Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies"
   
   Just with the black and white, Carter Era rabbit listeners, and you can still tune into the tube; plus, hook up a VCR and watch Captain Solo blast Greedo before he fired first; next, cowboy saunter out of the Galactic Cantina with a toss of some heavy metal, well--enough to pay off leaving a dead bounty hunter behind.
   Sheila whimpered at the thought of society, enforced without the Western aspects of cowboys, thinking STAR WARS a type of Space Western before the Space Samurai theme set in.  She'd been arrested for tagging a local park ranger after getting tongue-lashed by a lewd enforcement chick with a "I hug trees" badge; still, she didn't have to throw dead dogs into a furnace like they made some do in Arkansas after getting snookered into a state of probation; indeed, a shoot-out for survival in the Outer Rim seems not ridiculous, and that outer-space justice system seemed appropriate when people are pitching tents in America, and the water has morphed toxic in so many places.
   Sheila owned no firearm, going old school with the wandering monk weaponry tucked underneath her feminine frame, as if she was dainty, but Earth's energy, spawned on her own set of ideals, having her character alignment matched with a set of principles for all of her purposes, never magically shape-shifting though, but remaining cloaked in her own wardrobe of wondrous armor.
   She took a random muscle car out and bought some RANCH PRINGLES at a local gas station that had a Pac-Man video game in the corner; plus, a washroom that housed a crusty sofa.  Go figure.  

You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says...

Voltaic Junkyard--Roger's Visit

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Roger's Visit"
  
   ROGER ON THE STREET LEGAL KX 200, THINKING MAYBE IT WAS A TWO-CYCLE, AND WHILE THAT MADE YOU BUZZ AND SPIN ON THE DISMOUNT, THE NEON-GREEN GAVE HIM FORTUNATE FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY--YET MAXIMUM POWER MUST BE USED TO PRODUCE A GOOD CROP.  SO, ROGER AND ADAM IN THE TIN BOX.

ROGER
Your sister is very talented.  Is she single?  Don't be a bodyguard brother, nor let me have her easy.

ADAM
Holy crap, that's my sister man!  We got an alliance here, two weird guys down on the dumb, and you can't go making time with Sheila--she'll take no garbage or bullshit; she sees through it all.  Says I'm too passive and unsure.  That young lady is a war horse.

ROGER
How did she get those chiseled arms and legs, yet not fatty, just tone and like a model?

ADAM
Prayer, vitamins, and no stress from society.  All she has is the junkyard and that wacky dog.  It's her mission to make the junkyard a temple, of sorts.  She knows everything is real--inter-dimensional things, phantoms, saints, angels, truck drivers, hookers, firetrucks, alien craft, and that comical guy back in the 1970's that bit potato chips and made a crunch or something.  Are you lifting up what I'm laying down?

ROGER
You may be more like her than you think.  

Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302"
   
   Sheila didn't have time to poorly ponder her brother's trepidation concerning the stalking--screw his accusers, for look at all the horseshit they dropped on the range.  So, after curing the manor, for the junkyard had a circular perimeter, meaning a grassy barrier, before the red-painted fencing; next, all the automobile industry that had been broken and forgotten, and Sheila was the physician, healing her mechanical patients with TLC, now:  working on a 1969 Boss 302, jury-rigging the intake over the carb, making sure the upgraded four-barrel sucked in more of the race in front of her.
   She didn't go for the bling-like jazz of white letter tires though.  A bit of humility makes muscle even more chiseled.  Sheila wiped the grease off her forehead, put the wrench down, and there was a bowl of Kava Kava next to her, and as they do in Rarotonga sometimes, she imbibed the smooth relax, and felt the purest part of the Pacific offer a kiss-like breeze of polished peace.  

My Baby loves me - Lyrics

We are here to please God

   
   "We are here to please God"
   
   A family member told me to blame God--never.  Sickly most of my life, and in a lost place, I saw two things--the first image was wicked and iniquitous; next, I laid down, felt like I was falling, and there was not just white light, but an assortment of brilliant colors all gelled together, yet I was not ready to go there.
   People with certain physiological traits say that we always get in trouble for things we did not do--I totally understand.  Or they push us, and we react, fiercely.  
   When I was a kid in Catholic school, there was this priest who called my mother everyday, saying horrible things about me.  I surmise what his intentions were; however, I would never insult the Church that has preserved the Lord in His most ancient sense.  Yet sometimes, you have to speak.
   It's like the Virgin Mary telling Her Son:  "Don't do it Jesus; they'll kill You."  It seems to have went that way, for how can the BEST Mother not care so sweetly, yet even She knew--His purpose would be horrifying, and Her heart would be pierced by a sword.
   And Jesus did it.  He shot His mouth off--if you know scripture, and had not one ounce of wimp within.  And like Samson--He could not be bound.
  We all are here to please God; however, there are dark forces attempting to thieve away our instinctive love for the Creator, God.  
   So, don't ever neglect your prayers, even if not able to make it to Church, and pray the Rosary as much as you can--even numerous times daily.  And if you want to take a page out of King David's works, remember:  "Wine to make man heart's happy, and herb for the service of man."
   Sometimes, liquid courage is not all bad--if followed by green tea brewed in distilled water.

Stephen Hawking is worth it

   
   "Stephen Hawking is worth it"
   
   Where did all the white people go in America?  Just kidding.  And I always wanted to be a member of the Mohawk Tribe mixed with some Icelandic ethnicity, to better endure the winters.  What?  Ah, I like being a mutt.
   I'm not a fan of Stephen Hawking's unearthly opinions on the topic of God; still, he is a brave and potent warrior, charged with intrinsic determination.  Anyway, what if they had just thrown him in a home, jacked him up on garden-variety bullshit, never talked to him, washed him, fed him, loved him, and threw him away like most people do with the lame?  Isn't it a beautiful thing that he lives, and is preserved by people who actually give a shit?  And plenty of us are worth it, and while his mind is uncanny--he still isn't Jesus Christ, but oh yeah--they murdered that guy, in front of His Mother and a friend He loved--Saint John the Eagle.
   When my mother developed neurological problems, almost a decade ago, little hints were here and there, like her tripping, acting like a goofy adolescent girl, and always worrying--I just thought she was wondrously wacky.  She was being pushed so many downers and anti-psychotics, and I have them all listed, yet they won't be mentioned here, and remember--she's been falsely diagnosed, numerous times minds you; indeed, from Alzheimer's to Lewy Body Dementia, even Parkinson's--but they don't know.  She talks everyday, loves to eat, goes for rides, watches Westerns, or any movie with Cary Grant. 
   So, I took her off most meds, maybe, and spend everything I can on vitamins, spices, and herbs, which of course the family and doctors say don't work.  Knowing disease and death myself--it works for me.
   But that's the gist of it.  If Stephen Hawking was your father, would you not give him something alternative to what the corrupt pharmaceutical companies offer?  Would you write him off and toss him into a home where nobody gives a shit?  Would you sell him out to the government, so you don't have to do any heavy lifting?  Seems like that's what the garden-variety soul does.  And hell, when I was in the hospital with only 1/3 of my blood in my body--the simian nurse told me to just go ahead and die.  These medical experts are so wise and all-knowing aren't they?  They don't even understand Rh negative blood.  Should I not mention that?  Will they come to get me today?
   It's a Free Country, or used to be.  And while some of us have been so sick our whole lives, unable to function in society as we know the protocols of pernicious people, well--it's just beauty to watch the birds, see the squirrels, and know that we are not alone in our sickness and loneliness.