Friday, February 9, 2018
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.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Voltaic Junkyard--Staubach & Hail Mary
"Voltaic Junkyard--Staubach & Hail Mary"
Adam knew Sheila was correct, sir; however, he had more folks and fairies after him than his sister, and as Darth Vader wisely instructed: "It is unwise to lower your defenses."
Oh well, the Datsun was up and running, a little 4-speed 240Z, and while not having the Grand National fixed up yet, the rascally rice burner still provided smooth cushion and a squirrel's bolt out of the nut-field.
Adam was on his way to visit Roger, a janitor addicted to asphyxiating himself with high-levels of bleach, making sure no jungle rot resided in his scrubbed toilet bowls--Roger was an All Pro in bathroom fumigation. He was named after Mr. Staubach, the true Dodger, having invented the Hail Mary Pass while wearing the number 12, closing his eyes as the pocket collapsed on the gladiatorial turf; moreover, launching a lethal pigskin skywards and invoking the Queen of Heaven for six points. He would've been the first QB to rush for a thousand yards if the Old Man in the hat (Tom Landry) would've let him call his own plays like Bradshaw did.
It wasn't an action-packed friendship--Adam and Roger I'm talk'n. Just two loners looking lost at the neon-lit bar--two beers, getting in; next, getting out, and swiftly getting back to their habitats and locking their doors. Adam was cool with low-key, and he had never kissed a girl that he had wanted to. The last kiss he gave a dame was followed by a quick wash of LISTERINE, and he spit it out on his own shoes; then, had to wash them too. It's not easy being crazy. At least Adam felt safe with his sister. Sheila could drop five men with her furious fists, having studied martial arts in the theater of her own mind, being born blessed with photographic reflexes; indeed, she could precisely mimic Bruce Lee, and not give a damn about the destructive damage she caused. Adam liked that about her. Liked it plenty. For her fisticuffs were used only for Freedom's sake.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Voltaic Junkyard--Capacitor
"Voltaic Junkyard--Capacitor"
In front of the black and white with Bugs Bunny tuning it all in, Sheila and Adam, along with Wagon-Tail wagging, were all sitting on the futon, their daily duties of upkeep having found culmination--now: a cool balm of Kava Kava soothing the senses, even the extra ones; moreover, BONANZA was on, and Michael Landon had to get more clean cut for that part; still, always a beauty with Samson-like might.
SHEILA
Energy is housed within us all--just get the voltage spikes out.
ADAM
I've been reading Twain, his pen armed with simplicity, charming us like a fox.
SHEILA
The Red Fox is built to entertain. Master of camouflage, like the Shinobi, though only living to survive and provide. Loyal too.
ADAM
Maybe I'll go into town tomorrow and see if any bookstores still exist. Can always order off of the Internet, but that feels like cheating. I like to smell the squid-ink off the shelf. Ya know?
SHEILA
Adapt Adam. Who cares if the guy down the street is cheating on his taxes or houses an arsenal of semi-automatic weapons. Just keep your own Temple clean, and all is well. Okay, bro?
ADAM
This dog of yours is a real farter-starter. Did you feed him any pizza?
SHEILA
Of course--I have a heart. Even for dogs. Especially the good ones.
Voltaic Junkyard--8-Cylinder
"Voltaic Junkyard--8-Cylinder"
Adam's Dad told him: "Boy, put a V-8 in any car; next, it's hard to beat." What did Adam care, a Shakespearean cynic now, torn down by a society self-driven to copulate with artificial life, and even androids can nag you. And while he respected his old man's energy, he wanted the super-charger on the 6-Cylinder Buick Grand National to come alive, for in the 1980's--it owned the asphalt till 60, and then some. Good for making a playboy look cool in the city. Everything wasn't Big Block Highway and the heavy muscle of an SS 454 breaking the pavement barrier.
Adam had a light-heart weighed by Divine Dogs; still, the world crushes the nice guy, and Adam had not the control of Sheila's sophisticated gel with the smooth spark. Dude was freaked, not by things quoted as metaphysical, yet by the people, ignorant of anything around them--so internal, yet suffocating themselves with denial of all the energetic fields. The Book says: "We perish for lack of knowledge." Some do. Some know too much. And the PRICE IS RIGHT will never be the same without a black-belt at the helm.
And, as if just to tease her brother, Adam heard Sheila call, and had an image of her grinning sweetly: "Come on down."
Ah hell, gotta spin the wheel.
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