The Wandering Jew & the Lucky Bamboo

The Wandering Jew & The Lucky Bamboo: A Fictional Conspiracy Theory

Do you understand the plants are made just like that? Compare them to the ones that were like, painstakingly crafted?

If you knew there was a difference, would you wonder who crafted it, and how, or even why?

Did you know the sandwhich, the olive, the vodka, were all crafted? Of course you did.

But did you know also was the potato, the tulip, the rose, even the honeybee?

That I hate going to the dentist is no mystery. But in some States, particularly in the South, it seems, sedation is an option. Now I hate going to the dentist slightly less than before, as in all my way too long functional memory. On the gas, there is some enlightenment, as you’ll see.

Twice now I’ve been to the dentist since the Plandemic, because I have dental issues since childhood, not to mention dental trauma, from the choking fluoride treatment molds that tormented me every six months for a decade. That I found these treatments horrific is considered a mental weakness on my part. That my mom paid for them from her hard-earned wages, and trusted them, breaks my heart to this day.

Now they’ve required me to sign a checklist that I have no symptoms of the Covid during these last two visits where only the gas, and lovely company of kind women, guard my fragile acquiescence .

At these days they’ve also insisted on taking my temperature via a digital thermometer directed precisely at my 3rd eye.

That is, the pineal gland. Little do they know, I’m sure, the conspiracy theories that surround that teeny-tiny gland. Right behind the directed laser pointed right there, to which they are given a number, as if that is the only signal that instrument is designed to relate. And as if they would know any other reason why this instrument is now being more normalized than the obscene body scanners at the airport.

I hate dentists, so much so that my latest dentist is my heroine. She gets what honest dentist-hate is like. She commends my stoicism in the chair, bless her heart. I honor her sacrificial hours and delicate sensitivity which I recognize as akin to artistry. She really is someone worthy of far more than her title. I like her, and I’m not being even remotely sarcastic. I can hardly imagine what it’s like to be a woman like that.

“Feelings are considered to be internal human structure and architecture.  But what you imagine and create are far more important—and the creative process radically and naturally changes feelings in a positive way, as a side effect.” Jon Rappaport

On the gas, I reflect, and tears flow, beyond my knowing, how. They are so kind, they see, they don’t define. Are you ok? Yes, I am, right here, right now, I am ok. And I see how flimsy that is this sedated happy feeling in the here and now.

Are you? Are y’all? Is that enough? Is that ok? Do you load yourself with duty and then pray you’ll sleep and have enough still to spend another day?

Would you have enough pity, prana, love, care, energy, to say . . .

Would you really like to know what it was like for me, in the pit, today?

I did not get the impression s/he did. Bypassing is our only call of fame. From the pedestal the pit cannot be understood. There is no degree of compassion that might pacify the pit.

Because you see, in the pit, your compassion is where I most love to shit.

That you preach how I should feel makes it that much more worse
But you praise and anoint yourselves with kudos and more books

It is an annoying block to enlightenment for those who perpetually misunderstand. And are misunderstood.

“If I do not describe the details of our work it is because we were busied with things which lie beyond speech and which therefore elude the spell that words exert. But everyone will remember how his mind has labored in regions which he cannot portray, whether it were in dreams or in deep thought. It seemed as if he were groping for the right road in labyrinths or sought to unravel the figures among the patterns of an optical illusion. And often he awoke wonderfully strengthened. This is where our best work takes place, and so it seemed to us, too, that in our struggle speech was still inadequate, and that we must penetrate into the depths of the dream if we were to withstand the threat against us.”

The cynicism that regards all hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority.” Occulture: The Unseen Forces That Drive Culture Forward by Carl Abrahamsson

Her Mother’s Jade

She gave us a million dollars, surely we can grant her this one thing?  Keep it alive, that’s all she asked.

Her mother, she says, was a saint.  This jade came through her, and through her mother, and her mother’s mother.  Jade is a special sort of plant, kind of like a Wandering Jew in that way, give it what it wants and it’s immediately invasive, take it out of its narrow comfort zone and it withers dramatically before dying.  Your negligence would be in the spotlight for months while you went on not noticing, or, not caring.

She was a saint, it is said.  She could knit through wails for twenty minutes before noticing a thing.  Once trance broken, “Oh, Oscar stop already” muffled huff, return to needles.  Oscar scoffs, and stops.

Saint is code word for Expert of Dissociation.  Give the lady another medal. She could read or knit or drown in TV while the seas parted around her, and remain oblivious.  She could minimize and whitewash every ‘love bite’ and ‘love pinch’ and smile, or shrug, or eye-roll her way through a dozen abusive slurs.  That’s what it means to be a saint.

Long-suffering Jades, pass it on, don’t forget, don’t neglect, and always, pass those seeds on.

 

 

At the Ashram

At the entrance was a sign informing new visitors that the guru offered private consultations by appointment.  They decided together they should each make one.

Dan and Sue had heard of this ashram from a mutual friend.  They agreed to each pay their own way, but to share a room.  The agreed also they’d discuss moving in together finally, maybe even getting married.

At his appointment, Dan confessed he was getting cold feet.  The guru nodded patiently, emanating compassion.  He did not interrupt while Dan recited his list of doubts and grievances.

The guru sat in silence for what seemed to Dan too long a moment.  When he finally spoke he looked grim, solemn, Dan had to strain to hear him.

“Mr. Dan, I have met your lady friend.  I’m sorry to say that I concur with you, she is not the one for you.  Too many problems, you are sure to be unhappy.  She is too strong-willed for you, too hot tempered, too much fire.  I suspect too much conflict for a good match.”

Before their departure Sue sought out the guru again, taking him aside and handing him a thick envelope.  She hugged him warmly, her eyes glowing, and said, “I can’t thank you enough!  It’s been positively magical!”

“Not at all,” replied the guru, “it is my great pleasure to serve.”

“We’ve set a date!”

“I’m not surprised,” replied the guru.  “I can see he’s a very difficult man, you have your work cut out for you.”

She nodded.  He turned to take his leave, saying, “Well played, mum.”

Why Does it Stink Like Grape kOOl-aid in here?

Letter from Grandpa from the beyond, sent through James True.

Dear Readers, thank you for being here.  I should say that more often.  I’m sorry for all the cream pies to the face, I know it’s not polite, and I really do appreciate you putting up with me, and sometimes even pressing like.  I know some of you are real people, not just bots or spies, and I don’t think about that enough.  It’s cool that you’re still here with all my weird ravings about conspiracies, and bad poetry (sometimes on purpose, it’s a trick, now you have a secret I’ve been keeping), and just in general not being good enough.

James is right you know.  Even if he’s planning to start a cult, he’s still right.  Know more.  Do better.  Wise up! Look who you’re up against.  You’re hardly even a fly in their cellar.  You’re a like a maggot about to pecked up by a hen.  You’re snooping around their closets like a raving idiot.  Who wants that, come on now.  Of course you’re going to piss them off eventually, so you better back off, or buck the fuck up.  (James added that bad word Gramps, I swear it wasn’t me.)

Man up, woman!  This is a dojo, whether you like it or not.

 

Just, Fiction.

I met this Persian man at the laundromat.  The first thing I thought was, “Persia is still a country?”  Obviously I didn’t say that out loud, it became a mental note to self: “Google Persia.”

Instead I replied, “Oh, nice, what brings you to (redacted)?  Big smile.  I’m really good at that.  Loads of training.  I use to have nicer teeth, but I refuse to bleach them now.  Have you read that ingredients list?  Yes, they work, I know.  But I’d rather just stop smiling so damn much.

2nd note to self: “Journal, what the hell is there to be smiling about so much anyway?” Next thought: “I hope I get to talk to him about chemtrails.”

We got to chatting, of course, I can strike up a conversation with just about anyone, even cranky men on the airplane who just want to nap.

Something I said set him off on a tangent, that’s usually how it works.

I can’t be certain what it was exactly, I think it was “spontaneous.”  I was telling him how I’d just come back from two conferences in Dallas (I did not tell him of what kind) and my entire purpose at both was to be spontaneous. I had set that intention.

And off he went.

He talked through my entire wash cycle about “Persia,” but mostly about his wife.  She hates America, refuses to come when he visits.  He didn’t mention why he visits.

I nodded and smiled and eventually rolled my clean wet clothes to the dryers.  I was distracted by the thought of it feeling odd throwing mine and Hubby’s skivvies in the dryer while he watched and chatted away.

Then a question blurted out, I could tell from the rise in tone, and I had to redirect my attention quickly in order to catch only: “. . . daughter’s roof replaced?”

“You mean the ‘tornado’?”  I made sure to use physical air quotes in the form of my two fingers motioning most emphatically when I said that, I always do.  You never know when just that gesture might plant a seed in just the right season with just the right person.

“Yes I do!”

When I turned to face him he had a big smile which made me grimace.  I made the full “oh my God, don’t get me started” face, in slow motion, to make sure he caught it.

And then I went on my tirade.  About all the downed trees, upturned from the roots, just like that, hardwoods too, plenty of ‘em.  And how I was there, alone, and woke up to a disaster zone like something out of a Hollywood movie, with trees and debris strewn across everywhere, inches from every window, an overturned beehive, fences down that just went up, and on and on I went, through the entire dryer cycle. I never even got started on the damned weather modification.

I was folding before I finally took a breath and said, “Oh, sorry, how I do go on!”  Sheepish smile, shrug, “Thanks for listening!”  🙂

He looked at me very seriously and said: “Well, it has been my pleasure, dear, I feel quite enlightened by you!”

“You do?”

“Why yes, I do!  Here it is.  The gods just noticed you, and let you live!  Relatively unscathed!  You, and my daughter, are among the most blessed women alive!  And what do you do with such blessings from gods, you complain to every stranger who listens for six whole months?  Right?! You do this, too, right?!”

And then he smiled, so I smiled.  And he started to laugh, so I started to laugh, and he continued.

“Thank you!  Now I see why my wife won’t come with me to visit in America!”

grey bird in close up photography
Photo by Markus Distelrath on Pexels.com

Misbehavior Is New Word for Abuse

As the lifetime actors in the Hollywood-Politiko class try to reign down their terror on anyone who questions their absolute authority we have on MSM the latest Weinstein’s piggery, or I guess it’s Epstein this week, left to digest during the dinner hour.  Yum.

”He should be spanked for his so HUGE Mis-behavior,” says the bleach blond tween posing as a news reporter.

“For sure! Nine spankings, and eleven Hail Mary’s! Right? Get it . . . the code,” says the greased up fat turd next to her . . . wink, wink.

Translation following, for the unhappy few in this asylum who miraculously still possess a set of standards and a moral compass:

Abuse is relative, you know!  

You got it!  One boy’s abuse is another’s sexual fetish.  It’s all good.

It’s really sad more folks don’t understand that. If you pretend it’s not abuse, then you think it’s not abuse, so obviously then it’s really not abuse. It’s all about perception management.

Yes, for sure.  They subject themselves to more abuse, because they can’t understand that their abuse was totally relative.  Why keep whining about spilled milk?  I mean like, you didn’t get your dick chopped off, right? Because, that happens.  And that didn’t happen to you, so I really don’t get why you can’t get over it already. Consider yourself lucky.

And besides, you know misbehaving can be fun!  I misbehaved in choir once, but it wasn’t really my fault, I mean, she practically ass-ulted me.  Really.

I sometimes fantasize I meet these assclowns celebrating some nonsense at a local bar with a small band of their mesmerized fan cult.  Two vodka sodas is just enough for me to say the following, without a shadow of remorse, laughing myself to sleep for days.

”So, do the folks around you in your life really put up with your bullshit on a regular basis?  I mean, they must right?  I’ve been watching you for a year and it’s like one con after another—denial, gaslighting, whitewashing, spinning, selective memory holes.  It’s like you’ve learned from a true master.  I imagine you must treat everyone this way, right?  I mean a person’s professional work bleeds right into their intimate life.  Every time I watch you I feel bad for the future man in his old age who’s going to have to look back at the shyte he did to make a living, and he’s going to see bright and clear what a douche he was his entire life.  That’s gotta hurt.”

Blank stare from the professional tele-prompt readers.

“And I can imagine how hard it is to keep all those plates of bullshit spinning! No wonder you have migraines and chronic IBS.  Sucks to be you.”

”Hey, but let me be a sport, ok, no hard feelings. I’ll buy y’all a round if you give me a bit of advice, it’s about my neighbors.”

They don’t mind being insulted, because they’re locally famous in this these rural parts, so they agree, just another crazy story to share on Instagram.

”So, here’s my problem.  My neighbor’s dog keeps killing my chickens.  This has been going on for a couple years now and the neighbor refuses to do anything about it, considers this to be my problem, for having chickens.

“Being the solution-oriented person that I am, I’ve got to solve this problem.  But, being a dog-lover I hate to shoot the dog, or poison the dog.  So, I thought what if I just break the dog’s leg, that way he can’t chase the chickens?”

Wide eyes and astonished looks from the peanut mob.

Greased-up fat turd replies and all nod in unison, “You’ve got to give up your chickens, DU-UH!”

grey bird in close up photography
Photo by Markus Distelrath on Pexels.com