"The lowly Saints of everyday"
He works in the yard, and I doth protest. It's hot, and you're old--I tell him such things. But he persists in communicating with God in the garden of suburbia. We don't always see eye to eye--who does?
I feel his anxiety and tension, yet his corporeal self is withered, like unto a fading flower, though never in the image of Narcissus.
I cook and bake for him. He likes whiskey and hard spirits, as did Hemingway. I told him to write like that guy: machine-gun sentences. One. Two. Three. Linear thinking, which I'm incapable of, questioning everything, and testing every spirit.
We are not Starsky and Hutch, for we don't drive a "Striped Tomato" as Hutch had dubbed the monster Ford, that cool yet fiery Gran Torino.
It's all high horsepower 6 Cylinder engines nowadays, mostly, but they lack the manipulating rotation of torque produced by the behemoth big blocks of old. Still, he loves working outside. I keep an eye on him, even during his rants at the political news and the Bravo Sierra it doth spilleth on the quasi-airwaves of today.
"Sarah J. Connor--the Sheltie"
My name is Sarah J. Connor; I am a Shetland Sheepdog. I have many nipples, but was spayed, for my owner, a wackadoodle named Jimmy, didn't want me to wear a diaper, go into heat, or have any raunchy boy dogs come sniffing around. Good for the wackadoodle.
Yeah, I loved Jimmy. He took me for walks, let me chase lizards, and fed me real, live-action bacon--center cut, as it should be, unless you're a Jew or Muslim.
I don't want to offend anybody, but nowadays--that's all that a person or dog can do. If you tell a girl at the grocery market that she looks good in jeans--it's domestic terrorism or harassment. If I take a stinky poop in the neighbor's yard, people will put me down or put a shock collar on me. Yup, folks are real assholes.
I always thought I lived in a free country; then, I realized--that's Canada. America has gone down the tubes. Poor General George, and they're even taking Old Hickory off the twenty dollar bill pretty soon. That really pisses me off, for I live in Tennessee. Why don't they just make a three dollar bill and put a chick on it? Did any chicks fight in the Great American Wars like the men, or have the mystical initiative of Joan of Arc? I don't think so. But whatever. And I like being a girl. I'm just saying--it is America, and once was a free country without all the overwhelming security. Yikes.
Yeah, I know I'm not perfect, nor are my opinions, but what soul didn't love it before girls grew the hanging scrotum? Okay, I'm wrong again, for my name is Sarah J. Connor; still, that's fiction--like me. Then again--there's always the knuckle-thrusting axiom of Hope Solo.
"Near Death Experience"
One of my near-death-experiences, my favorite really, was in Little Rock, when I was in my late twenties. The cleaning lady at the hospital, where I stayed for a week would say: "But you're so young."
I kept telling my physician about the blood loss; he wouldn't listen. When I checked myself into the Emergency Room, and had lab work done--I had less than half the blood in my body; furthermore, my brother called me on the phone--heroically, I stated: "Walk in the park."
Next, I kept running to the bathroom, more blood shooting from my bowels, all hooked up to intravenous saline, among other things, and the nurses were laughing at me, saying with much weird mirth: "There he goes again."
When I finally got my transfusion of less than ichor, the nighttime nurse told me that she wanted to die when she lost control of her bowels. Hell, didn't she know why I was there? Of course, but like the bad guys in KARATE KID: "No mercy."
Some are like unto Elijah and Enoch, becoming Twin Arch-Angels, going up into Heaven, as did the Virgin Mary, without corporeally passing. I understand the Passion of Christ, in the sense of nearly bleeding to death. In and out of consciousness. But I didn't want to die, for the second X-Men movie had come out that day, and I was determined to be entertained before meeting my Maker.
After major Cardiac Arrest, back in the day, people usually only lived for an approximate five to six years. My Bio-Dad made it over twenty, and he told me that he saw the Light.
Will. Will. Will. And he smoked and drank like a true Irishman.
It's all in God's Hands. Or God puts it in yours. Just shut up with the negativity, or karma may kick you in the ass, and I've been there. Love, hope, have faith, and know the Passion of Christ--He did it for all of us!!! Even the nasty ones.
"Snoopy's Brother: Spike"
Spike is very skinny. He used to live with coyotes; as a result of their selfishness--they wouldn't share any food with him; hence, he moved to Needles, where his best friend became a cactus.
A cactus has endurance. Gives the essence of life. And has needles, much like Spike's mustache, which is needle-like.
A common trait with Snoopy is that Spike also writes. Maybe he's not as fast on the typewriter as Snoopy, but he's able to craft a nice letter, mentioning that he's coming to visit the Peanuts Gallery.
Mark Twain didn't like the typewriter. I believe he thought it a nasty invention. Kerouac was a master on the typewriter. So is Snoopy--him still alive, surviving in the memories of myriads.
"Feeding the Monkey"
There was no Atomic Consciousness for Leeza; indeed, to her belonged the archetype of a banana-eating mind, dulled and confused by what she could not fortunately fathom in the fresh fruits of the Divine. No one is to blame, and Leeza had her own radio show in a local region of Oklahoma.
* * * *
She broadcast her bravado with a dragon's fiery selfishness of laid gold; moreover, she hated Hobbits and the rotation of Earth by the mere monkey man. The non-evolved in a sense of style, for Leeza was a fashion critic, adoring the Beaver's blonde mother clothed in pumps and pearls.
She had a daughter named Bonnie. A kind and magnanimous soul, heavenbent on raising the dead and feeding the monkeys; plus, rabbits, and even mice, never trapping them, but adoring all animals, and drinking plenty of grape-flavored soda-pop.
The dualistic dichotomy of the two was counterpoise perfected. And a mother's love, not jealousy of her daughter, well, that would allow for even a better union, outshining balance.
Fortunately, the twosome engaged and embraced after their differing opinions saw the identity of equals. For no soul is without the stovepipe hat of Lincoln; specifically, the cerebral and spiritual aspects underneath. Did they love each other and ignite into a strange yet paradisal eternity?
Of course; otherwise--it would not be worth mentioning. God not spank, but save the Queen.
"Mirror of Justice"
In the LITANY OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN, we hear and invoke Her as the Mirror of Justice, like art depicting Her as the Moon, perpetually reflecting Her Son--Her loving and adoring Him like no other, as should we.
So, when they look upon you with death and skulls, reflect it back onto them, adoring the Queen of Confessors, the Queen of Angels, the Tower of Ivory, for every soul has a right to choose Her Son, the Living Christ.
And to further press onward, mentioning the original title of Darwin's mere theory: On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life. Still, we don't know what lurked in Darwin's heart. We can't even cure the common cold. We can't read the mind of dogs, but possibly, they can read ours.
The late Christopher Hitchens, sometimes writing for Vanity Fair magazine, once boldly proclaimed: "There is only one Race--the Human Race, for there are no different species of human."
We simply don't know save the true mystic, and even then--there are questions. All we can do is absorb the sublimity of beauty in all things, even ugliness. That is our duty as human beings.
"OCD versus being anal"
They laugh and say they have OCD,
Making fun of your asymmetries like non-benevolent fairies under a mystic tree;
Regardless, because you merely align,
Does not mean that you have a condition that does perniciously malign.
* * * *
Imagine involuntary and intrusive images. A history of things you thought you did, but didn't. A perpetual feeling of Catholic or Jewish guilt. Beings from the Otherworld paying you visitations.
Yes, we're clean. Like Tobias, washing everyday and burying the dead, before Saint Raphael and the dog got him along on his journey. A sneeze can travel very far. Door handles and money are dirty; alas, the false images--or are they real? Borderline psychosis?
Rituals, repetition, perpetual prayer, and infatuation with these possible mystical things. But they make fun, thinking you just chase dust bunnies and purchase anal cream on a consistent basis.
Okay, that's fine. But believe me--you don't want real OCD, especially with tics. Whether this is coming from the medial temporal lobe or actual spiritual intervention--nobody really knows. Yup, anti-psychotics can be like unto scientific exorcisms. King David knowing humanity is almost as strong as angelity. Every single day is a war. Did I murder that guy they're talking about on television, for he looks familiar? Did I run over somebody while driving? And they still laugh at patients; next, go home and become wankers to their Bush League College Girls doing porn to empower themselves in a modern world. Whatever. It's all in the reflexes baby.
