You sided with the abuser like a fucking cliché.You told your son he shouldn’t displease his mother when he showed you the bite marks and bruises.You chugged Nyquil while your husband raped your daughters and pretended to faint whenever they tried to tell you.You invited the priest for dinner every Thursday and called your son…
via You Sided With The Abuser Like A Fucking Cliché — Caitlin Johnstone
He now knows I’m hunting him, no doubt. I’ve shot twice and missed. I’ve never been a good shot. Now, he knows that. He strategically positions himself like a bull’s eye in the small window of wires just above the transformer. His predecessor did that too. What are the odds?
His predecessor hit the grass thanks to Handy Hubby, a far better shot than I. It’s not like we make a sport out of shooting birds. We love the birds! But please, don’t let their small stature, or innocent and cute demeanor cloud the fact that they are really loud, opportunistic, clever and occasionally infuriating.
Did you know mockingbirds will go on all night long? So, when they’re right above the bedroom window, I’m sure you can imagine how exceptionally annoying it is. That is, if you’ve ever heard the mockingbirds go on and on all night long. They must be the most annoying-sounding birds ever, right after guinea hens. It would take a real saint to suffer through it incessantly, I’m sure.
The mockingbirds are, as James True has made me deeply consider, gifts of Ba’al. They force me to get up from my cushions, to feel the shame in my lack of skill, to suffer their shrill monotony, to become a better shot.
They make me understand that irritation is a very powerful motivator for me. And my own limited threshold for verbal abuse, and my own cunning, and sensitivity, and impatience, and so on. For better, but moreover, worse.
I got lucky this time, don’t know why, seem to be riding that wave lately, at last. I heard him out, while weeding in the garden. He went on and on, right over my head. I was so tempted to get the gun. But I thought, let me try my patience today. A little self-test. I didn’t notice he’d gone until a day or two afterward, remarking on the silence suddenly, while weeding once again in the garden.
How calm and quiet, what’s changed?
Low and behold, the mockingbird was gone, and no replacement has yet appeared. But, the same morning I realized this, which was yesterday, I had to rush our old dog Papi to the vet, half his tongue is paralyzed, well into his throat and he can’t eat, is drooling badly, has a fever, and they’re keeping him for the weekend under sedation.
He’s old and sometimes as annoying as the mockingbirds. He’s always been our ‘problem child’. It’s been fairly constant for his now 12 years—in and out of the vet for snake bites and ear issues and inexplicable poisonings. He’s fond of disappearing for days, one time he came home clearly overdosed on mushrooms. He drives me into a regular frenzy by, in general, being a real hooligan. I miss him already, a lot.
Not that these random instances might be related or anything, just noting the timing, just in case.
Get well quick old buddy, your annoying antics are missed already.
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.
https://www.lewrockwell.com/2020/04/allan-stevo/the-resistance-grows-10-examples-of-americans-resisting/ By Allan Stevo It is becoming increasingly evident that the lockdowns are an over-reaction and a power grab by power hungry and sociopathic authorities not being kept in check. Henry David Thoreau writes “Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.” As if channeling the spirit of the man who […]
A must watch, oh how I know I needed it, still laughing! Thanks for the share, Decker
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.”
Best poem of the year, thank you friend of art.
The Russians and the Chinese are your enemy. Not the oligarchic class in your own country that has been exploiting, propagandizing, deceiving, oppressing and robbing you every moment of your life since you were born. The Russians and the Chinese.The Russians and the Chinese are your enemy. Not the people who have been engineering and…
via The Russians And The Chinese Are Your Enemy — Caitlin Johnstone
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.
Upon leaving that One Season World
There’s a spell that’s cast
and when that storm it came at
A different hour
This time, I did not cower
Instead, it brought me power
The dogs moved to
nestle at my breast
when night was cast that strange day
Because, I guess, they know, no, other way
Oh! They cheered, She’s got it Down, that Terrain!
and She’ll flog your ass
half-passed insane
You think that’s funny!
Me, too, my friend,
Please, chump, come, again
and again.
Have you ever known the peace of a country dawn?
Or heard the melody of nature’s song?
Or felt the stars on a midnight’s meadow?
I say you have not!
For if so, you would not make me choose
The cement of your cities
Over the flowers in my fields
Or the roar of your traffic
Over the buzz in my gardens
Or the prison of your office
Over the breeze in my heart
Or the intransigence of your schools
Over the wisdom of my soul
Yet if I trust it’s only in your ignorance
Then I never confront your evil
