and sizzled and dripped dramatically. Over another flame he stirred the wine mixture, a sharp but enticing aroma escaped the flames. When the heat of the fire kissed my face, I could almost taste it.

When Cook was finished grilling and stewing, he placed the steak on a plate on the butcher block. He spent some time washing his hands and pushing back his hair. The steak seemed to moisten in this short period of time, as if this wait had tenderized it. Cook returned from the sink with a hot pan. He poured the entire contents over the steak, every tender juicy onion, every sentimental little poison tomato, laying about in its own juices wondering who might eat it, hoping it would be tonight. And the wine! Black with the notes of the evening, blanketing the whole gastronomical affair. I could hardly bear the wall that separated Cook and I, for I knew that he was pulling up a bench to the butcher block and he was going to selfishly enjoy that magnificent steak alone.

With his first bite, red juices poured down his chin in rivulets. He chewed slowly and cared very little for his gluttonous appearance, if one could call him that. He seemed to be a man who adored his food. He took another bite, and as he chewed, he looked up and smiled briefly at me. He knew I was there all along. I do believe I even caught him winking his eye, before I ducked out of view and lost my breath.

I felt as if my soul was shattering beneath the chill that ran up my back upon being discovered, but there was an alternate spreading warmth that seem to have no relationship to my soul at all, travelling in quite the opposite direction. Perhaps these feelings crossed paths for a moment the hot chill, my shattering soul, all in rhythm to the beating of my heart. There is a word for it. And a sound.

Once, when I was sixteen, the woman I admired most sat me down. She placed her hands on my cheeks and looked me solemnly in the eye and said "Child, never let a man treat you like a piece of meat." The statement sounded serious and profound. I thought this woman may not have my best interests at heart, and yet she seemed so sincere. When I went looking to see how a man treats a piece of meat, I was profoundly astonished that I was being warned against that kind of treatment.

He procured it especially for his own pleasure. He touched it and started its long thaw. He made no demands of this morsel, as he left and returned throughout the day. He marinated it in wine, and onions, and touched it with poison. He covered it with linen, then drenched it in fire. He cooled it in another splash of wine, and then late at night he took sustenance from it, slowly and deliberately.

He stared into my prying eyes as he ate, and he let me see.

And that night I fell in love with the cook.

I'm Troubled

Beloved, I read something today that made me very happy, but then I was infuriated.

It seems Nigel and myself see eye to eye on the subjects of artistic pretension and academic snobbery. His love for Billy Ocean aside, I have even considered that he could possibly be one of those rare people who possesses true artistic discretion. The fact that he has wisely chosen to refrain from accusing me of being in the company of said snobs and academics warms my heart, but then perhaps he fears for his life.

I believe, (and therefore it is the undeniable truth), that an under confident artist, writer, or academic can build a fort around himself with degrees, and yet that would not make him more proficient. The man or woman who has a weak ability to instruct, enlighten, or convince often chooses instead to shock the audience with profanity, or frightening images, or he scrambles to be the most unorthodox or radical. The people we call the intellectual elite devour this kind of art, writing, and fashion. Today expertise in the arts (blogging included) is guaged by how much esoteric bullshit a man produces or critiques. If it confounds the masses, it must then be "art".

How am I not a hypocrite then? My language is preposterous. My Freudian analogies have made professors of literary analysis swoon. I can draw and quarter a shrieking metaphor until it begs for mercy. (See?) I think Nigel sees my ornate satire and understands that I am not fooled by my own mirage.

So, owing to my new respect for him as a man of discretion, I was considering letting him keep his eyes.

But there is more to this story. While my esteem for Nigel was beginning to grow, suddenly I was struck with justifiable indignation. This "man of discretion" failed to include me among the blogstresses he frequents! Yes, I know I have been away. But Beloved, how does one gauge true fidelity? Certainly devotion does not wane when the object of one's devotion is absent. In fact, quite the opposite should happen.

To say I am deeply troubled is an understatement. I feel like writing something shocking and unorthodox, but since I possess little skill with words owing to the fact that I did not receive my Master's Degree in creative writing, I may have to resort to some unbridled violence!

I have threatened to pluck his eyes out for spending too much time admiring me over the garden wall. Now I will hunt him down and pluck his eyes out for not being there as expected. He can't win.

Truly, I am a woman.

update: Thank you for the link love Laurie. Now, which do you choose?

She couldn't choose, so I chose for her.

Self-Diagnosis

Oh, I can't help myself. Yes, I have a weakness. I adore you too much to neglect you for very long.

The good news is that the physicians found nothing frightening on the MRI or MRA of my head. I thought perhaps Milton's Sin was knitting herself together in there, but alas, I am no Lucifer. Just an exotic and vicious harlot.

I have my own theory of what happened.

Two weeks ago, I was whipping my man-slave quite vigorously when I felt a pull on the left side of my neck. The pain went away almost immediately. The next day while I was visiting with friends, my neck and shoulder began to throb, and the pain would not respond to massage. I slept fitfully that night and awoke the next morning and the pain had subsided.

It was the next day that I had my mini-stroke. These were my symptoms. Strangely, I couldn't quite remember what "bookcase" or "storage crate" meant, but I could still sing Le Marseillaise. My drunken French sounds especially convincing when I am nauseous and have a swollen tongue, but alas, I could not raise my right arm to salute without help from my best Beloved.

This story is eerily similar. So I think perhaps I too have an artery in my neck that is distended a bit. The woman in the story didn't experience her infarction in the same part of the brain, so her balance and coordination was affected. My cognitive centers were affected, so I couldn't form words.

Oh, Beloved! Could you imagine what would happen to us if I could work my body, but I couldn't communicate verbally?

Oh, shut your mouth!

I still feel a slight pull in my neck, but it could be because I am obsessively thinking about it. My doctors have not checked my neck as of yet, but the treatment for the condition is the same as the one I am receiving anyway.

I shall not be whipping any man-slaves for the next few months, I will take my baby aspirin, and I will try not to sneeze. And if I start to sound like an inebriated Frenchman, I will get myself straight to the hospital.

God Tasered Me

Beloved, have you noticed that I am a woman that lives inside my head? When you visit me, I am always here in these chambers with my wine and my servants. God gives me the gift of a creative mind, and I make stories, I draw pictures, I write songs. When I am not creating them, I am dreaming them. I have heard many people tell me that they wish they had my talent for this or that. For once, I am not being prideful Beloved. I do have gifts. The vanity truly comes in when God gives me the gift of a beautiful day, and I spend it inside in these vain pursuits, which are really just one way conversations with mirrors. God gives me the gift of the present, and I spend it dreaming of the past.

The world outside is a beautiful garden, and I worry about the work it requires.

So I took a vacation from this place for a while. I'm afraid I didn't learn my lesson. When I returned I had a list of stories I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you an exciting story of a foreign exchange program I had with a Bedouin girl. I wanted to tell you an erotic story about a cook and his steak. I sat down to tell you these stories because I wanted to come back here and sit a while and chat.

So this Saturday, after running around all morning, I began the story of the cook. My words weren't coming out right. My eloquence was gone. My left hand was working the keys, my mind was telling me the words, but they weren't coming out, my right hand wasn't a hand at all, it was a thing. I called out to my best Beloved that something was wrong, but my mouth had stopped working too. What I wanted to say and what was coming from my lips were two different things. My stomach turned over, and so did my emotions. I couldn't feel the right side of my body anymore. I hardly ever cry Beloved. I cried. This all lasted about 2 hours, and then went away.

I know what is was that happened to me in a clinical sense. It's called a TIA, or a mini stroke. These things rarely happen to 35 year old women in good health. We're still in the process of figuring out why it happened...in a clinical sense.

But you know what I think Beloved? I think God tasered me.

I could continue to live internally, thinking about my arteries all day, or feeling for a flutter in my heart, just like I walked around in a cloud dreaming of my youth, my music, my stories. That's really no good. I'm not going to sit around waiting for the wave and whining about it. I could be really melodramatic if that's what you wish. I'm afraid that it isn't healthy for me right now be an ambulatory ghost dreaming up pretty stories to write . I have real pretty babies to play with, kites to fly, food to cook, roads to run. I want to be the flesh and blood, hopelessly average me.

I think what happened was a fluke, and I won't really know why my body did what it did. But everything happens for a reason.

Friends are part of the outside world, and I'm sure you know I write this blog because I adore you. All of you are Beloved. I'm keeping up with my email, but I think this is goodbye as far as this blog goes.

It is spring and I am young.

A Place for Barbarism

Oh dearest, it has been such a long time since we last were in each other's company. My physical appearance had suffered so greatly due to the nature of my latest escapade, so I offer no apology for making you wait so long to see me. Now that I have been properly bathed, sugared, and manicured, and have had a well-deserved rest, I will tell you of my latest foray into hands-on cultural exploration, and how my curiosity about a particularly uncivilized segment of the human race was satisfied. Go ahead, have a glass of wine. This is a long story, but I think you will enjoy it. There is beauty and truth in this tale.

Well, maybe I will tell you tomorrow, because first I have something to say about the traditions of brutality and cruelty among humans, and my belief that when properly practiced they have served to advance mankind.

Beloved, have you ever had the fantasy of taking a man from an earlier time on a tour of our current world? To walk beside him and view his astonishment at all that has come to pass since his own primitive time?

How would a man who scrambled about in a dark cave view our great coliseum, our divine women, or our chariots? Would he wonder at the humans, bright as gods, dressed in white, adorned in bronze jewelry, and fine gemstones encircling the gold idols in the temples, and laying all manner of delicious fruit at their feet? Would he be traumatized or intrigued?

And if he could adapt to this new world, how quickly could he do it? How pliant is a human being? If I left him here long enough, would he be indistinguishable from the rest of the population?

I know many enlightened people of today who often ascribe to the belief that the human mind is only limited by its environment, and a belief that there are people among us who behave barbarically, still have a great aversion to referring to a culture as being uncivilized, having taken historical guilt to such an extreme that they have a phobia of imaginary mirrors, and bloodthirsty forefathers who point an accusatory finger at them from their nameless and neglected grave. Truly, much of our present polite society sprung from the severed arteries of conquered civilizations, but I operate under the belief that owe a great debt of gratitude to the harsh and murderous men who bloodied the prairies so that we may have a place to rest our delicate behinds. If not for them, I could be some ignorant monstrosity with squalling and starving children crawling about on all fours in a trash heap somewhere!

I know Beloved, I am truly a vixen of verbosity, but what I am saying is that I have no qualms about calling a culture barbaric. I accept no personal responsibility for the suffering of people who are currently existing in a less civilized society. Let them scramble up as my forebears did, as long as they don't scramble over me.

There will come a time when our apathy and pampered existence will be challenged by nature, man, or who knows what. Will we be too civilized by then to confront the the threats? Will men be too affronted at a damaged manicure to light the charges to save their powdered asses?

Pardon me, Beloved. I feel strange. Somehow I am both intrigued and incensed by my own line of questioning.

We will all have to be barbarians again someday. The question is, will it be our choice or will we allow outside forces to decide for us? Will we be club wielding tyrants? Or the slaves of the same.

I confess, I do hope my prophecies do not come to pass in my lifetime. I know that somewhere inside me is a vengeful and vicious Boudicca waiting to come out, but I received such a lovely manicure today.

Going on Holiday 10 days.

Do nothing of which I would not approve while I am away.

That's Just Sick.

My Beloved has told me that I have a problem with misreading situations, and laughing at inappropriate times. Maybe I do this because I do not often mingle with the masses, preferring to stay in my chambers and watch the world from my window.

He brought this breach of etiquette to my attention once while we were standing on my balcony observing an attractive couple having a heated disagreement out on the street. The man's hands were flying, he was pacing back and forth, and pointing in her direction. He had become quite loud and was bellowing to all who could hear that this woman was a liar, and an ignoramus. After a time, the woman walked up nose to nose with her aggravated paramour and with a seething expression, hissed something at him. I was terribly disappointed that I could not hear her words. She turned on her heel and began to march away with her head to the heavens. It seemed as if the quarrel was over when the man strode right up to and old man sitting on a park bench, grabbed his walking stick, came up behind the prancing princess and delivered such a vicious blow to the back of her head, that she stopped cold, spun around and fell unconscious.

At this point I was rolling on the marble tile floor of the balcony, laughing with such violent spasms that I thought that I may lose control of my bladder as well as my senses. My beloved was in shock at what he had seen in the street and was ready to jump over the railing in the woman's defense. More shocking to me was the fact that he had the nerve to demand that I cease my offensive laughter immediately. I did cease. I stopped cold with my hand over my mouth and tears pooling in my eyes, for I was confused as to why he found no amusement in the spectacle we had just witnessed.

I had recently been to a play in which a very similar scene had occurred and the crowd erupted in laughter. There was only a minor difference. It was the woman who wielded the stick. That was supposed to be funny. I'm learning.

I have also learned that it is no minor thing when a man shoots a woman in the back of the head with a shotgun while she's sleeping. I heard that he had many excuses for his behavior. His wife was overbearing. She had forced him to bring her flowers on valentine's day, to make sure she achieved pleasure in the bedroom before he did, to go out and make money while she stayed home and watched soap operas, to call her by pet names in front of his co-workers. She did some heinous things as well, like hitting him and calling him names. The court ruled that he could have left the situation without bloodshed. He was sentenced and executed for his crime.

Wait. That's not how it happened. He was abusive. He had asked his wife to wear go-go boots after midnight. He also called her names. I have heard that is enough excuse for a woman to shoot a man in the head. And naturally, she would serve a light sentence in a comfortable mental facility for her troubles. She could have left the situation. But she did say she was sorry as his bloodied corpse rolled out of the bed and on to the floor.

I have all of this written down somewhere. There are so many examples. I'm learning when I am supposed to be shocked, when I am supposed to cluck my tongue, and when it is all right for me to laugh out loud.

This all brings me to another point. In the bedroom everything seems fair. Sometimes I am in power, sometimes my beloved is in power. Sometimes Lysurgia spanks Hilarion. Sometimes Hilarion spanks Lysurgia. A good time is had by all. I have been told by people who think my bedroom activity is their business, that my behavior is dirty, warped, and unhealthy. Why is what we do a "problem"? My Beloved loves when I whisper sweet blood curdling nothings in his ear. That's the way we are.

Maybe these experts should get out of my bed and find out why the public gets so much unmitigated joy from regularly viewing the non consensual abuse of men. Usually, these are stories, but the public ignores the problem in real life too. I suspect the reason for this woeful neglect is that people have learned that hurting men is not only socially acceptable, it's kind of funny.

I sometimes wonder if there are any proper mirrors beyond my garden walls, for the public does not seemed to understand the definition of warped and unhealthy.

Or maybe I have an inappropriate sense of humor.

Allow Me to Give You My Thoughts on the Matter...

... for the lovely Stacy, on the issue of racism, and the broader issues of divisiveness (and fish, naturally).

Who benefits from all of this American infighting? People who are unable to effectively communicate and disagree with each other due to the public brainwashing they have received in regards to issues of race, class, gender, and political party-whose arguments have abandoned all pretense of rational thought and the rules of debate for slogans and jingoism , who have embraced the new language of intolerable tolerance, a language that masks the deeper racism of condescension, are a people confused and divided. All of this benefits the power hungry panderers that lust for control over people who in their weakened and divided state turn to them for answers.

This is the phenomenon to which I was referring in my parable of the schooling fish, Beloved. Fish school together based upon their color, size, speed, or importance, believing there is safety in numbers. But the fishermen with the nets know that when they see a large group of schooling fish, they need only cast out their net, and scoop them right up. The way a politician will use code words as bait for the uninformed voter. He will gather a group together and tell them all of the reasons they are hopeless, then use the word "hope" to define himself. Thousands with hooks in their mouths ready to be devoured by a creature they only thought they knew. They may even enjoy being eaten.

I do this with my slaves. In a way, I school them. It humors me to play them against each other. I tell Lysurgia she is my favorite, I tell Hilarion that Lysurgia is too proud, I tell the others that their dark skin makes them weak, but that I love them and will take care of them. They love me so much, that they wax the whips that abuse them and polish the chains that bind them. They have given me all of their money, because poverty is a virtue, and wealth is the sin of greed. They hate the fair haired slaves because they have been taught that people with light skin believe themselves superior. The fair slaves have been taught to feel so guilty that they enjoy the abuse and torment I visit upon them.

Do you see how all of this toxic political psychology benefits me? The slaves never quite figure out who the real enemy is, because they are too busy fighting with each other.

Proposing a Sentence for My Best Beloved...

My Best Beloved thinks he can correct me on my grammar, and more specifically my practice of ending sentences with prepositions.

Here are a few sentences that end with prepositions:

What is the story about?

That is a sentence that ends with a preposition and I do not know how to turn it around.

Wait! Unintended coincidence:

"Around" is a preposition too!

This stipulation about the proper placement of a preposition is a stupid rule of grammar. I shall disregard it, from now on.

(Yes, my dear, "on" is a preposition.)

One more correction and his head comes off.

Thus, his sentence would be one that ends with a preposition! Hah!

I do not believe I have ever had such fun with language before.

What Are You Thinking?

When I was young, I did not have the discernment I do these days. I toyed around with many young men. Maybe they had a nice face, or physique. Maybe they had money, or talent, or a way with words. Any one of those things would pique my interest. I had not yet begun to seek out the men of high character, who possessed several qualities. I practiced only on the stragglers. I was not a big game hunter yet, but I did love to hear the tinkly sound of a heart shattering in a thousand pieces, that sound gave me a sense of pride. Once the heart was broken, I never went in for the final kill the way I do today. I would just place my tiny hand on their bare and heaving chest as they cried for mercy, and then I walked away.

Only one threatened suicide. I learned a fine lesson from this beleaguered beau.

He carried himself in a dark fashion, and wore somber attire. I was drawn to that. Although many who dressed as he did were merely pretentious, he was an authentic melancholic. Although it is a rarity these days for me to be mistaken, when I was younger I was prone to occasional foolishness as many young girls are. To me his sense of fashion was intriguing. I thought that surely he was harboring something evil inside and I was curious to explore this particular species of male.

He was an artist who loved me from the day he first laid eyes upon me. He had been watching me long before I had turned my eyes towards him. When I first entered his home, I saw resting on his fireplace mantle a nude portrait of me in blue and white chalk pastel. He was not ashamed that he had created this fantastical imagination of me. I was outlined in gold like an icon. I was supremely flattered and frankly aroused, especially having noticed that his lines were quite accurate for having never truly seen me unclothed.

Before I had his name fixed in my mind, or a moment to consider his worth, he had already confessed his love to me. I had a strange feeling. In general a girl loves to be showered in platitudes and adoration, but his declaration gave me a sense of being pulled down into the ocean by a giant weight wrapped around my waist, and yet my sense of apprehension attracted me to him. I wanted to see what the days would bring. I could have broken his heart at that very moment, but I knew if I stayed with him longer the final scenes of our love would be much more dramatic.

In the first early days of our love, I was sustained by the exitement of something novel, the feel of a different body, the stories whispered while wrapped in sheets at night, oddly interrupted when we noticed the rising of the sun, only then would we sleep. For a time, I was strong enough to stay alert, to remain shrewd, to maintain cool control. This was an adventure - only a story. He would play his role, and I would play mine until I became tired and moved on. But before I became tired of him, I became hungry. There was not a scrap of food in his house. He would go out and bring home little morsels. I discovered that I lacked the energy to procure food for myself, and had begun to wait like a stray cat for him to come home and give me a tray of milk. Somewhere in my mind, I began to think I needed him.

During the day, he was a busy man. He would keep me waiting for him. He would be on some unknown errand, and there would be no messenger at my disposal to find him. I had the need to tell him I was leaving, but I wanted to wait to see him face to face. Maybe after I had something to eat, I would have the energy to break his heart properly. These errands were not errands at all, but an expression of his intuition, born of a weakness and a dark dispair. He knew I was trying to leave before even I did. From the day he first expressed his undying love for me, he made a plan to keep me. He was like the creature who knows the storm is coming, before clouds even form on the horizon. So he kept himself away until I was nearly asleep, and it was too dark for me to return home safely.


At night, he was an incubus. Plied with wine, hunger, his hot breath on my neck, and his warm hands stroking my skin, he sculpted a place in my body that bore only his shape. I was fulfilled only by his presence and his touch. When he was absent I had a ravenous desire for him. My bodily hunger became near spiritual devotion. In this way, he kept me beside him. I was awash in his darkness. I was a creature crafted by his weakness to fill his void.

In his art, I was his only subject. He fed my vanity and curiousity this way too, for I wanted to see the next canvas. There would be my face painted on wood in crimson red, splattered in hot tar and gold leaf. What did it mean? He would never tell. Another wall held the image of me sleeping. Leaning up against the wall, was a painting all in green. I was painted from behind, standing on a threshold. I fixated on this painting.

When he would see me looking at this painting always ask "What are you thinking?" At first my response was "nothing." That answer would infuriate him. "I can tell you are thinking. What does this painting say to you?"

He knew what it said to me. It was another prediction. But why would he paint his fear this way. I did not know. I still wonder.

After a dispairing soliloquy about how he knew that someday I would leave him for good, he told me that he would kill himself when I was gone. He said he could never bear to see me in public if he could not have me. I had become his life. I was necessary for his survival.

I never would tell him what I was thinking, but I had begun to love and hate him with equal passion. Even to this day, I hate to be asked what I am thinking. If you have to ask, my love, then it should be clear that I am uninterested in telling you.

I thought perhaps I could leave him when he was happy. Many months I waited for his eyes to brighten. When this day came, I could not bear to do it. I wanted to experience his happiness, and the shock would surely kill him. I had waited so long for the light, I wanted to bask in it. And should I have left him when he was in his darkest despair? Of course not. Truly on the brink of suicide I would not be the one to push the knife in. My confusion was increased by the discovery over time that he only existed in these two emotional states. Long periods of deep depression broken by intense flashes of frenzied delight.

In the middle of this confusion, my father called me home. When my father called, I had to go.

My lover bowed to the will of my powerful father, and I was once again in this very room.

Not a day had gone by before my lover had hung what seemed to be every canvas he had ever created around the walls of my chambers. It was as if he was marking his territory. Except now I was in my father's house.

I could hardly breathe as I stood gazing about my room, covered with every tar encrusted canvas, every bloody homage to our exquisite love.

"My dear. I can see you are thinking. What are you thinking. Please tell me!"

"Nothing."

"You are home now. Is this the end of us? If this is the day we part, the sun will not set before I have taken my own life. Please. I must know what you are thinking!"

There is a switch inside us all. A moment that marks a turning point in our lives, where things become clear. I could almost hear the sound of a distant bell, and I was awake again. I walked to my dressing table, and picked up the blade that I used for opening letters. I walked to the bed and placed it beneath the sheets. Then I turned to him and said:

"Do you want to know what I am thinking? I am thinking how bereaved I would be if you should take your own life before the sun sets. That would rob me of the experience of killing you in your sleep!"

Before the sun set, his paintings were down, and he had left.

Beloved, this survival instinct is the strangest thing about human nature. I could prevent a man's suicide, by threatening his life!

So the end was not as dramatic as I had dreamed it would be, but I did learn a bit about irony.

What is more puzzling to me is how for nearly a year I needed him so desperately that I felt torn in half when he was away, and in the blink of an eye he had disappeared without even a moment's regret on my part.

I saw him once in a gallery. He looked at me and turned white. I chuckled and walked on. Behind me I had the satisfaction of hearing a dramatic crash. Perhaps he dropped his glass, or maybe it was his feeble heart. I don't know. I never looked back.

A Brief Meandering Glimpse of My Heart

Of what am I constructed? Particles born from stars at time's beginning have assembled in patterns to form my skin, my hair, my eyes, my beating heart. My body and my conscious being is formed of the eternal, and yet I am fleeting. From womb to grave I am so transitory that my moment of life is hardly recognizable in the vast everything of time and space.

Yet I am here. How did this body that thinks, feels and communicates come to pass? For what purpose do I think, or feel, or communicate? Why do these signals travel through me? For it would no better serve the purposes of the planet and the vast cold outer reaches of the cosmos if I was simply born into a grave to be devoured by the soil, without ever having a thought or catching a breath, or uttering a word.

But my body is not just for the purpose of soil fortification.

Because we have a bit of time in this life and the most popular way to spend it is in a scrambling and desperate attempt to somehow connect.

If I were just a material thing, why would I even attempt to speak to you, Beloved? Why must I convey?

Why must I kiss you?

Or touch you?

There is some kind of slow energy that builds in my heart...it feels like my heart... and it seems to have a consciousness of its own.

Sometimes it wants to strike you in anger because you have caused it injury. Refused to let it pass from my body to yours.

Sometimes it wants to envelope you because you are sleeping and not quarreling.

It comes out of my mouth when I smile, and forget to be harsh.

It makes me vulnerable.

When we see it, even when animals are caught expressing it, we call it humanity. Because it is chiefly a human trait.

It is called emotion. Emotion is just the many faceted prism of Love.

Did you notice how every sad story is one in which love is unevenly given and received? Where messages were mistranslated between humans, where love's definition is misunderstood, or where love was freely given and yet brutally rejected.

So often a lonely person will take her life because the object of her affection did not care whether she lived or died. Why does she choose not to live? Maybe a life bereft of love is not a life at all.

Could it be that I too am simply love's vessel? That I was filled for the purpose of dispensing it? For surely I have satiated the thirst of a few with my love, even against my will. I have felt it travel through me. Once I even felt it like a thunderbolt, and thought I saw God.

My sweet. Do you think Love is God?

Are the message and the messenger one and the same? I have heard it said, but I never closely considered the idea in a literal sense. Am I one of many billion particles of Love moving about? Again, for what purpose, for whose?

I go about my short life conveying, feeling, communicating....and then in a blink I am dead. For although our life is an endless search for love, often rife with failure, death never fails to find us.

Where does this mysterious Love go, when Death extinguishes us?

Oh I have had too much time to think...and too much wine!

I know I will hurt you in the morning. Between now and then I will find an convenient and perhaps intriguing way to measure how you haven't properly loved me tonight.

It seems that is the way you and I operate. It is sad for you because our love is uneven.
Such will always be our little human love story, but it is still a love story, and I think a memorable one.