Monday, December 21, 2015

The Curmudgeon’s Christmas

Sitting at his desk, fingers on the keyboard, and glasses dipped low on his nose, the old fart seemed intent on making a point. He sat in his top-secret lair, and enigma to all who he met when he ventured from his refuge of reclusiveness. In public, he seemed a rather good-humored sort. He smiled at the pretty girls, and always remembered to acknowledge the greeters at the retail monster where he shopped. Riding the electric carts for the disabled he winked at small children and waved back when they waved at him. He told everyone thank you whether they deserved it or not, and gladly gave up his spot in line, or out in the parking lot to others.

He paid his bills with a smile, and urged his friends (those few he had) to be safe. “I love you” came out of his mouth often and he never avoided a hug when it seemed the thing to do. He met an old friend the other day and the man kissed him on the cheek. It made him smile because it was that friend that taught him that public displays of affection had to do with fondness, warmth, friendliness, and love and nothing at all to do with lifestyle or gender.

It was when he was alone that the curmudgeon slinked out of its burrow. He did not particularly like the cars on the road as he made his way in the world. He never wanted to be out in the first place. The only reason he ever went out was to get away from the grouchy old bastard he lived with. Oh, by the way, he lived alone. Most of his bones ached, and he could not take the medicine that relieved the pain because it made him somnolent and too much sleep made him hurt even more than what had become usual. He carried a cane to help himself get around but it usually ended up forgotten or in the way when he tried to walk. More than once he lost his balance and fell as a result of not knowing the proper way to drive the damn thing.

He cussed at everything and everyone. At home, that is. He really did not mean the cussing’s but it served as a not too hurtful pressure release.(remember he only did it at home)  The truth was he dearly loved everyone and everything in his life. It was just that life had given him some hard circumstances to live with, and sometimes he had to bitch about it. The funny thing about his rants is that he would tell others that he was not the complaint department, and to take their nonsense elsewhere. Life dealt losing hands as well as winning, but it was life, and tomorrow was another day.

Sitting at the keyboard gave him immense pleasure and occupied most of his time. Either sitting and writing, or reading, listening, and watching what happened around him was his line, but only to serve as grist for the mill that became his writing. He had published himself online, and actually supported himself by writing for folks who were willing to pay. He was poor, but the God of his understanding had also been poor when he walked the earth.

This particular evening, he had decided to write for the pure joy of it and possibly not for publication. He did that often and enjoyed it much more than getting paid, or the compliments that came his way from time to time. This eventide found him three days shy of the anniversary of the birth of the God of his understanding, and sentimental ruminations of days gone by filled his head and made him want to go and get a Christmas Tree. He had no presents to give, and did not seek any. This year was not a celebratory time for him, but he decided to yield to the irritating smiles and the “Merry Christmas’s” that came his way. The only thing he had was what was in his head and came out of his fingers at the keyboard. He thought to write everyone a Christmas card, and email it out. Unfortunately, being of a discerning nature where it came to most of life, and particularly in his writing he quite simply could not think of a few words that expressed his feelings. This meant that he had to write a bunch of words. At the thought of that, he discovered himself in an entirely agreeable mood. 

He knew if he wrote a piece, something long enough and of suitable substance, he would put it out on his website and inform those in his universe that he had once again enlightened the world with wisdom and erudition. The idea made him smile and overlook his more cantankerous leanings. It also made him recognize that the message contained in the piece would probably be read by but a few. The rest would just have to simply live with the knowledge that the old geezer had typed some crap and put it on the web

He stared at the screen for a few minutes and poked the Caps Lock and typed:


He copied and pasted into the subject line of the announcement message and went about writing the rest of the piece. Once finished, he proofed it and began the process of posting it. He did not think about it again until the afternoon of the eve of the anniversary of the birth of the God of his understanding.

He received a call from a friend that required action on his part. The friend had no presents to give his kid and did not really know how to do that kind of shopping. The divorce he went through when he went to prison left him useless where it came to domestic things. The oldster told him to keep his cool and wait for him to come get him.

He pulled on his clothes and coat, brushed his hair and beard, and after checking the weather forecast, put on his hat. He walked to the back door and opened it to leave. He found things as he thought he would, the little guys were polishing the sleigh while others had the reindeer brushed, fed, and harnessed, and the huge bag was as full as it could get with wrapped boxes with bows and glitter. “All set, Boss,” the head midget told him as he handed the old man his gloves. “Looks like snow.”  

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Happenstance in the Hinterland

I had occasion to make a sojourn to a small town out in the country recently. It was for the purpose of having a face to face meeting with a lovely pair of people who I am connected with through Social Media. The destination is a halfway, or close to a halfway point between our residences. They are like minded folk who share similarities on such subjects of import. Politics, insanity, the difference between right and wrong, and many other forms of inanity are but a few topics which we equally engender and feel it imperative to comment on when given the chance. We are a trio of well-travelled, well read, and well intentioned citizens of the world. It was an amazing opportunity and I thank them for giving me the opportunity of sharing some of their time with me.

The trip was somewhat bittersweet as it required me to ride past the farm of a gentleman I knew before he passed away. It gave me time to reflect on days gone by. I searched the side of the road for a location to place the castle I hope to build once I become this millennium’s Stephen King by selling a billion or so books. It let me open the window and smell some country air, and revel in the glory of what the earth has to offer if one just takes the time to look about. Given that is was initiated through the absurdity of Social Media, it came as a restful respite from my day to day norm.

The small town with the amazing old country café was along a line that included another small city which I had never been to. It was just five miles further and I was forty minutes early so I decided to list it as one of the “Places I’ve been to” in the probable travelogue I will eventually write and publish. It seems an easy project from the one I am currently pursuing which entails becoming either vastly wealthy or unilaterally unloved.

I rolled into town to be greeted, first by a school bus painted pink that has had the hood and cab converted to portray the head of a pig/hog. It was the “Welcome to…” sign for the community. The transfiguration from a school bus to a porcine herald seemed more a harbinger then a jocund salutation. The welding and sheet metal additions were of a less than expert level fashioning. It sort of reminded me of what you might find from someone with a shop in his garage with way too many tools that he does not really know how to use. Still, if looked at with a less discerning eye, it serves the purpose it was placed there.

Next to it is the “Harmony Wedding Chapel. This appears to be just what the name states and it is a locality that has made me rethink the location of my next wedding. I am firm in my decision that if I should choose to enter an association with another person that results in participation in the institution of marriage, such happenstance will be initiated in Las Vegas with the Elvis Guy officiating. Barring that, I am certain that the Harmony Wedding Chapel would serve me well.

There is an eclectic assembly of small businesses that I found to be of certain interest. There is The Forge Bistro which conjures thoughts of manly victuals that are not terribly good for one, but probably taste like heaven. The implication of manliness coming from the insensitive mind of a writer that prefers cheeseburgers, meatloaf, chicken fried steak, and catfish to sushi, Panini’s, and Falafel, all served with French Fries, Mashed Potatoes and a side of green/pinto beans or a simple house salad with Ranch dressing.

There is the Lilli Pepper Clothing store that the outside is decorated like a junk shop on the order of Sanford and Son mercantile from television memory. There is a more feminine flare to the decorations and, I suspect, and owner behind the cash register dressed in a large drooping turtle neck, a peasant skirt, half lens reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck, and her hair loosely tied up with a pencil stuck in it. This might be an outrageous misnomer and I apologize if it is. I was sitting in my truck talking into my memo app on my phone. It is all speculation, but I suspect that some of this is both veritable and factual,

There is Ben Creative Arts Center that left me wanting in my limited ability to imagine, visualize, or fantasize a readable description of this enterprise. I wish them well and have some comfort in that I have not been guilty of falsehood in the least kind.

There is a place called The Secret Garden which had various signs and announcements outside one of which made mention of New Orleans and another hinting at hidden treasure within. Again, I found nothing witty to say, or apologize for.

I saw a sign for a place named Beyond the Picket Fence and it was just that, just a simple sighting of a building sitting in the back of a parking lot and holding some mystery to me. The hour was fast approaching for my rendezvous for victuals and I drove off.

The last thing I saw was a van, backing into one of the businesses I have not mentioned that looked as if it might belong to a hippie commune. I had seen it when first arriving in town parked in a driveway just past the area of commerce and thought it to be to owner’s residence. I did not see what it said on the side and that intrigued me.

I found a spot to turn around to head for my repast and noticed a knifesmith. There were a few other places that initially held no interest for me and I went off in search of what turned out to be a decent plate of catfish. While eating my companions and I spoke of this place I visited and came to the conclusion that it might be peopled by folks who formerly lived in a larger city and moved to the country, or just bought a home in the country for weekend sojourns much the same as I. The experience certainly affected me and I believe I might just dig a little deeper into Ben Wheeler, TX next month when I once more meet my friends. This time I think it just might just be the chicken fried steak the café is purported to be famous for.


Saturday, December 5, 2015

Mass Shootings… Rated TV-MALV

I am trying to think of what to say about the shit which is going on with the mass shooting thing. There is so much bullshit in this that I am at a loss for words, or have too many words to describe my outrage. Watching the news does not help. Reading shit on Facebook and other Social Media is ludicrous. Trying to pray, sadly, gives little relief. And the fucking republicans voted against doing anything about it! It is like I woke up today in a different reality where we just have to take shit and can do nothing about it. Except it isn’t a different reality, it is what is happening right the fuck now.

I write and wonder the effect these words are going to have. So many differing opinions and ideas make it hard to decide. If I write about gun control, I am a pacifist even though I own a gun. If I disagree with what some idiot fundamentalist Christian preacher spews I am an atheist. If I do not want our troops to go back to the Middle East and say so, I am unpatriotic or a traitor. If I complain about conservative politicians taking bribes and committing crimes, I am a bleeding heart liberal. If I talk about possible solutions I am a communist or a simpleton. If I complain about the misinterpretation of the Second Amendment, I am a socialist lamebrain. If I talk about how much I love and respect the President, I am a nigger lover. And finally, if I let any of these things bother me, I really am a mentally defective simpleton. WHICH I AM NOT!

Mass shootings have become an accepted part of our culture. It must be so because they have occurred more than once a day for the last year. San Bernardino has mesmerized the country and once more launched the debate on what there is to do. The next day there was yet another shooting in another location. Only a few died. Anyone know where that happened? This abomination has transpired more times in America than anywhere else in the world since 2005. It has become a money making proposition. News agencies have had a field day with the topic, in between advertisements, commercials, endorsements, and outright graft, and yes I do mean graft. Graft is, when not talking about medicine or planting trees, a function of politics. When was the last time anyone read, viewed, or heard a news report that was not driven by the politics of the administration of the agency reporting?

How did this become? It is beyond my comprehension that this has developed into a daily affair. It happens and we ask why even though the answer is right in front of us. We allow it because we are too selfish, scared, or ambivalent to address the real issue. We want to own guns and any talk of restricting that scares the shit out of us. We would rather let crazy people shoot up innocent men, women, and children than go without something only a small percentage of our population have the need or right to use. Assault weapons are for those who are in the business of staging, defending from, or reacting to assaults. This means soldiers, police, and those others tasked with defending our country. They should not be sold. AT ALL!!!!!

Owning a gun is not a bad thing per se, except when you have it with the intention of harming another human being. Hunting and home protection are reasonable uses and purposes for owning a gun. Owning one that will fire twenty or thirty times before reloading is overkill and, apparently, we are in love with killing a lot of people at a one time. We must, it happens so much that is the norm instead of the exception.

As to the rest of what I have said, I stand firm. News agencies are Satan’s tools and we embrace them. I am not a traitor; I am an Honorably Discharged veteran of the US Army who believes war is an atrocity and should be avoided at all costs. I am a supporter of Barack Obama because he is a good man and a fine president. If you disagree with this then keep it the fuck to yourself and, by the way, he is also a white man as well as a black man! Our government breeds criminal activity in the manner in which it has chosen to make and maintain election law. Christian Fundamentalists regularly deny, in their preaching, the teaching, and commandments of Jesus Christ where it applies to loving their fellow man. I embrace Jesus Christ as my God as taught me by my mother and sister; two loving and committed Christian women.

And in conclusion, the Second Amendment was included in the Constitution at a time when private citizen militias were necessary for the defense of the country. That is no longer the case, and the complete meaning and spirit of the amendment is being horribly subverted by blockheaded imbeciles who do not know how to fucking read!


Wednesday, December 2, 2015

An Fhís

“But it is not you. It is them.” He sat at the end of my bed and quietly sipped a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. There was nothing remarkable about him. Just a dude with a couple of days growth on his face wearing jeans, work boots, and a “Frank Zappa for President” t-shirt like the one I was sleeping in. I sat up in bed and asked him what he was talking about. It did not occur to me to ask him who he was and how he had to audacity to be in my house and drinking my coffee when I had no earthly idea who the fuck he was

“It’s true, you know. You have been wondering for days why people act the way they do when you show up anywhere. It seems as if you are an interruption in their ordinary everyday ordinariness and it is an imposition for you to even be breathing.” He blew some smoke rings and looked at me.

“What in the Holy Good Christ are you talking about?” I asked even though I knew perfectly well what he was saying.

“Oh, don’t be coy now. I am just telling you that it is not your fault. All those fuckers out there are just jealous of you and treat you as if you are an intrusion for just being there. Even that dumbshit smiling guy at the Stop N’ Shop gas station who you never talk to because you use your card at the pump and never even walk the hell inside thinks you’re weird. He waves at you and you wave back, but he is secretly counting the minutes you are even out front of his store. He thinks you are peculiar even though he is just a stupid son of a bitch who works there because he dropped out of high school and cannot get a better job.” More smoke rings drift to the ceiling.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That guy always smiles at me and besides, that’s the cheapest gas in town.” I swing my legs over and sit on the side of the bed. “Go away, I have to pray and then piss before I get my coffee. Did you leave any in the pot?” I look at his cup which seems really immense.

“I’ll make a fresh pot. See you in the living room. I know how you take it.” He gets up and pads out the door. I noticed he had slipped out of his work boots and was walking in bare feet. This deepened my resentment. Who the shit not only invades a guy’s bedroom but has the impudence to feel comfortable enough to walk around without shoes?

I read my books, and say my prayers before heading to the toilet. I have my t-shirt and boxers on from sleeping and toss on my bathrobe, leaving it open as I walk. I go to the can and then walk to the living room. I stop and take a detour to get my slippers in order to make the right statement to my barefooted home invader. I get back to my chair and find a piping hot cup of Joe on the table next to it where I keep the remote and whatever book I am currently reading. The bold burglar is nowhere to be found. Getting the first sip down I catch him peering, headfirst, from the kitchen with a spatula in his hand asking me how I like my eggs. He tells me to watch the news while I drank my coffee and that breakfast will be finished in a jiffy.

The level of confusion over this bizarre incident begins to grow and I start thinking it might be better to just listen and go along. I finish the coffee, get up, and walk into the kitchen. I am greeted with a properly set table with an azalea bloom in a long stemmed vase. There are plates, silverware, and glasses of what had to be fresh squeezed orange juice (The oranges I put in the bowl on the kitchen counter are gone) and milk. My intruder motions for me to sit down and when I did he sets before me a plate of bacon and eggs and another with three pancakes. He goes to the refrigerator bringing the butter dish and the jelly. How does he know that I eat my pancakes with jelly? The final touch is a plate of buttermilk pancakes and a bowl of sausage gravy. He sits down and, bowing his head, asks me if I wanted to say grace.

After clearing the dishes for him and loading the dishwasher, I ask him to explain himself. He waves for me to follow him out the back door and sits down at the edge of the patio overlooking the back yard. It is my favorite spot and he appears right at home in the empty chair that I have placed next to mine with a table in between. This was, in my mind, God’s chair and he has some nerve sitting there. He waves for me to sit and I do…grudgingly.

“You see, you got off on the wrong foot when you started writing that damn book. Nobody wants to read a book that tells them that they cannot or should not do something that they just love to do.” He lights another cigarette and sits back crossing his legs. “I have a real problem with it, hell I told everyone that they should not do it a long damn time ago. Hell, fucking commanded them not to.”
“You are not trying to convince me that you are God! That would be totally absurd! I mean, how could everyone even be mad at me when I have not done anything but write the damn thing and never even tried to publish it? All it was supposed to be was something to make me feel better after those folks died in New York!” I could feel my blood pressure starting to spike and my chest get tight.

“I know, I know. People are weird. They think who the fuck they are. That whole freedom of choice gig was a major faux pas dude. I’ve been regretting it ever since I let it happen. Hell, look what it has brought us to!”

“Man, I am not having this conversation! You are going to tell me who the shitting hell you are or I am going to call the police…RIGHT NOW!” I grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lit one. The first puff reminded me why I had given them up.

When I looked back at him, and he’s gone, vanished into the clear air. All that remains is the pack of cigarettes and the empty coffee cup he had been drinking from. I sit staring at the chair for a while and finally surrendering, walk back in the house. I find my computer and, opening the word processing program, begin to type. I realize that the book about killing is not done. I’ve let it languish for several years while I went out and found other things to do. I do feel odd when I walked out in public. I am not paranoid. I do feel that many people treat me as if they have bitterness toward me, but it does not bother me. I just did not care. Or is it, that I did not think that there anything to be done about it? Could there really be a world where killing was just something that people liked? Dreamed of and pursued like it was the answer to all their problems?

No. It cannot be. It must not be! Let him come and make me breakfast if he must, I WILL finish and publish that book!

Friday, November 27, 2015


I started this the day before Thanksgiving and couldn’t get it done. It is the day after Thanksgiving and it is now done. Sort of as if the Turkey never got thawed in time and you had to cook it the next day so here goes:

Part of the ritual of the holidays has always, to me, been the obligatory question. “What are you doing for …? I had this question posed to me for the day in which we give thanks. I do not go out on Thanksgiving, except for a meeting sometimes. This is a personal choice that I make and have grown to enjoy. I have a personal reason for this which is not subject to discussion. It is not a decision to be xenophobic, or tempestuous, or anything other than just a guy that wishes solitude and relaxation.

The person who posed this question was not satisfied with my explanation. They also did not offer me an alternative. They just called me Scrooge and hung up the phone. I found that phone call rather disturbing and felt that it required a response. It might have been easier to simply dial the number back and let the individual experience the extent to which I have developed a vocabulary that focused on the vulgar, uncouth, ill-mannered, offensive, improper, and pretentious words of the English language. I did not make that choice, choosing instead to share my feelings on the conversation in word and offer it to the millions and billions of those I wish read my blog.

In the first place my errantly obnoxious friend, if you are going to insult me in a loving way that I am sure you intended, get the damn holiday right. Thanksgiving is the day that we celebrate a fictional dinner with Native Americans which most probably was actually the initiation of the genocide we perpetrated on them over the next few centuries.
Thanksgiving has always meant many things to many people. There is the television commercial version where the cooking channels all tell you multifarious methods to produce the sleep inducing element that is tryptophan. A claim used as an explanation for excess and gluttony while really being just an urban legend at best. According to, “Tryptophan in turkey does not induce a food coma; you’re sleepy because you ate too much.” This is reinforced, according to Google, by 7,510,000 other websites.

There is the Thanksgiving that exists in the world where the humorist and jester ply their trade with such bits as; “The whole holiday is absurd. It is an enigma how much we can misread the spirit of things and dread the day. Nothing is more ridiculous than a large family gathering for Thanksgiving and someone gets mad at Uncle Sid the alcoholic when he gets drunk and hits on his portly sister-in-law or Great Paw Paw Archie for not remembering some kids name in a crowd when he is 94 and hasn’t had a lucid moment or uttered a rational word in twenty years. They get up and leave in a huff even though Cousin Paula’s apple pie is the best, and Aunt Helen’s stuffing is to die for!”

Then there is the Thanksgiving where millions of people decide that they must leave the comfort and warmth of their safe homes and travel long distances to get mad at Great Paw Paw Archie and end up eating at a Denny’s after they walk out in a huff. They do not think of the consequences until they are faced with the fact that they flew to the upper peninsula of Michigan and it decided to snow the day before Thanksgiving…and they live in Texas and do not have a clue what snow chains are, or that they are in the trunk of the rental car they got at the airport.

All of this sounds as if I am, indeed, a Scrooge. I am not! I know the spirit of the holiday, and how my gratitude works. I had one of my oldest friend come to my house with a package made by his girlfriend a foot high jam packed with food, enough to last me the weekend. A single man’s delight! I went to an evening meeting where we talked about one of the main principles of the Twelve Step program I am a member…the desire to stop using drugs and alcohol.

I realized that after twenty years, I still have that desire. Well, perhaps not the desire to stop as much as stay stopped. I shared with good friends the wonder of life in recovery and they shared with me. It was much better hearing gratitude that way than in the contrived way that is forced on one when grace is said at a Thanksgiving sit down dinner and they go around the table and everyone has to come up with what they are grateful for. Gratitude is an action and not a platitude!

I am not the jolliest of souls at the holidays and never have. This has to do with situations in my life and how I handled or mishandled them. Today I look for the joy in things and am honest enough to admit when I am not joyful. I have no desire to spread hate or discontent but also do not wish to express contrived emotions simply because it is “better to see the up side of things.” I am a pragmatist and do not suffer insincerity. I love many people but not everyone I know is included in the list of folks I fancy. My God and Creator commands me to love everyone and, I also believe, that he is patient until I am fully on board with this mandate. A work in progress as they say. I will leave you now with a few thoughts:

While that work is progressing, it is my aspiration to see everyone be as happy, joyous, and free as they can possibly be.

Don’t ask me how Thanksgiving was…tell me how it was for you.

Do be as wonderful as you can be.

Please allow me to be as grouchy as I am…it is a natural state for me and I like it.

See the good in others.

See the good in you.

Eat ‘till you puke.

Turkey sandwiches must be made with rye bread, mayonnaise, a spoonful of dressing, salt and pepper, and a bit of jellied cranberry sauce on top.


Saturday, November 14, 2015

So I am writing this book…

It is about bout strangeness, oddness, and incongruity. Well, it’s more an exercise than a potential avenue to publication or fame as an author. I am reading a coaching book for writers where the challenge is to write a book 350 words at a time. Supposedly in a year there will be a book there that is raring to go into the process of publication. A much longer amount of time than I wish to spend. I needed some assistance reinvigorating the creative process and this is one I came across. It, for the most part, is a simple exercise and it gets me away from of the daily journal that I have used in the past which has not allowed me much in the way of inspiration or value.

I began a daily piece a couple of days ago, and finished it before realizing that I had something other to say on the topic.
It was about terrorism.

I wrote this before the events in Paris, and since I have felt compelled to address the topic from a different point of view. I do not follow the news when it reports about terrorist atrocities. Not out of apathy, but out of a deep commitment to disallow the terrorist from realizing one of their major goals. To capture the news cycle and consequently spread more terror in the aftermath of the act of violence.

Remember the expansive enterprise of any act of terrorism is to quite simply terrorize. Looking at the aftermath of 911, there was widespread panic on the possibility of a financial collapse. Key the target: The World Trade Center. As evidenced by the economic atrocity the 2000’s turned out to be…mission accomplished.
The symbolic advantages of radicalism and extremism is the proliferation of fear and the easiest route to that is an attack that will mesmerize the news media and reach the largest amount of the population. An additional objective is to promote the efforts of counter terrorism in the hopes that through things like suicide bombers where martyrs are created that motivate the idealists in their cause. It becomes a noble feat to be a sufferer for a cause. Sacrificial victims become heroes, and the governments suppressing them are turned into scapegoats who prey on these honorable victims. It is punditry of the vilest variety.

I felt the same way when Osama bin Laden was killed. I wanted the news media to shut up about that monster. I am against killing of any sort, but I was relieved that they shot that bastard and dumped his body overboard into the sea to be eaten by fish. Not an enlightened stance for someone of my ideals, but it was how I felt after living with the aftermath of 911. Sadly for my principles, I wish the same for these criminals. Shoot them and throw them to the fishes to be made into feces.

There is a more personal reason that I write today. While not wishing to aid in the proliferation of propaganda aimed to harm, I have to say something. I have a close friend living in Paris whose demise would be completely devastating to me. I have known this gentleman since I was a teenager and he was in grammar school. He has, and always shall be a vitally important person to me. He is the most culturally adept person I know; he is the true definition of a Renaissance man. He has maintained our friendship over the years through his own effort and in spite of my divergence into the world of active addiction to alcohol and drugs. He, and his brother are a as siblings to me, and even the thought of losing of him makes me weep.

For me, it is a grace from God that he and his lovely bride are unharmed. It is an intense hurt to think of the dead and injured, but I am confident in the fact that Paris’s recovery from this mindless violence will be that much easier due to his presence in that most beautiful of cities.


Monday, November 9, 2015

That Languishing Luau called Love

An earlier post concerned itself with the elucidation of hate as I perceive it, so how about a horse of a different color for today’s sojourn into an off-color egghead’s unrealistic reality.


My expertise at this most marvelous of feelings is a double edged sword with both sides seemingly dull. I admit to holding the feeling for quite of few individuals and sorely must admit that my propensity for love is not what I wish it to be. I am not currently “in love” with anyone, although there are quite a few who could easily fit in that category. I am gun shy where it comes to romance having been on the rejection side of the issue a few too many times. I have also been the recipient of such affection, but lacked the wherewithal to reciprocate. Oh. Woe is me.

I have had great romances in my life, and the memory of those glorious times softens my heart and makes me smile. Hindsight is a symptom of age and not all of my past deeds were atrocious. Some were quite beautiful and utterly miraculous. Yea for me?

If there is an issue with this emotion it grows out of the vileness I see in the world, and it frustrates any sense of where to find love. There are numerous examples to be found in my ongoing pursuit of recovery and in my spiritual readings. There are also numerous, I am sure, examples all around that I do not see, or allow myself to see. Having realized this in me it appears as I have much work to do in this area of sense and sensitivity. And so I shall.

For now I believe I need to wade in and tread the waters of days gone by revisiting a time and place that was, indeed, beautiful and miraculous:

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in Lindenhurst, NY who, for a summer, had my heart in her grasp and I never intended that it be released. I have written of her before, on this blog in its earlier configuration. It was also a discourse on love and the wonder/agony that is the emotion. It took place in the mid to late 1970’s in that faraway place that I remember thinking was simultaneously glory, joy, utter bliss, and extreme ecstasy. It is a location that must be where the Rapture takes you. All that is good and kind is everywhere, and your soul, no; your very being is complete. A place like no other that might only be found in a specific set of eyes.

I am not able to access her name from the rapidly deteriorating hard drive between my ears. I can, fortuitously, rescue a memory of opulence in the orbs with which she observed me in my foolishness. 

We met while we were gainfully employed as taxi drivers at a small cab stand at the Long Island Railroad station in Babylon, NY. The money was terrible and the hour’s even worse, but it sufficed to pay a weekly rent and allowed for enough to enable the noble search all young men required in their quest for female companionship and whatever mind altering, mood changing substance essential to the discovery of true love.

The particular advantage to my spirit that this particular lady offered is that there was no need to wander the pubs and beaches in the execution of the marvelous mission that is coital coupling. We got off at about 11:00 pm and the world was, literally, our oyster. Pub crawling was not necessary, and quite cumbersome to us as we crossed the threshold into the adventure of discerning if either of us might just be, THE ONE AND ONLY.

We would ride across the bridge spanning the Great South Bay parking out by the nearest beach. We would lie on the hood of her car while watching the sky and the surf. We would drink beer or wine and talk about grand ideals while listening to the FM station playing love songs. We would look deep into each other’s eyes before we embraced. We would skinny dip, but not get too close. We had promised to wait for the gift of intimacy until there was no doubt that we had, in fact, uncovered THE ONE AND ONLY.

This pausing in the exercise of release that most young people yearned for served as both a blessing, and a decided disadvantage. This was not something my Neanderthal mentality was properly adept at. I have visions of cavemen and the lack of romance required back in those glorious days prior to language or etiquette. I realize this is a racial memory, but in my misspent youth I was not the judicious and perceptive intellect you have all come to love and submit your time to. Today I can listen to “Here comes the Sun” by the Fab Four and reminisce of the women in my life I have loved. Back in the day, it was much more “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” by Meatloaf. So why agree to this absurd abstinence?
It was her eyes.

I would look in them and feel safe. I would wonder why the only thing I really wanted to do was see the shine in those sky blue near translucent orbs lit by the moonlight bouncing off the water, and hear her soft voice telling me things I had never heard before. I never found an answer to my speculation.

It seemed as if God had sent an angel to me. She would smile and tell me goodnight when she dropped me off closing the night with deep embraces. My heart would ache for the sight of her until I got to work the next day. Then, right at about 11:05, Shangri La would open and all else would evaporate in the face of the magnificent creature that God had allowed me to hang with.

The memory is still breathtaking, and it comes to me from time to time to, I believe, remind me that I am alive. There is much in life currently that is ugly, unpleasant, and foul. One thing that is not revolting is the memory of a love lost in time.

The reality of the time proved not as splendid as the memory. Summer turned into fall, and then winter. It became too cold to sit out by the beach unless we were extremely inebriated. An old boyfriend of hers moved back to town and wanted to rekindle old times. I picked up a decidedly exotic girl in my cab one night and discovered that adorable eyes existed in other woman. We drifted apart and marched on our individual ways. We never did discover the wonders of the flesh, but that was fine. Like I said…it was her eyes.

It is said that great love elicits poetry. I have no rhyme to share or no verse to bedazzle the reader. I am not terribly adept with that particular region of written medium. I have written fiction and nonfiction. I am academically adept and lettered. I am an on demand writer and can produce whatever it is that you might need. I understand the writing process for the beast that it may be and the lover it holds in its grasp. I do not know, unfortunately, the mechanics of love. I have written that there are emotions that are actions and love is one of them. The who, what, where, when, and why of the emotion is an enigma to me other than the fact that I find myself having this reaction to persons, places, possessions, encounters, and events. I do not have words of a poetic nature to share. Thank God for the Internet. I can, and have searched and discovered the perfect ending for this piece. The precise location is not readily attributable due to my lack of cyber proficiency and a level of lethargic languor. But here it is;

I love my eyes when u look into them;
I love my name when u say it;
I love my heart when u luv it;
I love my life when u are in it.
You know who you are.


Friday, November 6, 2015

Veracity – 1, Verbosity – 0

I am currently about a third of the way through a book that is designed to embolden and invigorate writers in “Just thirty days” which I purchased online to aid in my reentering of the world of being a full time scribe. Today, this thirty day dude says to “write who you are” which is uncanny because that is exactly what I was planning to do when I sat down at the keyboard. I am sitting here working on two hours sleep supported by a $5.00 “Pumpkin Spiced Late” from that bastion of Yuppiedom, Starbucks. The hour is one that is unheard of in my realm as it is what passes normally as the middle of the night for me. 9:55 AM. I heeded the Weather Channel with its tale of a soon to arrive instance of deluge, destruction, and devastation of biblical flood proportion by taking a trek to the nearest Wal-Mart to restock the shelves with necessities and some chocolate covered cherries that are now on the shelves in expectation of the approaching holidays. (Phew, that was a long damn sentence)

Since resuming my dissemination of thoughts, dreams, and words of wit I have discovered that I, rhetorically speaking, turned the machine on and broke the key off in the ignition. I have ideas and thoughts flying everywhere which I am attempting to place properly, relearning the ins and outs of writing in the age of the Cyber God, and yearning for the days when it was just a natural event that happened every day. I am surrendering to the idea of marketing my words and reaching as many people as possible. I have the audacity within me that might possibly delude me into believing that others will benefit from reading what I generate, and that there should be remuneration for such efforts.

In other words…I am happy as a pig in shit!

Vulgarity aside, I have a conviction in me that it is not something that just popped out of the air. After the death of my Sweet Deifiúr Paula I sat my ass in a recliner and stared at the computer for two and a half years. I would first remind myself that I need to write. I had friends e-mail me that same sentiment, others continually asked about my efforts at penmanship. I told them all that it wasn’t there but that it would come back. I prayed for God to give me back this “gift” which others told me I possess. I thought of story ideas and read blogs from writers I respect. I even opened files occasionally to edit the “Next Great American Novel” which is still languishing untouched.

Then I had a serious talk with God…and He answered.
I lead a simple life as a general practice. Being medically retired has left me with much time to pursue differing matters. First, there are the 200+ satellite channels on my HDTV. Social media has become a regular part of my life with all its ensuing nonsense and excrement.

Then there is God.

I am in recovery and recently celebrated 20 years in a spiritual Twelve Step program. About four years ago I found it necessary to change sponsors. Sponsors being persons in the program who act as a guide through the Steps and Spiritual life one will engage in as a member of this Fellowship. I was at a particularly low place in my life and needed a…well…something.

The sponsor I had was a wonderful man who lived about a two hour ride away. The telephone is all fine and well, but face to face is really the best paradigm for sponsorship. The gentleman I asked to act as a replacement is, on the outside, quite an unlikely choice. If you ever hear the word “cowboy” then you are speaking of my sponsor. Many aspire to that title while this wonderful man lives it in every aspect of his life. He raises, buys, sells, transports, and depends on for his livelihood the “What’s for dinner” meat. He rides horses and runs fence lines, and can swing his beautiful wife around a country dance floor like no one I have ever seen.

We are both well known in our small constituency of folks seeking recovery in the same manner as the two of us. He has 30 years and with my 20 that translates to a reasonable amount of experience, strength, and hope, to share with other recovering addicts. We both think of it as a privilege to help others and never doubt our commitment. As I said we are an unlikely pair. He is George Jones to my Frank Zappa. Yet we have a common denominator.

Our God!

He pursues his relationship with the Almighty through attendance at a church. I pursue my knowledge of the divine through reading and personal encounters. We, many time find that we are in exactly the same place regardless of the manner in which we worship our God.

If it ain’t broke don’t fix it!

We text each other bible verses and spiritual messages about recovery on a regular basis. This morning we did so, and he texted a query on why was I even awake. He knows my schedule and knows that I should have been asleep. I call him and we talked for a few minutes before my journey to the store. His bible verse this morning struck a particular note with me and responded back with a heartfelt appreciativeness. It was:

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:7

He had been at a church revival this week and got this idea out of that attendance. I received the same message to the extent that is has kept me awake. He asked the guy leading the revival about where in the bible he got his theme and was told that he (the preacher) did not know if it was in the bible. It was just the way he felt. I knew just exactly what that meant. My sponsor found it in the bible and sent it to me, but really he was in the same place that the preacher, and myself both existed.

We don’t know where the feeling came from, but we sure do like it.

The revelation that this belief is around the cosmos in many ways and fashions is not surprising. We are all meant to do something and be something. Whatever that is, wherever it comes from, the knowledge that it is there is sufficient. My friend and I believe that it ultimately comes from God with the caveat that it is our duty to perform some deed to receive it. Not like a reward, but simply because that is the way it is. To quote that wise Sage, Earl Hickey (My Name is Earl):

 “Do good things and good things happen.”


Tuesday, November 3, 2015

The Hatriotism of the Horridly Horrid

This begins a series of posts I shall be presenting on subjects that I find especially irksome, first of which being hate and the depths to which  this emotion/behavior/paradigm  has beguiled our society and planet.  To wit – let us look at the particular aspects of this most shameful of sentiments as it applies to our political mentality. I will take the middle fork in the road by utilizing some of the more questionable yet seemingly (to me) accurate reference points designed for the more discerning denizens of the modern day thinking man’s realm. Let us Speak of Hatriotism

Wikality, the Truthiness Encyclopedia believes it is;

“…a form of patriotism that is defined not by what a person loves, but instead by what the person hates.”

Urban Dictionary has it more specifically defined as;

“Proving your patriotism by hating the people the government tells you to hate.

As a maniacally zealous Liberal (Liberal, not necessarily Democrat) I will admit to the practice of this vileness in some form. I find no respite in this confession or offer no apology, explanation, reason, or rationale. I can simply report that I possess the requisite human emotion/frailty to hate. I am somewhat prejudice in the manner in which I hate, abhor, abominate, despise, detest, execrate, loathe, or otherwise dislike. I hold and otherwise find this personal bother to be abhorrent, abominable, repellent, repugnant, revolting, sickening, ghastly, sordid, nauseating, repulsive, revulsive, offensive, vile, atrocious, and dreadfully diabolical in spirit and action.

All of which, on any given day, and at any given moment can I find myself guilty of in direct contradiction of my better perceptions and convictions. This admission of that frailest of character defects is an uncomfortable position to find myself. I would like to stand on the tallest peak and bellow to the heavens, find the tallest soap box on the busiest street corner in the most giant of cities and roar out my personal mandate of love and understanding, reach the largest readership to proclaim my rage against this vilest of practices. All of which can only serve to emerge as an ill desired goal in the face of the reality that I am guilty of what I accuse others of being.

“When one person makes an accusation, check to be sure he himself is not the guilty one. Sometimes it is those whose case is weak who make the most clamor.” Piers Anthony

To what extent am I guilty? Any soul fortunate enough, or unfortunate, who has read my blogs, or followed me on social media, will tell you that I am the most moral of men, and that I champion causes that promote that wonderment of topics and feelings; love. My God commands me to love. Most of my favorite music puts words and melodies to this most fabulous of feelings. John Lennon sang of it being all we need. Todd Rundgren instructs us that it is the answer.

However, all is not flowers and fondue. My admission, confession, concession, revelation, acknowledgment, declaration, assertion, statement, and definitive declaration of guilt which haunts me is:

I hate people who hate!

As a verb, most online dictionaries define hate as a feeling and as such, it is an action. Webster maintains that it is an “intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, of a sense of injury.” It is hostility which, being an action, creates the problem. We listen to it every day, or read about it in newspapers and magazines, in online content, and in misunderstood gossip from our neighbors. It is in all of the television we watch (even Disney) it is the fuel that feeds the flames of national policy. It is what is listened to more than love, and it is the main source behind the misinterpretations of facts on events of import.

It is hate that stills allows sound bites and column inches on things such as the Presidents religious due to his name

It is the driving force behind county clerks who refuse to issue marriage licenses in defiance of their appointed duties and blame in on religious beliefs while ignoring the Commandment of their God to love all.

It is the driving force behind the rioting and violence in black neighborhoods in response to actual or perceived bigotry that results in death and destruction in their communities.

It is the driving force for the senate and congress to cut or defund food stamp benefits in the face of juvenile poverty being at a staggering 25% in the richest economy in the world.

It is the driving force in the ignoring of embezzlement and thievery perpetrated by banks and Wall Street while ruining people’s lives by driving them into poverty and homelessness when their minimum wage incomes create foreclosures and evictions.

It is in the outrage of executive salaries and bonuses where employees are forced to live on poverty level incomes requiring them to apply social services such as food stamps and are told that they are lazy, inefficient, and criminal.


It is in the commitment of religious leaders from the Christian Right to snub the words of their God and the Constitution of the United States of America by preaching animosity towards religions who do not believe as they do.

These are but a few of the examples of situations that are bereft of reason as it applies to humanity. It is but a minuscule cross section of what might be the most threatening trouble we face in America. It is horrid and the main perpetrator and proponent of this abomination is the Government of the United States. It is most definitely in an ineffective and ignorant Legislative branch, it is in the politically driven Judicial branch, and it is in the savagely besieged Executive branch. All of these entities are charged with the duty to ensure our well being.

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.” Preamble, US Constitution.

How are they doing this? Let’s take a look at their ineptitude:

“…form a more perfect Union…” How is this being accomplished when we have a political party, in control of congress, whose legislative agenda is to thwart the President at every turn?

“…establish Justice…” How is this being accomplished when the highest court in the land proclaims as constitutional blatant and rampant corporate and legislative graft?

“…insure domestic Tranquility…” How is this being accomplished when it is incapable of protecting the population from mass shootings because effective legislation might cause them to lose re-election due to a lack of payoffs from gun lobbies and a population that has universally misinterpreted the 2nd Amendment?

“…provide for the common defence…” How is this being accomplished when we almost universally send our armed forces all over the world to fight wars that are none of our business, and suffer the retribution of constant threat of terroristic retribution?

“…promote the general Welfare…” How is this being accomplished when we spend millions on politically driven conspiracy investigations while denying our children a decent education not driven by arbitrary competitions to do well on standardized tests against other countries?

“…and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity…” How is this being done…at all? What exactly are “the Blessings of Liberty?”

In what way is it ever going to change? Why has this been allowed to become real in this great country? It will change when people have enough. It will change when people other than those who hate get out and vote. It will change when it becomes important enough.

You might say this is bold talk from someone who aids in the propagation of hate. My personal enmity must certainly change and I must find a way to swallow my basest of desires for things such as reprisal, retribution, retaliation, and simple vengeance. I must cease the proliferation of poisonous thoughts, feelings, and actions of a negative, or hate inspiring demeanor. Why not just do as Jesus, My God, told me to:

“But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you.” Luke 6:27

This might certainly prove a towering mandate to undertake for a thick headed Irish mutt such as myself. How about some help? What do you say? Who’s the first rotten son of a bitch who’ll go get a cup of coffee with me? It’s on me. Starbucks anyone?


Sunday, November 1, 2015

Me 2.2 or three or four or whatever…

“I do not think that I know what I do not know.” Socrates

I discovered a sad and amazing thing recently. I have a passion in my very being which had turned lukewarm and needed to be either downgrade to a simple interest, or have a fire set under its ass to bring it up to temp. Sort of like an old bicycle that you had a wreck on, tossed into the garage, and neglected for a long time until life showed up requiring action. Say your car engine blew up, or it got repossessed and you found yourself in need of transportation. Perhaps you stepped on a scale and realized, “Oh shit!” I need to get some exercise. Perhaps life without passion just plain sucked.
I am a writer, and I have not been writing for a while. Well, not in the way I crave. Many of you have read my stuff and, hopefully enjoyed it. Others reading this will not know who I am and, again, hopefully you also will enjoy what you read.

This is a revamped version of a blog that I have had for a number of years when I started back to writing recently. I am having some trouble chiseling off the petrified cobwebs in my brain to get at some knowledge about internet/computer skills. I have found a rather large brick wall in the way of posting. In this skirmish with the inanimate object on my desk which speaks in 1’s and 0’s I have discovered a different approach is crucial in this grand battle.

Like the old, beat up bicycle in desperate need of repair, so to must I repair my skill and approach to my passion. Just as the bike will need new spokes for the wheels, oil for the chain, a new seat, and air in the tires, so to do I need to fix some things and put a new coat of paint on the who, what, where, when, and why of my writing.

A new look, a new name, and perhaps a new method of corresponding that which life has taught me is the answer I have come up with. Some things might change, and some things might stay the same. I cannot tell because I have not written is yet. All I can say is that the cold has already begun to be more bearable, and the brain is not as bored as it was.

I will share what my passion is made up of. Words. I have for the last sixty years been in love with words and have always been enthralled with the way, shape, and form in which they are put together and how they form coherent and incoherent thoughts. Incoherent, you ask? Of course this must be there. The best part of words, for me, is figuring out what order they go in and when I read or write something incoherent it is just a little more flame to stoke the fire.

I confess to having some affectation in my writing. I have been accused of verbosity, and “Hifalutin foolishness, or “Too many big words.” I think this is something all writers have in common to one extent or another. We write because it is in us to do so. It is also in us to hope that what we write impresses. I stopped asking people about what they think of something I wrote because I have never found any solace or affirmation that I find useful. I have let people read pieces I penned and they began by grading the piece as to grammar and structure as if it were a classroom assignment. Well, I am a retired school teacher and not in need of that kind of instruction.

I have an affinity for alliteration which Wikipedia reports, “is a stylistic literary device identified by the repeated sound of the first consonant in a series of multiple words, or the repetition of the same sounds or of the same kinds of sounds at the beginning of words or in stressed syllables.” I know not where I got this writing whim, but I like it and use it regularly and repeatedly.

So, what you will find, if you stay and read further is a location which is made up of essays, compositions, articles, dissertations, theses, or treatises on my personal life, thoughts, opinions, feelings, judgments, beliefs, points of view, considerations, contemplations, reflections, notions, inspirations, philosophies,  and all sorts of other bullshit that occurs to me.

My final thought on this portentous preface is to welcome or welcome back those who wish to read my words. I will be searching for publishing opportunities which have the word “paid” associated in the description. I have been published in both the fiction and non-fiction world with a particular propensity toward the made-up story section within the world of words.

I have left the previous blog posts on the site for those who might be interested, and I hope you who enter my world find it pleasing, and if you don’t, I am sure there are other places you can find that uses smaller words.


Monday, October 19, 2015

In Defense of…nothing

I happened upon an article posted on Facebook by a long and dear friend of mine written for Harper’s Magazine by a woman named Rebecca Solnit which gave me pause to ponder. It was a harangue on the state of a perceived perception by some modern in society, either proper or improper on what is expected of women in the world today. It was a cogent indictment on the fact that some folks in the world today should, quite simply, shut the fuck up.

It was also an equally cogent indictment to those of us who should, in fact and practice, open our mouths and keep them open.

Egotistically placing myself in the latter of these categories is the purpose of this piece. I have, for a number of years, identified myself as a writer. Rather erroneously. I have written, scribed, composed, scripted, authored, recorded, put in writing, jotted down, transcribed, or otherwise put pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keys) many words and even received remuneration for such on occasion. I am what some rather ceremoniously call a “Published Author.” Whoop-de-do.

In truth I have not written anything of substance for over two and a half years where I sat at a table at a Men’s retreat in Pennsylvania and wrote my sister Paula’s obituary. It was, simply, the last time I truly opened my heart and let the world know what or who I am.

I can barely stand to look at my face in the mirror.

My Sweet Deifiúr Paula was and, if my belief in God and things is correct, is my biggest fan and staunchest proponent. I have held within me the erroneous belief that she was my muse. While she was inspiration for some of the things I wrote, she came to love my writing many years after I began to stalk the highways and byways of writing while still in elementary school. In my early writing attempts and in the reading I was doing was a wonderful world where I discovered, as a child should, that place where heroes were heroes and damsels were always in desperate need of liberation from some form of distress. A place where murder mysteries required solving and Stephen King books scared the shit out of me. Where the heavens existed for the marvel of exploration and all Irish stories were tragic, romantic, and humorous at the same time.

This is not the first attempt I have made at the metaphorical “getting back on the horse.” I have haltingly tried several times and each of them has begun with halfhearted attempts at redeeming myself as the long lost grieving brother and how difficult it is to create when your muse has died. That is just so much bovine excrement! Paula would not think I should feel sorry for myself, she would probably tell me that I should write a book about our mother. Well, the Rolling Stones were right. You can’t always get what you want. Whatever comes out after this is what is supposed to and the world, including my beloved sister will have to live with it. If luck holds, someone will send me some money to either write or shut up, with the former being the operative objective.

So, let’s get back to the article in Harpers. There are many observations one can make about what is or what is not proper for any person to pursue in life. The article speaks of whether the author thought she should have had children. This was a question submitted to her from and audience that was clearly there to listen to her expound upon writing. This question, outrageously misplaced, was the reason I got up and walked the exhausting distance from my easy chair to my keyboard (about seven and a half feet, well, eight and a half if you count getting and transforming my desk chair into an actual chair from being a door stop).

I am, joyously, fanatical about a few things in life. First, the New York Yankees which is not subject to discussion win or lose. Second, my life in recovery from drugs and alcohol, also not subject to discussion unless you are or want to be in recovery. Then there is how I feel about everything in life. This sounds moronic or simplistic but those who would think that are quite simply obtuse and not worthy of consideration.

I am the most liberal person I know and, even though it does not seem that way from time to time, the most polite person I know. By that I mean that I fervently believe that someone’s opinions are to be held inviolate as long as those opinions do not cause harm in any form. Unfortunately, many opinions turn into action and lead to atrocity. Once it gets to that level, then I am particularly impolite.
I believe the taking of a human life outside the normal life cycle is an abomination and should forever be opposed…including capital punishment.

I believe who and how you love is nobody’s business but the person you love and only then if it is accepted and not abusive.

I believe that God should stay out of politics. I also believe that He is of the same opinion but that the whole Free Choice thing kind of has His hands tied.

I believe that two thirds of the world is at war either on a physical or a cerebral level and that they all believe in the same God, who tells us to treat each other with love and respect and is constantly ignored.

I believe that children should never have to go hungry and should be educated well…not tested based on a specious set of standards that were not written by educators.

I believe Science and Math teach us the truth and Art and Music teaches us an equal level of truth…the truth of our hearts.

I believe all who commit crimes should be punished…and shown the path to redemption for their transgressions.

I believe that government should govern and people should live free. One should not infringe of the other…either way.

I believe that the right to bear arms is a reasonable right…if it is regulated reasonably.
In conclusion, well, for now. I believe what Jesus told us to do;

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind”

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

“But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who despitefully use you and persecute you, so that you yourselves may be the children of your Father Who is in heaven”

“…that you love one another in the same way that I have loved you, that is how you are to love one another.”

These, not necessarily in order, all come from the Books of Matthew and John. If you want to know the verse citation than I suggest you get a copy of the Books of Matthew and John. I’m a writer here on a free blog, not a paid pundit. Unless, there is someone out there who wishes to pay me. In that case I am one citation writing fool.

This has been both an equally most painful and joyous exercise. I really need to do it more because, as is evident, I still know how to type and I still have something to say. I am posting this on my blog, if I can remember the password, and will continue to do so…I hope.

If you got anything out of it, cool. If you did not, come back and give it another try next time. If you are reading this then you have found me. I have other locales on the World Wide Web which can be found at: