Reclaiming Time (part 1)

I turn 49 next week. Nearly half a century here and I have recorded a good bit of my journey. My intention is to stick around a good bit more, most days I feel I’ve surely got another 50 to go.

Maybe no one, or more precisely, a precious few, care to read my records or ramblings. This blog is maybe nothing more than the diaries I’ve written from ages 12-45, only to eventually discard. That is on paper, easy to eliminate, by fire, or compost, or any other number of ways. My online ramblings are permanent, or at least their permanence or lack there of, is out of my control, completely.

It is sometimes like a daily offense, just that fact alone, yet I know I could walk away from it at any moment. It is seeped in a weakness I share with many others.  Monitor yourself vs stop monitoring yourself. Share yourself vs retreat inward. Public vs private space.

I feel I was pushed out of academia largely on issues concerning privacy—my own, and my students. Yet on the other hand, my life is quite the open book, much more than Handy Hubby appreciates, I know. In any case, it’s hard to complain when I’m glad it happened.

On ‘ratemyprofessors.com’ I’d had scathing performance reviews so much so I had to stop looking there after only two visits. That was many years ago and I’ve avoided my ‘public profile’ ever since, but I never lost my teaching jobs until I said, “No, I won’t do that.”

I will not violate my students’ privacy in this way.  I will not become their task-master.  Cheerleader is one thing, drill sergeant is quite another.  I will not step on this slippery slope of the complete surveillance grid, no matter how you try to sell it or push it.  I will not simply follow orders.  I will not accept whatever comes down the pipeline without question.

Indoctrination is not education. Social conditioning should never be the aim of teaching.  That was why I went toward academia in the first place, because I was apparently duped into believing that didn’t happen here. This was not McDonalds. This was not the Army.

Online now I see the world erupting. Academics and scientists dismissed readily as complete frauds.  Hollywood is satanic, the United States is a corporation under maritime law, elite reptilians rule over us all, the moon is a mirage, and the Earth may very well be flat.

And I’m one of the precious few who say, without a hint of mocking, ‘BRING IT ON!”

The weather is being manipulated, I know that for sure. I saw through the staged political-media theater since the Iran-Contra hearings. I lived in Mena, Arkansas and spoke with folks, and that’s all I’m saying here about that. I heard directly, first person, enough to make me understand reality as I had not before.

The weather has been weaponized. Our government was usurped long ago. Now connect those two dots.

There is still a denial in the general public to face the dire facts though they are surrounding us for anyone with the courage to look and discover.

I do not claim to be an authority, I am not, will not and never want to be. Indoctrination was never my intention and never will be.  That my intentions might be misunderstood provokes me to spend a bit of time and words unraveling . . .

I am a steward of this land, that’s what called me here. And for the next few posts I’d like to share what that means to me, for those precious few.

redneckholiday1

Naked Sunday and redneck holiday fun!  🙂 🙂

selfie
pensive and painted in pokeberry (summer 2017)

 

Motivational interview of the week, considering it’s a miserable 95 degrees again, after a few unseasonably gorgeous days feeling of fall:

http://www.geoengineeringwatch.org/geoengineering-creating-freeze-fry-extremes/

Meet the Grand Magician of Is

“He was dedicated to systems all the way down. He wanted to be surrounded and comforted by a structure that would eliminate the need for him to do anything—while he pretended that was not the case.”

So comforted by the structure, he willingly gave over his will to it. He eagerly surrendered his time, his energy, his creativity, his very essence just to be absorbed into the structure that both mothers and smothers him.

Life Skills Stolen: A Lesson in Hurricanes

About an hour’s drive south over 50 inches of rain has been recorded.  Here, we had two inches, barely enough to moisten the parched topsoil, not enough to create even a small puddle for the ducks to romp through.  The creek remains low, the pond empty.

Of course Houston is no stranger to floods, or Galveston, or anywhere or anyone who has lived along the Gulf South for any short length of time.  While we lived there we were so fortunate as to experience two so-called “100 year hurricanes” in just three years — during Hurricane Katrina we were living in New Orleans, during Hurricane Ike we were living in Galveston.

I refused to live in the Gulf zone, anywhere, after that.  The folks that remain must really love it there, or be more resilient than I am, or have lives and jobs and loved ones they can’t bare to do without.  I respect their preferences and choices, but I chose that we should get the hell out.

Sometimes a woman has to put her foot down.  Or at least, compromise, with pleas and tears.  No my dear, we cannot move back to Spain, Hubby concluded, but we can move north of Hurricane Zone and south of Tornado Alley.

OK, it’s a deal!  I wonder, maybe more women should be making that sort of deal for the good of their sanity and pocketbooks?  I don’t want to give unsolicited advice, but if you choose to remain in the Gulf, it’s only logical and pragmatic and wise in every way that you are emotionally, financially, spiritually capable of living in dangerous regions.

I had long had a respect for self-reliance, having lived in Eastern Europe, where to be Šikovnyý (handy, skillful)  was taken to an art form.  They didn’t take their Skoda to the mechanic, if they couldn’t fix it, a neighbor could.  They cooked from scratch, they mended clothes, they had gardens and grew vegetables in them usually, not grass.  There was scarcely any packaging, the waste–I remember that as most impressionable of all–there was hardly any waste.

Of course that changed fast as soon as the Soviets left and the new Big Brother took over.  This was progress.  Goods filling the shelves, boxes and cans filling the garbage.  It was as fascinating to watch as it was hard to watch.

It’s amazing how fast life skills can be lost.  Or maybe I should say stolen, because that’s what I really think.  The skills that kept cultures thriving and self-reliant and community-driven are being stolen from right under our noses, and our parents’ and grand-parents’ and now even great grand-parents’ noses. For the U.S. at least, this goes way back.

Commodify everything, even the very air we breath and water we need to survive. You are not a good capitalist unless you are willing to drown cities at will in order to profit nicely and have the added benefit of restructuring at will.

See, what ends up happening in these recurrent disasters is those folks who are not self and/or community reliant, are not independent and are most often not the least bit Šikovnyý get in dire circumstances every few years and the government and their communities and extended family and distant friends and loads of complete strangers feel absolutely compelled to help them out.  Usually through agencies and funds that are syphoning and squandering these do-gooders’ money.  There is not only here what Dr. Phil would surely call “enabling” unhealthy lifestyles, but also in some cases, even a dose of pathological altruism.

I saw after Hurricane Katrina that actually what was happening in New Orleans was a land-grab.  I suspect the same and similar is happening with every weather event, and, to go even further, these events, weather and otherwise, are being manufactured.

If you find this preposterous, incredulous, impossible, you need only spend a few hours at these sites to uncover exactly how this is done and has been done for many decades.

Jim Lee’s Weather Modification History

Dane Wigington’s Geoengineering Watch

I know it sounds odd, but those two hurricanes were perfect impetuses for positive change in our lives.  Hubby never wanted to live in New Orleans.  I never wanted to live in Galveston.  We both fancied the idea of having chickens.

And chickens, being the gateway livestock, led to ducks and turkeys, pigs and sheep, goats and . . .

I no longer send money or volunteer, as I had long done, to anyone affected by a disaster through any organization, especially the government.  The weather modification programs, and therefore the weather chaos, is a problem they are creating, which they want the public to bare the brunt of on the front end through taxes and the back through disaster relief.  It’s a con.

Yes, folks suffer.  I get that and I am feeling for them and sending them prayers.  Mostly my prayers are saying, “If you can’t handle living in an area that is repeatedly a disaster zone, do like me, and put your foot down, and get the hell out of the Gulf for good.”

It’s just not worth it. It’s not going to get better.

 

30 Days Clean

I got my 30 day chip and then relapsed.  I was nervous about telling Handy Hubby.  I couldn’t decide if it was better to admit it immediately, or to wait until he was home from work.  In person, that’s better, right?

Or, was I just stalling.

August, my annual month of failures.  I was doing so good; I was so confident. Then BAM, it’s always the same, from white to black in an instant.  What is this mysterious pull we call addiction?  It’s more powerful than the will of the most powerful around us.  In my circle of fellow addicts not even a one commented they’d noticed I’d been away, so absorbed are these friends in addictions of their own.

I was on the wagon, as they say.  Or is it off the wagon?  I can never remember.  It felt good, really good.  I didn’t want it anymore, I could see through its tempting illusions, the anxiety and regret and guilt had vanished.  I was above it, looking down on my previous weaknesses as a queen might a pauper.  Over-confidence, perhaps.  Maybe I should’ve gone to a meeting.

Is there a Fakebooks Anonymous?  In fact, a whole Escape Social Media extended program for abusers (preferably in Hawaii)?

I see acute and chronic symptoms in folks all around me, yet few of us even try to escape it even knowing it’s being monitored and manipulated by the CIA, the NSA and who knows who in the world else.  The evidence and confessions cannot be ignored, the cognitive dissonance cannot continue to control us all forever.

surveillance

I wanted to find someone, that’s what did it, my relapse.  How sad is that?  I had no other way to find this person except through FB.  This is unhealthy dependence, a solution that creates another problem, quite a few more in fact.

hooligans1

But I found our sweet pups there!

I have 300+ “friends” there!

How will I know what’s happening with the half dozen actually friends who post there?  Don’t I learn what’s going on in the world there?

Every new person I meet wants to connect on FB; it’s one of the first questions now between strangers who want to stay in touch.  Are you on FB?

Can I say ‘no’?  It seems almost . . . impolite.  Not to mention, a bit suspicious.  Who’s not on FB these days?  Might he be a criminal? Who is she hiding from?

Whether on the wagon or off it, round and round I go.

Maybe I need some FB methadone.  Like, to go to back to my favorite old comfort zones:  Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Charlie’s Angels.

Or, maybe Dr. Phil can help me.

serveimage

 

 

 

 

 

Homestead Love-Hate

I hate August on the homestead.  There, I’ve admitted it. I can’t stand pretending.  Sitting at the kitchen table looking at the last of about 250 pounds of pears, I could almost cry.

I’d like to sell it all right now and move to Fiji.  I imagine moving permanently into a rented beach hut complete with pool boy serving me colorful fruity cocktails all day.  Not processing pears.  Not plucking dozens of ducks.  Not gaping helplessly at the crops becoming engulfed, scorched, withering to their deaths.

Handy Hubby could even join me there if he wanted to, it’s not his fault after all.  The bugs, the heat, my aching hands, the better part of an entire nation on vacation, as if that weren’t bad enough.

Because then on top of it all is the garden.  Every year, the garden horror show, unrecognizable from a month ago, my annually recurring failure at keeping nature mildly tamed.

augustgarden

In anticipation of my August mood, this year I planted loads of flowers at the garden entrance.  Flowers and puppies are just about all that’s keeping depression at bay.  Some are miserable in the dead of winter; I am miserable in the dead of summer.

cowpeasMowing stopped mid-way for stabbing arthritic pain in my wrists and fingers.  I don’t care anymore.  I can’t care anymore.  There are plenty of cow peas and a few ripe melons in that mess, if you dare.  After weeks at work, this is what Hubby must come home to, and rescue me from, furthering my shameful failure.

okra
Okra successfully outmaneuvering the pernicious grasses, but I don’t like okra.

 

happypig1The pigs still have their wee escape, and I have mine.

Puppy love.

Puppy pics are way more fun than chemtrail pics.

bathday

I could be taking photos of the regular assault in our skies with the disgusting aerosols of climate engineering, as I was for a number of months.  Another failure it seems, because I can’t bare it, it doesn’t seem to be helping anything at all, except for normalizing abhorrent “science”.

nothingisreal

I simply have no more capacity or patience for folks who don’t, can’t or won’t see, or who don’t care, or who like, the whole-scale rape, murder and pillage of our planet.  When will it stop?  When will the madness heal?  When will a mass of mankind have had enough of bowing to their masters as they crack the whip on the laws of nature?

I’m on vacation alright, just like the bulk of a nation, it’s just a vacation on my window seat, directly under the a/c unit, where I’m grateful to continue my climate engineering research thanks to these more tireless and consistent deeply concerned citizens.

http://www.geoengineeringwatch.org/

https://stopsprayingus.com/

http://zerogeoengineering.com/

Cheese-making: Science and Sensuality

Cheeses currently in our aging fridge, which is nothing more than a cheap beverage model sadly impersonating a cave in Switzerland: Swiss (of course), Tomme (another Alpine cheese), Munster, Camembert (wrapped in fig leaves), Pepper Jack,  Farmhouse Cheddar (cloth-wrapped), Gouda, Dill Havarti, Mozzarella (the old-fashioned way), Ricotta.  Plus, in the kitchen fridge: yogurt, kefir, Mexican queso, and chocolate ice cream–all homemade with the freshest Grade A, raw milk from small farm, grass-fed cows available for purchase in East Texas.

These are the kind of cheeses one has a tough time finding where to legally buy, or sell, not only in America, but in quite a few other Western countries as well.  In most of the countries who consider themselves ‘free’ as far as I’m aware, acquiring licensing for everything dairy under the Federal sun will still not grant you the right to sell such cheeses.  Big Brother is so very worried about our health, after all.
http://theplate.nationalgeographic.com/2015/09/30/some-like-it-raw-the-state-of-unpasteurized-cheese-in-the-u-s/

Some of these are cheeses the way our ancestors made them–even using fig sap as rennet and kefir as starter culture.  Others of them have been made possible only with the help of modern science–freeze-dried cultures in order to create the holes and flavor of Swiss, for example, or the orange-rinded stinky varieties like Munster or Limburger, or the blue veins of the pungent Roquefort, the reliable white mold of a Camembert–which make it possible to imitate, with a reasonable degree of success, the most famous of region-specific cheeses we’ve come to know and love over the generations.

The first time I tasted cheese that did not come wrapped in plastic I was a teenager in France.  It was also the first time I tasted milk straight from the cow.  I was stunned to realize these products, considered the same from my own home to my host family’s home, had almost nothing in common.  To the eye they appeared congruent, but to the other senses they were not even distant cousins.

But it’s one thing to harness an appreciation for the depth and subtitles of a finely- crafted cheese, it’s quite another to think you can make one.  In Texas.  In an ‘aging fridge’ from Wal-mart.  With $7/gallon milk you drive 3 hours to acquire and sometimes using cultures manufactured in a lab.

Is it just for the love of cheese?  It’s true, while doubtless they can’t compete with their cave-aged predecessors, still available in their natural state to only a precious few, I’ve made some of the best cheeses I’ve tasted available in this neck of the Piney Woods.

Handy Hubby appreciates my rather expensive and quite time-consuming hobby, but that’s just a bonus.  I think these old skills and crafts are crucial to maintain and pass along to future generations, that’s for sure.  But none of these good reasons would be enough, even all together, if it weren’t for the pleasure of the process.

The sensuality of cheese-making cannot be over-stated and to describe it would take poetry far superior than is my capacity to create.  This is a hobby that touches, demands, cultivates every one of our senses and a fair amount of intellect as well.  A whole-minded approach is crucial for success, because process alone will only get you so far.

You may scoff and think a cheese is a cheese, it’s a matter of taste alone, and they mostly taste the same.  If so, you poor, poor dear.

“Those . . . from whom nature has withheld the legacy of taste, have long faces, and long eyes and noses, whatever their height there is something elongated in their proportions.  Their hair is dark and unglossy, and they are never plump, it was they who invented trousers.”

Anthelme Brillat-Savarin The Physiology of Taste quoted in A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman

You may laugh and say . . . “sound?”  If cheese-making requires a subtle practice of every sense than that includes sound . . . how silly.

Someday I will make the case for sound in good cheese-making, because I think there’s a case to be made.  In addition to my own experimentation, I suspect I need search no further than the many monasteries made famous for their cheeses for more supporting evidence.

Cheese is still more pleasure than exudes the senses in the thrill of retrieving and treasuring a fading art, and in marrying the inevitable couple of progress and tradition.

“We are all served more and more by factory machines, maybe inevitably, and by schedules, even our own, and in time, as has often been pointed out, we come to serve them.  Some of us are becoming chafed by it all.  We seek to reaffirm ourselves, to do and make for ourselves, to find new ways to do so–many of them admittedly old ways, but new and revitalizing ones to us and our friends.  We want to find out how the basic components of our lives are made and come to us to use.  We seek to become part once more of the processes, and possessors once more of the details of our own existence.”

The Cheeses and Wines of England and France, with Notes on Irish Whiskey

by John Ehle

cheesebooks

A few favorite references and a favorite resource:

2016quesocheesedip-1024x932
The Promiseland Farm

If you want to start somewhere, this is a super easy cheese even a picky American kid would surely like, think Velveeta, only healthy.  http://thepromiselandfarm.com/queso-cheese-spread-dip/