I hate to seem preachy or lectury, but I am actually right about many things. I have decent grammer, I know how to be good to my wife, and I can fly without crashing. I’ve never driven drunk even once. It’s true that my attitude could be adjusted about a few things, and I hope I can keep my eyes open and keep perceptions evolving.
One thing I have been right about for 30 years is a plant-based diet.
How We See the World...
In my office recently, I was approached by a close friend who asked, “Are you okay?” I thought she was asking about my wife having a stomach bug, but she couldn’t have known about it. In fact, she was concerned for my weight loss over the past few years. Her concern was a very kind gesture, but also a commentary on a society that perceives weight loss as so uncommon it is only seen as an indication of illness.
How much weight did I lose and how did I do it?
I was never overweight, but I can see myself looking decidedly heavier in photos from 2012, when I weighed about 188 pounds. I presently tip the scales at 165, almost exactly the same weight as our Irish Wolfhound Hawken. I am 73 inches tall, so 165 is a great weight for me.
1. I walk the Wolfhound every day. 2. I turn down sugar when offered and don’t bring it home. 3. I stop eating when I’m full.
I know too many people who see weight control as a goal, whereas I see it as a lifelong process.
What is a plant-based diet? Foods we eat are grown in the ground.
What isn’t a plant-based diet?
Adding single servings of foods to an unhealthy diet like a dose of medicine. Lettuce and tomatoes on a Whopper doesn’t un-junk a Whopper.
Adding vitamins or supplements to diet like magic potions.
Following trends that don’t have much research or make much sense, like adopting a gluten-free diet. Gluten-free has been a thing for years now, but look around; are we all thin and healthy?
Blaming the wrong foods for your health problems; the main one is carbohydrates, which get almost all the blame in recent years, which they don’t reserve. The truth is that the culprit is a deadly combination of simple carbohydrates like refined sugar, eating too much in general, and not moving much. Low carb diets and their ilk are how we got here, not how we’ll get out.
Gluten-free and low-carb are sales tools, not real components of a healthy diet. Why do I think this? I recently bought some beans that were proudly labeled “Gluten Free!” No beans contain gluten. Gluten is a protein found it wheat. What a brilliant scam.
The only diet you should ever try is one you can eat for the rest of your life. Anything else is a recipe for failure, pun intended.
Too often, in fact most of the time, the main excuse for not adopting a plant-based diet is, “I don’t care, I like (insert unhealthy food).” It’s the argument of a four-year-old. I’ve said this before one way or another, but I’ll say it again: meat, dairy and eggs are only moral choices when they are necessary. “But Richard, I need meat for (insert empty argument about protein or other nutrient.)” This is too easy: look around. Look at the meat eaters. Look at the doughnut eaters. Then look at me and my friends who have committed themselves to a long-term plant-based diet. Who looks healthy?
I walked Hawken the Irish Wolfhound last night as I always do. As we went down the driveway toward Main Street (yes, we live on Main Street in small town), I saw another large dog on the road. Abby and I are always mindful of other dogs, particularly large dogs who approach our Chihuahuas. I quickly reeled in Hawken’s leash and told him to heel, which he did.
What happened next was mostly obscured behind the trees that line the road by our neighbor’s, the Nipps, house, but I was an earwitness to it. I heard the chatter of anti-lock brakes, skidding, and a thump, though not a loud thump. This was immediately followed by the terrified screaming and crying of a child.
Hawken and I walked on around to the Nipps’ driveway to see a white SUV pull into the driveway across the street. A woman got out and knocked on the door. A shirtless man and a child responded, and the woman seemed to comfort the child.
I didn’t see the dog anywhere.
I didn’t know why it was so unsettling until I walked a little farther with Hawken and made the mistake of imagining him getting hit by a car. At that moment, I told him to sit, then petted and praised him as much as I could.
My sister is fond of saying that anything our dogs to wrong – bite, growl, pee on the rug – is our fault. She’s right. It’s important to care for our pets, and keeping them in the yard and on a leash is at the top of that list.
…tell him to pray that I won’t melt away And I’ll see your face again Odessa, how strong am I? Odessa, how time goes by…” ~Odessa, The Bee Gees
Picture me at my desk in our house on 52nd Street, in Lawton, Oklahoma. I’m wearing my bulletproof Plain Pockets jeans, an untucked plaid shirt, and Earth Shoes. My desk is arranged so carefully that Otto Rank* himself would have bought me dinner just for the chance to analyze it.
In my eight track player is Odessa, and the song playing is Odessa: City on the Black Sea.
I write in my journal, a college-rule Mead spiral notebook, as an assignment for English II class in tenth grade. I write slowly, with a script similar to the popular balloon fonts of the 1970s.
The first thing I write is, “Tuesday, September 5, 1978.”
What I write is even less palatable than how I write: derivative, sometimes even plagiarized, drivel that comes across as pretentious self-pity. The only recourse for the words on my page is that as I write them, I have just turned 15, and for someone that age, it is relatively sophisticated. In some ways, it is almost embryonic.
As the year wore on, things got darker. By January, it was The Winter of Odessa. I talked some about it in a previous entry (link).
Many of my best friends today haven’t been around for 40 years. But my journal, in one form or another, has.
Most of the people I considered writers back in high school were dilettantes and dabblers, and only wrote to fulfill an assignment. Only a couple of them, Michael, for instance, curate actual words to this day.
There were times in my life when I felt certain I would never turn 40, let alone a sub-set of me, my journal.
20 years ago, I switched to smaller, hardbound notebooks. It resulted in writing less, but being more to the point.
As this web site became more and more my focus for expression, I wrote less on paper, and have been stuck in the same notebook for some years, though I write something in it often. Lately I’ve been putting my Open Mic Nyte notes in it, and a few things I don’t want to share with anyone.
So, after 40 years, the journal is alive and well.
*I mention Rank instead of Freud because he slept with Anaîs Nin, one of the most prolific journal-keepers in the 20th century, and something of a role model of mine.
With school back in session everywhere, my job, as usual, has gone from the pokey days of summer to the crazy “be everywhere” days of autumn.
One consequence of this is that working in the yard and the garden is less consistent. Some days I work until dark, but some days, like yesterday, my last assignment was at 3 pm, so I was able to mow, garden, burn the brush pile that was the mimosa that blew down in a storm, and my favorite thing, pull the razor-sharp Oklahoma grass burrs out of Hawken’s eyebrows.
Hawken is as curious as any dog (initially mistyped as “god”), has a lush coat, and is huge, so when he pokes his head into corners of the yard where the grass burrs grow, often far faster than I can weed-whack them, he sometimes collects them on his forehead, beard, and eyebrows. He is amazingly patient when I pull them out, which is not easy because they are deeply embedded, and razor sharp. I think it’s more painful for me than him.
Easily the funniest thing I’ve mowed this year is a can of blue spray paint I ran over last night on the riding mower. I kept it on the gun bench for painting targets, but when I moved the bench to mow the grass on that spot, I guess I knocked it off into the grass. When I hit it, there was giant “poof,” and a great splatter of blue, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of spray paint.
“I don’t want my daughter living next door to niggers.” ~Racist guy I knew in the 1990s
We hear it all the time: if you don’t support this cause or that cause, if you don’t admit to this violation or that, if you don’t confess to the correct line of thinking, that you are evil, you are the enemy. It is the Social Justice Warrior (SJW) mantra.
In this context, in recent years, I am increasingly being told that I am a racist, a sexist, and sexual harasser.
Am I these things? First and very much foremost, you and your group, no matter who you are, don’t get to define me.
#blacklivesmatter. For some reason, lots of non-blacks are threatened by this hashtag, but I certainly am not. I take it at its face value, as an assertion of value to a group of people who identify as black. But…
You are not black. I am not white. Those are long-embedded stereotypes that are scientifically and culturally vacant. In the literal sense, we are all shades of melanin, the pigment that colors our skin. Even the whitest parts of me are not white, and all I have to do is hold a piece of paper up next to me to prove it. The darkest parts of my darkest friends are not black, and all I have to do it put my arm brace (which is true black) on them to prove it.
“African-American” is the latest racist fallback label used to describe a group of people once called negroes. Its use is deeply flawed. It describes my friend Abe Ekal about as well as “Welsh-American” describes me, meaning not at all. In an enlightened culture, he’s just Abe and I’m just Richard.
The “you’re a racist” crowd loves to gloss over facts the same way the creationists do. They cling to examples from dramatic instance, mostly television headlines and social media memes, and froth at the mouth for justice, no matter how unjust it is.
Let’s analyze one of the videos in question, “Another person lying about the police on the internet.” A police officer is polite and professional, and doing his duty, while the person who got the traffic citation makes a video claiming racism. Watch the video, and tell me the timestamp where the cop was racist. That’s it. Easy, right?
The media, of which I am a member, can play into this view. A news story by Joe Robertson of The Kansas City Star recently claimed, “Ciara Howard’s last act of defiance was slamming closed the door (in the police officer’s faces).” I watched the video. Her actual last act of defiance was to point a loaded .45 at the police repeatedly. Way to go, Robertson. (The article now seems to have been redacted.)
Many of my most adherent #blacklivesmatter friends are so far to the end of the line they simply hate me for just being white. Is that right? I’d love to know how.
Those same people are mostly white, well-off, and inclined to be socially self-righteous. They make a point to redefine “racist” every time someone is able to successfully defend themselves against their accusations, so that eventually everyone they hope to accuse fits their definition.
I was astonished and mystified by the “#metoo” movement, not because of its premise (that sexual harassment and sexual abuse happens), but because lives were ruined and reputations trashed without due process. It’s a form of lynching that is beyond the pale of civilized behavior. And it only took one generation to forget why it was wrong.
I witnessed mountains of this shit in the early 1990s, in what could only be called mass hysteria. If you didn’t accept their assertion that ritual sexual sexual abuse was widespread and absolutely unchallengeable, you were worse than the alleged abusers themselves. It was a tall tower of obscene lies, and millions of people bought into it. Thousands of lives were ruined.
What’s the point in pretending to live in a world of open discourse, recourse to the law, and open-mindedness? I’m sick to death of the SJW scene. If a large enough and self-righteous enough group decides you are something, you are that thing, whether you are or not. Sometimes it seems like the only way they will accept that you are not a racist is to admit you are a racist.
If you think this entry is an advocacy of racism, you aren’t paying attention, and if you think I am a racist, you have been brainwashed.
The comment at the start of this entry was really uttered by someone who is truly, demonstrable, and self-admittedly, a racist. When you call me a racist, you are equating me with him.
From Woody Allen’s brilliant 1977 Picture of the Year Annie Hall…
Allison: No, that was wonderful. I love being reduced to a cultural stereotype. Alvy: Right, I’m a bigot, I know, but for the left.
An unassailable life truth is that we are all very much married to our world views, and those marriages are hard to break up. Even in the face of facts, or just potential facts, that contradict the intellectual world we build, we hesitate, or stop entirely.
I witnessed this recently when I tweeted links to two videos about police-involved shootings.
I hoped my friends, especially my liberal friends, would watch the whole video and render an opinion or two to shed some light on this issue. Sadly, it was not to be.
One friend said, “Are you saying, ‘Police don’t shoot people for being black’?” She added that she didn’t “have time” to watch the videos. In fact, I had only posted a link, and said nothing about the nature of police shootings.
Another told me he’d watched about a minute of the video and stopped. “I’ve seen enough,” he said. He also accused me of using a rhetorical tactic called JAQing Off. I was not.
This is the kind of dismissal is what I’ve come to expect from pulpit, not from my supposedly enlightened, open minded friends.
My opinion of these videos is contextual: they are made by a vlogger calling himself Donut Operator, and his perspective is very practical and very law-enforcement oriented. I certainly don’t agree with everything he says, but I can begin to form an opinion based on the growing number of videos he published. If you refuse to watch any of them, your opinion of him = 0.
Along those same lines, I have a friend, whose opinions I value, who once declined to listen to a song I recommended because the lyrics stated a different religious point of view than his own. The song didn’t tell him to leave his religion or even that his religion was wrong, but simply stated another set of beliefs. But this friend of mine shoved his fingers in his ears, almost literally.
The deepest, darkest, most frustrating aspect of these disconcerting dialog is that it means that we all live in fear, in darkness, in slavery. Is there anyone out there who actually watches debates with an open mind, listens to podcasts with an open mind, reads news article to the end with an open mind? Or are all our minds made up?
It has been graciously cooler this summer than in global warming warmed previous summers. We had two short heat waves, which disrupted the tomatoes in my garden, but not the bell peppers, which apparently love the heat.
It’s been hazy the last week, possibly because of wildfires out west. My friend Dan, however, reported that in his home in nearby southern Arkansas, it is very clear and very hot.
I’ve been sharp, though. I am shooting and writing well. Abby is good. All three dogs are happy. I wrote this just to tag in.
Abby and I started our day dramatically when, just as I was about to step out the door, the dogs went nuts, including Hawken in the back yard. Abby looked out the front window to see a Pontotoc County Sheriff’s deputy’s vehicle in the driveway. She got to her .38 Special, and I grabbed one of my Rugers, because when the police are present, they’re usually chasing TUDs (a term I learned in the 1980s when I was working at The Shawnee News-Star; TUD = Totally UnDesirable), and we have no desire to be at the mercy of a TUD.
I stepped outside to see the vehicle was empty, but soon a deputy, out of breath, approached from the north pasture. “Hey,” he said, catching his breath.
“Do you have a suspect?” I asked. He told me it was a kid from juvie who was supposed to be in school, but had run off. Those who know Abby and me know know that we had some experience in that realm years ago.
To close the distance to his subject, the deputy drove a short distance across the “golf course,” a patch of green the size of a softball field that I keep mowed, leaving tire tracks. He apologized and even offered to fix it, but my message to him was that you never need to apologize for doing things in service of protecting our lives and property.
For the middle part of my day, I faced one of the hottest, most humid, least windy football media day gatherings. It’s not hard work either physically or intellectually, but my body seemed to understand immediately that the weather combination was rather suffocatios. In the 15 minutes it took to complete, I sweated more than in the last 10 days combined.
Later, at home, while walking Hawken the Irish Wolfhound, I noticed that the oldest mimosa in the back yard had partially broken in half, a result of the thunderstorms that rolled through this week, drenching everything. I grabbed the eclectic chain saw and cut it to pieces and threw them over the fence so I could later drag them to the brush pile to burn. The air was still and thick with humidity, and although it was sunset, I can’t remember an activity that made me sweat so much.
We live in a symbiont circle in our neighborhood. When I was mowing Saturday in anticipation of the forecast heavy rain, neighbor Stevie appeared with two water bottles, and waved one at me, which I gratefully accepted. We talked for a bit and he discussed power washing his house, though he didn’t have a power washer. I offered ours, and he gratefully accepted. Just a couple of hours later, I looked out the window to see other neighbor Mike brush-hogging our pasture. I was grateful.
With the weekend, my vacation included five days, Wednesday through Sunday.
The garden suffered through a couple of heat waves, but remains alive. Gardeners know that plants like tomatoes and cucumbers can’t set blossoms when the high is above 93ºF or so, so at the moment there’s not a lot of fruits on the vines.
We had plumbers come out and unclog our system. The kitchen sink, dishwasher, and the water softener were upstream of the clog, so when the softener ran or I did enough dishes, it backed up. Luckily enough, it drained through the “terrible room” into the garage, then into the yard with no damage.
The plumbers unclogged our clog, and in the process had to replace our cleanout valve, which was rusted shut.
While plumbing was in the air, I repaired Abby’s commode. 1000 husband points. It wasn’t difficult.
Once things had stabilized, I relaxed. Abby and I started to think about what to do with my time off. I opened my mouth to say something, then immediately heard Abby say, “Star Wars marathon?” My wife’s aways been uncanny that way, snatching thoughts from me before I get the chance to iterate them. Good marriages are like that.
In watching the various ups and downs of the Star Wars franchise, I ended up thinking that Rogue One is the best of the bunch.
I cooked out on our propane grill, which was fun and satisfying. It was this year’s first for the appliance, so I had to fill our propane tanks, then scrub the garage off it. She shined up nicely.
Among other things, I detailed my car, which involved Armor-All-ing all the plastic surfaces, leather-Armour-Alling all the leather, cleaning the rocker panels, and finally scrubbing the car’s outer surface, including the semi-permanent bug stains on the front. My car looks better than the day I bought it. I am thinking that tonight I will wax it (do people still wax cars?), and Rain-X the windows.
Author’s note: this entry has been heavily redacted to protect identities.
Most of us understand basic reality. We know that grass grows slowly, that dogs are pets, that the sky is blue because of Rayleigh scattering. Well, many people actually don’t know that.
But there are people in the world whose reality is broken.
In the 1980s, a friend of mine was hospitalized after a significant break. When he returned and we talked again, he told me that when he was at the bottom, he genuinely believed that he was the only person left in the world who was sane.
In January 2016, I noticed that “Cynthia” (a pseudonym), who had lent me a cabin in 2008 near a national park, changed her Facebook name and and started posting to a WordPress site.
I messaged a mutual friend about her, and here’s what he had to say…
“She has disassociative disorder, and claims that she has several thousand identities. I know that she created a website and claims to have rewritten various Einstein theories or some such? When I came home one evening after work when she was staying here at my home I couldn’t find her. After about an hour I heard noises coming from my walk-in closet and I found her buried in all of my camping and climbing gear in the corner of my closet. Her son told me that her husband was acting strange so I really didn’t want to call him. Very awkward situation, and I only hope that her son is getting help for her?”
Cynthia’s web site (blue text)…
we call it WON, 1 and ONE
ONE, 1 and WON
We name this all-encompassing theorem as GuT, BUT CHANGE THE MEANING TO BE GOOD UNIFIED THOUGHT, AND IT MEANS THAT IF THE WORLD WILL RID ITSELF OF RELIGION, FEAR OF ABORTION FOR ABNORMALITY AND ALLOW THEMSELVES TO BE TESTED, ALL DISEASE KNOWN TO MANKIND CAN BE ELIMINATED WITH THIS REDEFINED FORMULA NOW KNOW TO MANKIND AS SAVANT. Within the framework of this formula is all physics, all repairable disease, the origin of mankind, the effect of genetic disease and discontinuation and the monopoly of satisfaction that mankind will no longer abuse, hurt or otherwise injure children, which I raise the age of to 30, because prior to that time all brains are susceptible to influence of bad, harmful and dangerous programs that they would not otherwise enjoy. Therefore, pornography and other like, same & disgusting things are to be refrained from until the age of 30, upon the threat of imprisonment by both the participant and the employer. While this latter part might be a fools dream, it would rid our world of everything that does harm to humanity. Think hard about it all. Cynthia, as copywritten on January 1, 2016. The acronym will remain as GuT to mean Gentle unification Toward a free mankind.
Refined again; Psi bfr = frac – Hbar2 2mu naBla2 + V bf r Psi Bf and if Psi bf2 = fractal reference – ba2 muC02 naB2 + V bf Psi Bf as V with sublime reference of time, space and continuum and the universe is without edge and equal 1.
We begin by presenting anatomical time with all the errors erased.
We were taught to think, listen and obey by our biological father and grandfather and they taught us to win. We present the reality of all mental and brain disease and childhood damage and beyond that is the theory of all living things, the earth, complex disease, mathematics, physics, control of life and universe and all as a unity of self, of time, of release and pure animalistic tow, as there is not god, nor master or slave, but only man, mammal, creature of all below.
Facebook message from Cynthia (red text)…
How are you, my friend?
i am alone and scared. Do you remember Candy for the Brain Evolving Thought? Darwinsdog@yahoo.com Thinkers Tavern?
TUE 2:47PM Remember monsempron who joined shortly after the group was made on October 6, 2001 and he joined Oct 24, 2001 and never left and debates with Darwinsdog and Professor Smartypants and Snark here? You came later than those 3, and equation doc would post with them often too and of course me, as I owned the group, and the other two are now for Zion and Grand Canyon as I kept the membership and changed it to promote my business after Joe left, as there was no more interest for me.
wut wuz dat emai gain? Have you met me in person before or know who I really am? What is your name? I am not Cynthia. At least not the Bogley and ZNP Cynthia. As far as I know she died last year. Are you “Joe” If so I need you! And I am the one you are really looking for and not her. Richard Barron is from Candy in the Brain and never was on Bogley and that Cynthia never met him. Talk to me please. I need help. I need YOU! A storm is brewing. Are you close to me? Help me! I am YOUR Cynthia! Come get me!
I am looking for Darwinsdog. Do you know him?
Tell me about you please. Cynthia who woke up and is being hunted to be murdered by X and so hides in Cedar City, Utah. Help me!
Where are my friends! Rescue me! I am hiding in Cedar City Utah from those who hunt me to murder me! Please come get me! I spend my idle time making this website. For the man who needs the NY $ from me in cash, know I have it and will starve to death before I spend it, and for the man who just needs a simple cash dollar I save that too. Come get me! This id is also just me. https://www.facebook.com/black.is.blu
More from Cynthia‘s web page…
Reference us as we offer little in any of our work that is not new and use SAVANT or Cynthia as all authors here other than stated are blood sisters that share the same birth name of Cynthia only.
GENETIC BRAIN DISEASE (GBD) One anthropological genetic line permeates the human race and it alone is responsible for all genetic disease, including the large category of genetic brain disease (GBD) that makes up almost most of the DSM. Unless this line is eliminated with full-birth control to stop cross breeding immediately, the entire human race will cease to exist prior to 2080.
GBD is the following: psychopath, sociopath, Intellectual Disability, Communication Disorder, Autism Spectrum, Learning Disorder (except learned behavior), Motor Disorder, Neurodevelopmental Disorder, Schizophrenia Spectrum, Bipolar Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Feeding and Eating Disorder (except learned behavior), Elimination Disorder, Sleep-Wake Disorder, Gender Dysphoria, Bisexuality (except learned behavior), Gayness (except learned behavior), Neurocognitive Disorder, Paraphilic Disorder and repetitive substance abusers, plus all addiction to chemical, drug and insane behavior. GBD is often enhanced by abuse, as that is inherent to this genetic line of humanity.
The popularized terms sociopath and psychopath lack definition in the DSM and so are defined here.
Sociopath is GBD of autism and narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) in either male or transvestite subjects, and on rare occasion in a true female who has an abundant variety of male testosterone and combined neural activity. These subjects are devious, calculating and control, abuse and otherwise hurt those around them, but rarely kill. If the male or transvestite subject is raised by their genetic father then their abuse follows a specific pattern and if it is throughout the pre-pubescent years of eight to twelve, then the subjects maturing brain will not be able to finalize attachment and will follow behavior patterns of all other like-sociopaths. They choose a female (which one does not follow a pattern) and then kill anyone they feel is attacking that female.
Psychopath is GBD of autism plus borderline personality disorder (BPD) in both male and females. These subjects are unable to realize emotions (not feelings) and due to this are able to control, manipulate and then kill their victims. Who they kill is dependent upon their upbringing. There are three directions the psychopaths brain takes. 1) Those abused by an adult male during the pre-pubescent years of eight to twelve always kill their abusing parent as their first kill. 2) Those abused by an adult outside of the home will kill that abuser or someone that represents them if they are not available and in this case, the psychopath keeps killing a representative over and over again as they cannot otherwise end their own suffering. 3) Those not abused (which is rare as their genetic parents do abuse) use their lack of emotion to manipulate others, but never seem to kill.
2. BRAIN DAMAGE; not disease, not genetic, not dissociative and cause is early childhood abuse causing enough brain damage to result in DDos, DID or A & E.BRAIN DAMAGE originally described as multiple personality disorder (MPD) and as mental illness is now just BRAIN DAMAGE and called and aCEP and eCEP (A & E) and is medical and not mental illness at all, and the same is true for dissociative identity disorder(DID) and dissociative disorder, other specified (DDos), but females with DDos can benefit from therapy as their “personality” is affected by their level of BRAIN DAMAGE.None are genetic or can appear in those with genetic brain disease (GBD). GBD is all in the DSM-5 other than DID, DDos,posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and learned behavior confused with GBD. A & E, DID and DDos are not genetic, mental illness or anything other than severe BRAIN DAMAGE caused by insane child abuse in infancy and throughout childhood.DDos is common and probably exceeds 18% of the U.S. population as evidenced by scans, imaging, therapeutic references, internet chat and more, while DID is only in females of advanced intellect (IQ beyond 185), and A & E is unique to one isolated familial line of female savants, which is not to be confused with prodigy which is advanced thinking in just one area, as savants when the term is used correctly, are advanced in every way intellectually. No human with yellow hair, and or blue eyes can form A & E, DID or DDos as it is not inherent to their genetics. Anyone can have PTSD as it is not BRAIN DAMAGE or GBD, but instead is a reordering of cranial nerve response (CNR)A & E is what Cornelia Burwell Wilbur described in Shirley Mason only, and referred to as multiple personality disorder (MPD).[Note: anencephaly is GBD only and cannot form in individuals with A & E, DID or DDos.]A & E is mortal pain always due to collapsed brain features pressing on bone, and is physically evident in childhood as an alternation of swollen and collapsed head, with body size changing in reference; with deafness, mutism and blindness the result. All but savants die in infancy, and no male can survive puberty. Death is called sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS), not to be confused with accidental suffocation.DID is BRAIN DAMAGE resting between A & E and DDos, as evidenced on fmri, PET scans, and other forms of magnetic imaging. Only females survive childhood, as puberty is too abusive to the male brain resulting in stroke, heart attack and vegetative states.DDos is less severe BRAIN DAMAGE than previously described, leaving males kind, caring and protective, and are never gay, transvestites or feminine in any way. Their BRAIN DAMAGE is slight and they can and often to overcome their childhood indoctrination of bad parenting.Females with DDos are almost opposite of their male counterparts because their BRAIN DAMAGE is far more severe due to innate infantile influx of male hormones into the female brain. Adrenaline is secured by CNR that is reorganized in the female brain and confused, leaving them with unfixable personality dysfunction that portray borderline disease of males.Females with DDos are controlling, mean, rude, adhesive, crass, and not good mates.[Note: Borderline is a Personality Disorder and GBD and cannot form in those with A & E, DID or DDos.]
3. Cranial Nerve Reordering; not disease and not genetic and cause is unresolved childhood fear and can be caused by child abuse
Posttraumatic stress disorder, which is caused by extreme fear during the phase of childhood referred to as the developmental age as that is the only time the brain would be able to respond by mixing up the cranial nerve responses. This age in males is eight to ten, and in females is six to eleven. The problem goes unrecognized until an adult is in a stressful situation and their nervous system misfires, and at that point symptoms begin. Medication makes PTSD worse, and therapy should be directed only at reestablishing correct cranial nerve response and not be confused with talk therapy.
Note: A & E, PTSD and Dissociative Disorders encompass all that would be considered child abuse by today’s social services.
Are your my referee? If so, then send HUSBAND to me in person in Cedar City, Utah please as I need him and together we fix the entire world forever. See me here at http://SAVANT.Live Okay?
Elizabeth Katherine Black VIII who is also one of the many Cynthia and I are awake, and I took her place as she would have died already because she was not awake enough to survive being murdered by X, but I should have been, and still he almost killed too.
This affidavit is only a small section of the story as my BRAIN is too terrified as of yet, to tell the rest. I am trying to calm, but cannot with a GOOD MAN on my arm! I stress being in Cedar City as Summer might see me and begin to worry more, and if anyone that knows the kids and tells them they see me then all stress will come full bored and so I say little and only to J as he is a full grown man and great father to 3 of his OWN boys and as such they will spread their genes and raised SAVANT females and J has yet to have a girl. T was born before he met his only wife.
The murder of Cynthia by X Written July 6, 2016
I leave these notes to save all of mankind, in the event, I am murdered by X, who hunts me to finish his started murder of me. http://SAVANT.Live
X, during the night of what I believe was February 8, 2016, injected my body with the poisonous venom of a southwestern rattlesnake. He was also putting toilet bowl cleaner in my coffee cup, which I knew because I grabbed IT when I ran from the house and it sat in the heat of the 2005 Honda Odyssey minivan I drive with license plate X that X transferred from my old red Pickup Truck I bought in 1991/1992 when I first moved to X, to help run the X that I know am an owner/partner of.
In the middle of the night on February 14, 2016 – X’s birthday, I was woke by X, who forced a rag filled with chloroform over my face. I woke confused, but I did wake up.
There were two large holes in my wrist that look like a rattlesnake bit me, but it was X who was trying to kill me and make it look like a snake had bit me. I left the house that day and hid, but was still confused as to what he did, so I would go back and forth from my house and hide until I figured it out and he is what happened, and I am positive of it.
X injected southwestern rattlesnake venom into my wrist, leaving two holes for me to evidence it, and that morning I woke smelling chloroform, and knew he did something to me, and so I looked for it and found two syringes in his shed, under the apple tree of HIS bedroom, as I slept in the other side of the house.
I then watched the symptoms and treated them as they appeared, and that was February 14, 2016, and I have suffered every stage of rattlesnake poison, but the truth is that the western U.S. variety of rattler is simply less potent than most, and the injection went into my wrist and missed my blood stream, as he was just stupid, and here I remain.
The last day I saw him was Mother’s Day 2016, on a Sunday and I had been hiding next door in X’s house, and other places prior, and I went in the house I own – ([address], that he had taken from me) that day, and saw he had a sledgehammer out sitting still in the front room. I went upstairs and grabbed my already packed suitcase as I was running farther away. As I was about to leave X’s and X’s room, where I slept most – with it, and via the balcony attached to it, when X pulled up in my red Kia – plate: XXX – which is what he said to me when he saw me:
“B876by,” and I knew what that meant as I had heard him from under his door because he talks in his sleep and that’s what he says as he references each of the teen boys and the females that are either their mothers or act like their mothers as he talks about HOW HE MURDERED THEM!
Then he said more quietly: “You just won’t die! B876by to you today as I am cutting you up like a deer and putting you out in Thursday’s trash.” Then he laughed.
It was said quiet to the boy, and I hear well when I want to listen. Finally, he grinned and made a joke out of it, and he did not think I heard, but I heard it all. Then he said loud to me:
“Go call N, as she called you today. The boy and I are going SHIT hunting today.”
They left, and I assume to drop the boy off, who is the youngest C boy, of X and A. He was happy and dressed in Sunday clothes and from X’s remarks he said
“Do you mean we are going shed hunting again?”
X laughed and said, “My wife is the SHIT.”
Then they left, and I ran down the balcony stairs with my suitcase in my hand, leaving my go-kit under the bed of J’s where I slept my last night there. I have hidden well from him since but prior was in and out. He never cancels my credit card’s as he uses them to track me, Cynthia.
As I fully reject [last name] and refuse to endanger kids by bringing them into this other than how X self injected himself in and I try and limit that as much as I can.
Cynthia is waking up & wants audience with the JUDGE who is MY M! I am Cynthia right now. Please rescue me!
I know that fear of insanity will resonate with at least one friend of mine, Wil C. Fry. I think this fear is common to those who reside on the edge of genius. Nietzsche. Mozart. That brilliant but crazy ex girlfriend of mine. That coach who went crazy in 2001 and staged her own kidnapping. Brilliance takes us places others might not understand. I know this sounds like a conceit, but I know I am in an intellectual category above and beyond somehow. I can make a sentence. I know why the sky is blue. I read Chomsky and Camus.
So what is the solution? Rebuild it? Physical health? Healthy diet? Avoid lead paint and radon gas? Breathe?
As I wrote this, I got so swept away in thinking about insanity and intellectual complexity that I actually lost a cup of coffee, searched the house to find it, then sat down at my computer to see it right there on its coaster.
Readers might recall that earlier this year I won the lottery. A coworker and I were talking about people who win big money in casino gambling or lotteries and manage to be broke within a year, or on at least a few occasions spend it all, win again, and spend all of that, too.
Apparently I am the that guy, because when I won in February, I spent all $34, and now I have won again, $500 from Lotto America ($100 x5 because I bought to “bonus”). I doubt I will be able to hold on to it, either, as, and I quote Wall Street, “A fool and his money are lucky enough to get together in the first place.”
Also in a conversation recently, I mentioned that I tried a new “Meat Lovers Vegan Burger,” which I thought was inherently contradictory. The product was very tasty, but a friend mentioned that it was full of artificial this and that. I pointed out that veggie burgers didn’t make up the bulk of my diet. That’s reserved for foods like grains, beans, fruit, and garden vegetables.
So What Am I Eating?
Water, vegetable oil (corn, canola, and/or sunflower oil), wheat gluten, soy protein isolate, soy flour. contains 2% or less of natural flavor, methylcellulose, cornstarch, salt, cooked onion and carrot juice concentrate, sunflower oil, spices, garlic powder, onion powder, yeast extract, tomato paste (tomatoes), xanthan gum.
A short but harsh heat wave has broken. Mowing last night was a particularly dusty affair, especially after I accidentally mowed over part of the ash pile behind the garden. Poof! This morning, despite a big dose of antihistamines at bedtime, I was all snotty.
Finally, a negative note turned positive: our Kenmore Elite front loading washer gave me a “LOC” message over the weekend, and Abby and I assumed it would need to be repaired. Not only were we out of clothes, we had just paid to have the air conditioner repaired. Thankfully, the internet gave up a solution: push hard and hold the “Drum Lock” button for five seconds. Boop!
Abby and I hadn’t seen Robert Stinson in a while, so we were glad to hear that while he was visiting his family in the Tulsa area, he was able to make time to come down to our little green patch, catch up, and, of course, do some photography.
We ran to town to get lunch for Abby, and stopped on the way to photograph a puddle, because that’s who we are when we hang out.
Robert hadn’t met either Summer the new Chihuahua or Hawken the Irish Wolfhound. I let Robert walk Hawken for some of our walking route, and Hawken seemed perfectly happy to be with us and mind Robert. Robert made some very nice photos of me with the Wolfhound.
By nightfall we decided to photograph either fireworks or burning steel wool, and ended up trying both, with more impressive results with the steel wool method. I described it on my teaching site two years ago (link), but the short version is to put fine-gauge steel wool in a whisk, set it on fire, and spin it so it throws off sparks. With the shutter open and with some finessing of settings, it’s possible to get some very fun images.
I was walking the Irish Wolfhound tonight with a thousand dark thoughts between my ears. In addition to my dire concerns about my newspaper and its uncertain future (link), I was thinking about a friend and community member who took his own life over the weekend. We weren’t buddies, but we always talked when we ran into each other, and I am friends with several of his family members. I don’t want to say who it is, but those in our town know.
He was my age, 55. He seemed like a regular guy. He seemed fine.
All this was buzzing around in my head as the Wolfhound dragged me around the patch, past each tree he wanted to mark, taking a break in the shade of the old walnut, around the pond, up toward the garden, when… something beautiful…
My first ripe cantaloupe of the season fell from the vine; real garden cantaloupes pick themselves by falling off when they are ready. I felt so happy that all the nurture I put in my vines all spring and into summer were producing. Vine-ripened cantaloupes might be the most nutritious food I grow in the garden. In the past, the vines didn’t thrive well, and I only got a few fruit, but presently I have quite a few little ones on the vine. It was the last item to ripen in the garden.
It wasn’t a big fruit, so I ate the whole thing, and it was everything I wanted.
Friday was a comp day off from July 4, so I mostly slagged off. After my evening walk with Hawken, our Irish Wolfhound, however, I found the winds calm, so it presented an opportunity to burn my remaining brush piles.
The last time I burned, I only got a fraction done because the main pile I’d built last summer, fall, and winter was too large to set off safely… nobody wants to be that guy we hear in the scanner all the time in fire department dispatches who let his controlled burn get out of control.
So I lit up the smaller of the two and moved brush from the bigger pile onto it until the bigger pile was small enough, then set it ablaze. In the middle if this, the next door neighbors, either coincidentally or following my example, built and burned a big brush pile as well. So we we had three fairly impressive fires going at ones. It was fun.
Coworker Jeff Cali and I participated in a cornhole tournament Saturday. Despite the typical Oklahoma summer heat, we had an amazing amount of fun, and were able to finish sixth in the field of 24 teams.
YouTube has recently suggested a lot of 9/11 conspiracy videos to me. If I click on one of them and watch it, YouTube mines that and suggests more. As I watch them, one thing is pretty clear: few people buy all the way in to the “official” story of the day, which says that 19 Islamists simultaneously hijacked four airliners on the east coast, flew them for some distance without effective official countermeasure, then successfully flew three of them into symbolic structures. Two of those structures, very tall skyscrapers, then collapsed in an identical fashion, and later that day a similar nearby skyscraper also collapsed in a nearly identical fashion.
The problem with the conspiracy theories is this: as implausible as the events of 9/11 seem, no one seems to be able to suggest either a more passable scenario or explain why powers that be would create scenarios that seem so inconsistent.
So, let’s break it down 9/11’s most implausible items…
Steel skyscrapers collapse due to impact plus fires. I’ll grant you that this is a pretty hinky occurrence, and what the theorists say most often, that no modern high-rise has ever collapsed in its footprint after being damaged or destroyed by fire, is true.
Airliner wings and engines “melt” into the side of a steel structure like the WTC towers or the side of the Pentagon. I suspect this one is related to speed; bullets go into stuff all the time and seem to melt, despite being much softer than the materials they strike.
Airliners flying near the ground at very high airspeeds. A lot of conspiracy videos assert, and even cartoonishly illustrate, that wings of airliners would be torn off at 500 knots at sea level. As a pilot, I know a few things about speeds, and they are talking about Vne, or Velocity Never Exceed, the bug on the airspeed dial the represents sound advice from the engineers who designed and built the aircraft: if you go faster than this, we can’t guarantee the airplane will fly a like it should or even hold together. While it’s true that on the flight decks of the jets that struck the WTC, there were probably audible and visual warnings going off, and that flying a jet at these speeds would mean taking it out of service for inspection, it is not a guarantee that the wings and empennage would fly off.
No black boxes found/black boxes found by the FBI and/or not released. This is probably a consequence of the FBI being in charge of the investigation. Only the NTSB knows how to collect and interpret such devices. A more marginal explanation might be the desire to “spare” the families the horror of reenactments.
The planes were actually missiles that were switched for the actual planes that ended up somewhere else. Even if this were the case and for some reason you needed to shoot the WTC with a missile, why not just put it onto a 767?
That airliners would be able to shut off transponders at a certain time of day. Actually, Occam’s Razor favors this one, as a bunch of teenage boys with walkie-talkies could have done it.
One way to measure the logic of a scenario is to examine what it accomplishes.
Certainly if you wanted to commit 9/11 from the inside, the hijacking scheme is one way to do it, but why would you? If you wanted to burn records or destroy specific buildings, a far simpler way would be to stage a fire or explosion. Or a more straightforward terror attack, like a successful version of the failed 1993 WTC attack.
Or turn it around: what did 9/11 accomplish for the U.S. government? Specifically? That’s really the biggest hole in the 9/11 conspiracy scene: what did 9/11 accomplish for the insiders?
Somebody please talk some sense to me. I certainly can’t find it from the internet’s so-called Truthers.
In 1989, Richard Linklater made Slacker, an independent comedy/drama set and filmed in Austin, Texas for just $23,000. The film is fun, weird, funny, and extensively quotable…
Hitchhiker: Every single commodity you produce is a piece of your own death!
Hitchhiker: I may live badly, but at least I don’t have to “work” to do it.
Dostoyevsky Wannabe: Who’s ever written a great work about the immense effort required in order not to create?
Guy Who Tosses Typewriter: Because! The typewriter isn’t the point. The point is, it symbolizes the bitch that just fucked him over. It symbolizes the bitch that fucked me over six months ago. And it symbolizes the bitch that’s GONNA fuck you over!
Old Man: When young, we mourn for one woman… as we grow old, for women in general.
Video Backpacker: To me, my thing is, a video image is much more powerful and useful than an actual event. Like back when I used to go out, when I was last out, I was walking down the street and this guy, that came barreling out of a bar, fell right in front of me, and he had a knife right in his back, landed right on the ground and… Well, I have no reference to it now. I can’t put it on pause. I can’t put it on slow mo and see all the little details. And the blood, it was all wrong. It didn’t look like blood. The hue was off. I couldn’t adjust the hue. I was seeing it for real, but it just wasn’t right. And I didn’t even see the knife impact on the body. I missed that part.
Breakthrough Day: The underlying order is chaos.
I highly recommend it.
About two thirds of the way through the film, we come across a a woman building her menstrual cycle with large cups in a circle on the ground, and a woman who offers a man a card. On the cards, she explains, are Oblique Strategies, ideas created to help artists break through creative blocks.
“I told you I was having a breakthrough day. Shewy, howdy, shucks,” the card woman exclaims. To this day, I still use and love the expression, “breakthrough day.”
Here is that scene…
The Oblique Strategies concept was originally created by musician Brian Eno (who later went on to produce for musicians like U2 and David Bowie) as a means of breaking through writer’s block and seeing things in a different creative light or from a different angle.
There are few things that can summon our true nature better than fire, particularly fire that serves the human purpose, survival. Fire can keep us warm, cook our food, mark our territory, and help us defend our village.
We live far enough into the country that I am expected to burn my brush pile. A lot of us do it. There is no brush service. I made the mistake of missing a few windows of opportunity to burn last winter, and my main brush pile behind the orchard is too big, in my opinion, to burn in a single sitting safely.
Thus, I piled the second brush pile next to the big one, and have burned it twice.
My next door neighbors make a small fire three or more times a week.
I am a writer of many things: this site, my teaching site, our travel site, and so on, and have been since I was about 15. As much as I like creating content for the my web site, I often prefer, and get more from, putting pen to paper.
With this in mind, I was thinking recently about a couple of friends of mine. One has talked for years about writing a book, but hasn’t, as of this day, started on it. The other writes all the time, and I read every word. These two people aren’t all that different intellectually or artistically, but one of them writes, and one of them doesn’t.
My idea for the one who doesn’t, or anyone who wants to build a cadre of written expression, is this: write a sentence every day.
Just one sentence, Richard? Yes. If non-writing guy had written a sentence every day since the day he expressed a desire to write this book (January 1985) he would have written roughly 12,000 sentences. As it happens, that is quite close to an estimate for a mid-length book I found, as I wrote this, on Quora.
It takes a huge amount of effort, time, and devotion to sit down for ten days and come up with your novel, but it only takes a minute to write a sentence. A minute every day. Write it.
Something for Everyone Every Day...
There are a lot of “every day” projects out there, some more valuable than others. I remember several years ago everyone was churning out a photo every day with far out-of-focus backgrounds, the so-called “Bokeh 365 Project.” It got old fast, and I don’t know anyone who bothered to get through an entire year. There was also my friend David’s brilliant Poem Every Day project, when he wrote 100 poems in 100 days, for which I generated 100 images.
And face this fact: some day it will be 33 years from now. Will you have your novel?
My wife’s new couch arrived today.
There, see? Maybe tomorrow I will share a funny sentence about how Summer the Chihuahua loves the new couch.
I am often surprised and frustrated by willful ignorance, and the worst of all these offenses is the willingness to believe in god. These instances are the awfulest, silliest, most damaging beliefs because they distort reality, create an environment in which we are inclined to believe lies, and lead us to debate whether or not we should teach our children things we should know aren’t true.
The only people who tell me there is a god are people, never god.
A strident Christian angrily told me once, “I believe the Holy Spirit will found you somehow.” Despite this, most Muslims stay Muslim, Hindus stay Hindu, Jews stay Jewish.
Somebody commented on my social media note “I am an Atheist” that atheism is an “epistemological nightmare,” but did not explain why, and I’d like to hear why.
“Yeah! Atheism is bullspit! Whoo! USA!”
“You reject fact based evidence that proves what you believe is erroneous, you refuse to use an objective lens, and you choose to believe false data because it confirms your bias.” ~Social media friend who believes in god and miracles.
With claims like this, I know the faithful will be inspired by this image…
It shows the beautiful light of god drawing a saved soul into heaven.
I made it by mowing a gopher mound. Oops.
It is both generous and blameful to call all this reasoning childish, but it is not false.
Okay, if you insist, point by point…
Babies. Sure, we all think babies are beautiful, particularly when they are our own. To me, that speaks very directly toward evolution, not god. We are wired by evolution to love, protect, and nurture babies because that’s how evolution works. Safe, loved, nurtured babies grow up to successfully reproduce, the goal of evolution.
Thunderstorms. Aside from their obvious meteorological causes, what about the ones that spawn tornadoes and kill people? (Note: if it was not you, kneel and thank god for his mercy.) Thunderstorms are well-understood, and arise from demonstrable forces, not magic.
Flowers. This is another splendid, and very well-studied and well-proven, example of evolution in action. You appreciation of their beauty is, by the way, also a direct result of evolution.
The Bible. This one is always thrown out there as evidence, but the Bible is best-dismissed due to its circular reasoning: the Bible is the word of god. How do we know? Because the Bible says it is so. But why believe the Bible? Because it is infallible. But how do we know that? Because the Bible is the word of god. Also, the Bible is intensely self-contradictory and historically inaccurate, so much so that it’s insulting to an educated person. Read an in-depth review of the Bible here (link), unless you are offended by truth.
The global spread of Christianity. This is a logical fallacy argumentum ad popular, or “appeal to popularity.” This is also, by the way, an argument in favor of Islam, which is also spreading globally.
Jesus. This argument is married to the Bible argument, because it is a self-affirming myth. “Love our messiah or go to hell” is one of the least compelling reasons to believe something.
Personal relationship with god. This one is the least “proof” argument of the bunch, because by definition it can’t be demonstrated or falsified.
Sometimes the argument comes down to “There is something we cannot prove, and we can prove it.” Faith itself is fundamentally flawed. This is embarrassing, people. You don’t even know what the word “proof” means. The only people who tell me there is a god are people.
I happen to think the “lean not upon your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5) isn’t just dismissible, it’s a brilliantly evil form of mind control. Don’t think. Don’t question. Just obey. You are a four year old. You are a puppy.
In the middle of all of this, I happened to watch a YouTube video by popular sceptic/devbunker Thunderf00t called, “Why do people laugh at Creationists (Part 44)“, calling out Ken Hamm’s $100M Ark Encounter not only as the fraud and tax cheat that it is, but for the ridiculous tale it espouses.
The basic Christian salvation narrative goes like this: Jesus was made man, died a brief, terrible death, was dead for about two days, then came back to life and has been in heaven from that day to this one, and will be forever. I talked about this before, but I am still waiting for anyone to explain to me how this is a sacrifice of any kind. Bottom line: god gave his only son so he could be in heaven forever.
Another dude seemed trivially concerned for me, saying, “So sorry Richard! Better hope your [sic] right! Jesus is the only way!”, which several readers dismissed as “arrogant and rude,” which it is. But to address his point, if Jesus is the “only way” (to be saved, I guess), does that mean that every American Jew who died storming the beaches of Normandy in 1944 is in hell now and forever? Every Jewish cop and firefighter who died trying to save lives on 9/11 is in hell now and forever?
I got this next pearl of wishful thinking from Beliefnet…
The web site claims, as it should, to have found “shocking proof of god’s existence.” Do I even need to debunk this for my adult readers? Children believe anything with shove down their tiny throats.
Sometimes I think sites like this must surely be false flag argument secretly designed to debunk the deity myth. I mean, they can’t be serious, right?
Yet another Christian troll tried to tell me that atheism is a religion, which I have heard my entire adult life. Though widely and thoroughly debunked, the willfully ignorant still hide behind it. Atheism is a religion the same way that not collecting stamps is a hobby.
Last night in class, one of my students gave me a couple of pearls of wisdom that might have the potential to improve my web presence.
Use Twitter only for very local stuff. I have to admit that I try Twitter intermittently, and find myself unengaged. I don’t care about politics or opinions on Twitter, or the short-message paradigm. The idea my student gave me was to only follow entities like the City of Ada, Byng Schools, Pontotoc County Emergency Management, and so on.
Spend the summer with fewer screens, including deactivating your social media accounts like Facebook. This one isn’t an option for me since my work requires me to use Facebook, and since I have cultivated Facebook as my home for feeding my audience content from this web site, but it’s a compelling idea for a family. Imagine walking the dog instead of playing with a dog-walking app!
It may be a conceit, but I believe I am capable of nurturing my craft and my intellect using screens – computers, tablets, phones, even the television – and I arrogantly look down on those I feel let themselves be led by the nose ring of technology. Maybe I’m fooling myself, and am just another fidget spinner spinner.
Tuesday my wife Abby and I rented a U-Haul trailer and drove it to her home town, Ryan, Oklahoma. Abby’s dad’s widow, Ethel, has been in assisted living for about 18 months, and possession of her house under life estate is annulled if the place remains unoccupied for an amount of time defined by law or a judicial edict, and that happened, starting a 30-day clock ticking, a period of time for the family to come to the house and get items they believe belong to them.
Abby wanted a piece of this, despite having already skeletonized all of her father’s possessions years ago. Ethel wanted Abby to keep this and that, and there were a few things we had given to them over the years that would be more at home with us, like framed pictures of us and our kids and grandkids.
Anyone who owns unoccupied property knows how quickly nature tries to take it back, and Ethel’s place was no exception. We found mice, some of which were not particularly shy, black widow spiders, and snakes.
I admit to a fair amount of nostalgia about this probably being the last time we would be at this place. Abby’s dad lived there since he remarried in the late 1980s, and Abby and I have been going there and being with family since before she and I got married in 2004. After Abby’s dad died, we often brought Chinese food or KFC for lunch, and we usually brought our dogs, who played with Ethel’s dog Winnie.
Readers of my newspaper might have noticed some significant changes, and while I was feeling somewhat negative about them over the last couple of weeks, I’ve decided that most of that came from a few individuals who weren’t comfortable with change, and particularly after a cordial lunch with our publisher, I’m feeling better about our situation.
I’ve been adding more and more global photojournalists to my social media friends list, and it’s nice to see them and their work on the web.
And of course, it’s June. To say that my garden grows well is an understatement, and no matter how fragile or stressful my work life can get, it offers a meaningful retreat.
Neither my neighbors the Nipps nor I have any peaches this year, thanks to a mid-April freeze. The cherries appear fine, however, and my efforts to cover the garden plants appear to have been completely successful.
Yesterday I found my first cucumber of the season, and brought it to my wife Abby. I broke it open for her and we both smelled it. “There’s nothing like that fresh smell,” she said with an unquenchable smile on her face.
Hawken the Irish Wolfhound is still at home on the long, slack leash. I only retract it to keep him out of the neighbor’s poison ivy. After we walk, he sits by the garden and watches me work.
I pulled up the last of the radishes, which yielded about 200. The lettuce is still plentiful. Abby’s summer squash will probably be the next garden item to pick in any numbers. My tomatoes and peppers are huge, but not ripe. And while I haven’t seen any fruit on them, the cantaloup vines seem healthy and have lots of blossoms.
Firstly, here’s a piece of good news about Hawken the Irish Wolfhound: I have been training him with a very long retractable leash, and he almost never strays from heel. If he does, I call him and he comes right over to me.
On the other hand, recently when I was about to walk him, he spotted a rabbit in the back yard, and I have never seen him move so fast. The rabbit got away through a hole in the fence, but the pursuit was amazing.
At first I thought about making this a “top five favorite smells,” clickbait, but as I gave it more thought, I pondered the notion that odor and pleasure come together in different ways for different people. I knew some one once who always introduced sharp flavors, like chocolate or mustard, into sex. I found that I don’t like non-human smells in the middle of sex.
I thought of all this as I was working outside the last few days, where some of the smells were overpowering my pleasure center…
The grass I just mowed, the marigolds I moved slightly aside to pull up grass, the green from my tomato vines on my finger tips.
The air at first light in the mountains in the winter with snow on the ground, like getting up early on a ski trip.
Aviation gasoline; the decades of spilling small amounts make the cockpits of small planes smell the same, and that smell instantly brings me back to my days in the sky.
The faint, subtle smell of fireplace smoke from the days around the first freeze.
New cameras – the plastic and Styrofoam and brass and glass. It’s not that the smell itself brings please, so much as it smells like potential.
Iris, honeysuckle, roses, wildflowers
In a coffee house last week, they were grinding some blends, and those bold, fresh ground or fresh brewed flavors of coffee set off some very powerful endorphins in my brain.
My wife Abby’s hair, and her smell in general; since our first days together in 2003 to this very day, she smells like home. I asked her to list some of her favorite smells, and she said, “My husband, my dogs, vanilla, cherry pie.”
It has been a strange Spring of Change at my office. I like to compare newspapers to an emaciated cow, being milked by an ever-thirstier corporate farmer, and when that cow falls over dead, the farmer will walk away with a big belly and buckets of milk.
We are the cow. I know that’s hard to accept, being a journalist my whole life, but that’s the mood at my newspaper as we make some drastic changes: shrinking staff, lack of budget, sections of our building abandoned. I want to hope that we can weather this storm because real journalism is more important than ever, but I remain, as do many of my coworkers, pessimistic.
One way I am reacting to this sea of change is that I have decided to let my hair grow. What? How is that going to solve anything? Well, nothing, but… 1. Abby has told me repeatedly how much she likes my hair longer… 2. I might not ever get a chance to do this again, as I am 55… 3. I have really nice hair.
My hair is presently entering the bad stage: not long enough to be long, but long enough to be droopy and lifeless. I will power through this stage and emerge as a hair-owner to remember. And yes, I am aware of the down sides to growing my hair: looking like a a doofus who is insecure about middle-age, looking like a pretentious hipster, looking like an undergroomed burnout, et cetera.
Also, last night I had the following dream...
Ultra-complicated, ultra-vivid dream: I am a 14 year old black kid who has snuck onto a US Air Force base to use their F-16 flight simulator. It flies well and I demonstrate some sophisticated flight maneuvers. I meet the base commander, who is wearing a new rank between captain and major, which looks like captains bars with a bar diagonal across it. He tells me it is complicated new rank called “Prinz Eugen.” The simulator becomes a real F-16, and I fly it beyond it’s capabilities because of my extensive video game experience. I then take Abby to the hospital, where we see a woman in a cocoon who has just flown from New York and has no memory of the trip. Doctors tell Abby she either has a spider bite or has been in a knife fight, based on a macro photo they took of her neck. The clerk keeps asking, “What’s Spanish for ‘Joseph’?” We walk from the ER to the Amityville Horror house, which is huge and covers many acres. One of the children has gone insane. We try to take her back to the house, but she drops her turtle and tells it to “stay.” She enters the house, where there are thousands of insane children. We realize we will have to kill them all in a gun battle. Abby and I crouch into a vent shaft, and I tell her to go left, and I’ll go right. I kick open the door and insane children pour out into the shaft. I realize the magazine in my Ruger LCP only has six rounds in it, so I tell Abby, “Fall back!” As we are doing so, we arrive at a checkpoint meant to keep us from stealing Air Force weapons, but they let me keep my Ruger when I tell them it’s mine. The commanding officer says we’ll have to continue our battle inside a video game, which we enter. We install thousands of Nikon cameras to photograph the battle. It turns out the children have the power to literally suck us back into the real world. We have to burn the house down. The end shot is of us driving away with a huge column of smoke in the distance behind us.
I know that if and/or when journalism collapses, I will find a way to make a living, but I believe we would all be diminished by such an occurrence. I have made photos of the kids in this town, of their kids, of the old folks who aren’t around any more, of the main events and minor happenings… my photojournalism has been a part of my community and my community has become part of me through it.
My garden grows well this season. I talked years ago about how good it is for me. I haven’t had a garden since 2015, due to one circumstance after another, but having one gives me a place to be alone and listen to music, time with Hawken the Irish Wolfhound (just on the other side of the fence), and an activity that is outdoors, healthy, and productive.
I can’t say enough good things about working outside, even if it’s just for a few minutes. I have a little slogan in my head: something every day. So if I don’t really have time to pull of all the weeds, I’ll at least pull up one weed.
I also continue to walk the Wolfhound every day, which has been good for both of us, and for my health and the health of my lower back.
Every year, I work between 10 and 20 graduations, either from high school, the tech center (where I teach), the college, and the occasional ceremony to which I am personally connected, like last night’s commencement at Ryan High School, where my wife Abby’s grand niece Teddy Lauren Brown graduated. I’ve known Teddy for most of her life, and watched her grow up to be, among other things, very much a natural in front of the camera. Readers might remember from my teaching site that I shot her senior pictures in October (link).
Our day started with Teddy’s mom, Abby’s niece Amber, buying us lunch at a new restaurant in Waurika, Oklahoma called Doc’s Place. Amber was excited that they offered a vegan option, practically unheard of in a town so small. They made me a black bean burger, which had a good flavor, but which was more like soup on a bun than a burger. I laud them for their efforts to offer healthier choices, and encourage them to perfect the recipe.
We drove on to Ryan, Abby’s home town, where we helped Abby’s sister make finger food for Teddy’s reception, then changed clothes for the ceremony.
So. Graduations. As I said, I see a lot of them, and they have a sameness to them that gets old quick. As with most events involving people’s children, everyone there is only there to see, and to some degree show off, their own kin kids.
20 years ago, the trend in graduations was grunge: kids tried to dress as far down as they could under the cap and gown… flip-flops, hole-filled jeans, vulgar t-shirts… but recently the trend is to try to out-dress-up all the other kids, a trend that does side-by-side with the other expensive school trends, like paying a fortune for senior pictures, seniors teas, senior proms. Holy crap senior proms have gotten expensive, and we all know these are pearls cast before swine. No kid needs an $1800 prom dress.
It was a nice time, and everyone seemed happy, but I could do without the pomp and circumstance.
Hawken the talking Wolfhound told me the other day, “Roadrunners are imaginary, like unicorns or libertarians.” I told him there was a roadrunner standing right there in the yard, and that he should chase and consume it, but he just looked at me with his derpy, “do it yourself” face.
I happen to think “nozzle” is an inherently funny word. I also considered “Nozzle of Death” as the title of this episode.
“I am become death, the destroyer of weeds.” ~Richard, misquoting Robert Oppenheimer, who was misquoting the Bhagavad-Gita, which itself was quoting the banned version of The Apocrypha, which itself was written by me using a time machine.
Hawken the Irish Wolfhound and I have taken our last woods walk of the season. Earlier this week, we spotted pubescent poison ivy on the trail… a lot of it. There’s always been a fair amount in our woods, but the patch near one of the cedars has experienced explosive growth this spring.
Last night’s misadventure started when I was weeding the garden and saw, much to my dismay, a poison ivy plant.
I grabbed the sprayer (initially typed “spayer,” which works too), which is loaded with an herbicide of unknown origin, but which was described by an unnamed family member as maybe “requiring a license to handle.” In addition to the one in the garden, I decided to take a stand against the stand of poison ivy at the back of the pasture. This isn’t as straightforward as one might imagine, since there’s always a risk of getting into it while trying to spray it.
But I felt this was a critical move. I can picture myself out there, like an idiot, trying to tiptoe around some poison ivy plants, then falling into the whole giant patch of it. Like an idiot. I’m very allergic to the oil, urushiol, in poison ivy, and have made a point over the years to learn to spot it, and the harmless plants that cohabitate with it: box elder, bois d’arc, Virginia creeper, and blackberry.
“A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent.” ~Oppenheimer
This afternoon, our friend LeAnn Skeen let us know that public school students in Lawton, Oklahoma, “were let out school early because of the tornado watch.”
It was right around this time that I heard a message at the Softball Hall of Fame, where I was covering the state tournament: after the 2:30 games finish, go home, and we’ll all trek up here Friday and finish.
I am amazed at this. Not at the idea of caution, even the abundance of it. Sure, you should take cover should the rare tornado warning be issued. But not half a day in advance. That’s more like an abundance of panic.
That’s just the prattle for today.
My main vector or vexation is being “eaten alive” as Abby put it, by tiny animals intent on defending their inch of dirt after spending all of a bitter-dry-wet-hot-colder-still winter trying to hide and live. The organisms responsible are at the very least the dreaded no-see-ums (which I haven’t seen), biting flies, and other non-zoonotic biters and stingers, but also, at least in my own case, one nymphal Lone Star tick. The weird winter, with its plunges into single digits, followed by a tease of a warm period, then another plunge into realms that require the purchase of fuel to keep our dog from freezing in his dog palace, may be the cause of the insects and arachnids being hungrier and more virile than ever before.
So my milieu consists mostly of scratching some party of me, sometimes until it bleeds, with a grimace on my face matched only by the absurdity of my orgasm face, followed by an alternating therapy of steroid cream and antihistamine cream.
Hawken the Irish Wolfhound and I have taken our last deep woods walk for the season. In six months or so, when the ticks and poison ivy are down, we will start that again. Yesterday we came across several stands of poison ivy on the trail.