This is a delema that plagues the whole world right now.
It is a thought-it is our life.
Stay awake-wont you, because this is big.
I’ll try to let you in on it if you can just pay attention.
We all know right now that this is serious, but is it as bad as we all think?
Yes I’m afraid it is and if you don’t obey the rules of the land you could be in for a longer haul than would naturely come to you by it.
It is better to let this go unspoken and have us follow all the rules that have been set down, but be damn sure that you are listening for the right opportunities to get us out of this.
There are many people on one side of this tenuous track and the rest on the other-so stay straight and don’t be swayed by the wrong information. After all the solution is the the details.
So stay safe and try to do the right thing for all.
This is a delema that plagues the whole world right now.
To do what you want is almost impossible without a few drags along the way. But hidden behind every drag there is the journey. And at the end it’s all you have.
The point of a pencil faces west and its crusty eraser faces east
so within a second I have shared a thought about an object within my sight-line
Is this pencil filled with graphite? Who knows-but I’m trying-ever so hard to get this site up and working.
Will it ever be the site of a future writer or will it turn out to be the gibberish it appears to be.
Only you guys can comment with your feedback and tell me if I should pursue this dream or leave it as it is-the ramblings of an almost successfull writer…
I’m back and can’t wait to let you into my head. Please be patient, and you will be well rewarded with some kooky stuff that can be absorbed into your brains in a flash.
In the Heat
In the heat the devil lives.
Every time a fire burns and destroys Satan has come to visit.
He resides in a dark place with a ghostly image that we only get a glimpse of when we stare at the beginnings of his flame.
All that is malevolent is in between his bright hypnotizing curves and waves.
There is strength and fear within the sharp bright orange edges the blaze.
When a small fire turns into a blaze, it destroys all it can as it creeps faster along its path of doom.
Water may be the cool solvent we need to destroy him, for water is natural and is present in all of us.
So take heed and guard yourself and your loved ones from his hidden ghost within the flame, because it might someday be your demise.
Leon Fishbone was scared.
He was shaking in his scales as the butcher picked him out of the tank of water where he had resided for the last month.
Previously he lived amongst the other Salmon on the coast, until one day a net swooped down and caught him along with many of his friends.
All that remained of them, after years of living near the bottom of the ocean, was an upsweep of sand that eventually settled into a newborn hill.
Leon always knew there was a chance he might get caught, but on the morning of the first cold day in October it gave him shutter when the net dragged him up to the top of the water then threw him along with his buddies into a big hole of an even bigger ship.
Each fish weighed at least five pounds and the pressure with one of them on top of the other resulted in the demise of some.
Leon felt fortunate to have survived the holocaust and flapped his fins in the glass tank he finally released into.
But soon enough he decided that this was the end for him, because he had heard tell of what happened to most of the Salmon he had arrived with.
He overheard it from the fisherman on the boat he’d been captured, but chose not to, but chose not to believe it until he listened to a conversation, through the glass wall between himself and the butchers in the market.
The word was out that they would be taken away and exploited in the fish market as they froze their fins off waiting to be purchased by one of the big supermarket chains.
From there they would be cut up and sold to the highest bidder.
Yes that was Leon’s fear and on a cold November morning at the pier it became reality and it was the end for him.
Because, after all, he was really and always would have been part of the food chain.
What if every time you updated your computer you saved a life?
What if every time you pressed the call button on your phone you saved a tree?
And if each time you tapped your Ipad escape button, you freed an innocent hostage.
Negotiations galore; No I don’t think so.
Made up scenarios; Perhaps.
But they are all subjective and open to opinion.
In a world where less should be more, we follow rules and the rules here are enter and execute.
The power of the finger aligns with a keyboard, is all energy, which floats through the air via satellite, mixed with ones aura. And it comes back and tries to save us all.
We have moved into an age of obsessive behavior, because our present inventions have turned us into drones that follow their rules.
We have become a society of conditioned beings, that are told what to do and with what device to do it.
And since there is really nothing wrong with that, why not think of it as a true save. One which is a chance that mankind can heal itself.
So go ahead and press that key.
You might just do some good after all.
A Rose Called Dirt
The wind blows about my body and pushes my petals down towards the torn up black sheeting beneath me.
I know I still have some orange and red left inside I can see it in the reflection from the plastic. So why do they say the word Dirt and point and laugh.
I still have a breath of life in me. I can feel it.
I would like to shout and make them stop calling me Dirt, because the sun still shines and I’m always trying to lift up my stem and support my petals so they can see me at different angles, but why do they laugh and point.
I came from a good bush back then, when I was just a bud and each year as the spring rolled around I blossomed into a rose that was nurtured and shown at many a flower show.
I was the biggest and most beautiful flower at the ceremony and I even won first prize and my owner, the one who planted the bush I came from, got a first prize ribbon, for her skill in raising me to the level I was.
Even though it has been almost five years since my planting and it did wear on all of us who inhabited our bush, I always thought people would enjoy us for what we were, the most beautiful flowers in the world. And indeed they seem to enjoy all of my many red, yellow and white sisters, but somehow, when they’d pass me it was a disaster.
I’d hear, “Oh how lovely that rose is and then they’d point to the bottom of the bush near the ground and say that one looks like the color of dirt.”
Then I heard from the woman’s child, who was about twelve years old, “Why don’t we call it Dirt. Yeah that’s a good name for him. Do you think we can come back and see him next month? He’s really cool. I like him”
The boy turned back to me and waved.”
I did overhear the mother tell the boy that the summer would be over by then, and the roses will have died, so if he would like to visit Dirt again it would have to be real soon, because it didn’t look like the rose had muxh time left and he seemed to be listing and almost falling to the ground, but said she hoped they could visit at least one more time, but perhaps they could bring a camera and take a picture of him.
The boy seemed alright with that because I noticed him smiling up at his mom.
The photo thing seemed like a really good idea to me, but the more I thought about what they were saying a small droplet from inside came tumbling down my petal, which left me with a weak feeling, so that when the warm breeze blew my way I could hardly fight it any longer.
Then I thought, I have to make it until they come back; at least for that.
Then I thought about my early years and the flower shows. They must have taken some photos of me then in all my glory. But where are they. Look at this garden I am in. No one takes care of us, why are we here like this, perhaps a new photo would help.
The next day the boy and his mother came back to see me and this time they pulled and prodded my body until I got free. Now I am being held by the boy and his mom is taking photo off me and saying they were going to use it in an art show, and somehow I would be preserved and last forever.
They called the piece A Rose Called Dirt
And to this day I am the only survivor of the old rose bush in the old forgotten garden
What if you found out that nobody liked you; that all the laughing at your jokes and compliments were bunk.
And if this were true what would you do?
Would you ignore it and go on or write in your journal or just cry yourself to sleep each night. But what if it wasn’t the real you they despised and put up with but a person who looked like you and was you in every reasonable way, except for your most important part, your heart, with a goodness and kindness that emitted but was rebuffed by anyone who did not look deeper into your soul where you were sensitive and thoughtful, but
would only see you as a phony and a put on.
What if that was the only way your personality could be and there was no way to change it, until now; right now; this minute and the true meaning of goodness was buried deep within you and no one recognized it, until today, when all hell broke lose in the world and you were its only salvation.
Oliver stood on the top step of the front entrance to his home.
Home to him and fourteen other people who inhabited the small apartment building of which each one of them called home.
But how could everyone’s home be at 1311 Causeway Drive. It was, after all, this was not a group home, even though each apartment was in close enough in proximity to warrant it.
The air at eight in the morning was thick from smog and humidity and the sky was beginning to unfold from blue to a soft grey, then to blackness, almost night.
A crackling sound erupted from what seemed to be beneath Oliver, which made him place his hands over his ears to blot it out.
The clouds were gone and darkness covered the sky.
The other tenants from the building piled out of their only elevator then shuffled down the stairs from their home and stood with Oliver on the steps, then eventually made their way to the sidewalk.
“What’s going on,” Ellie said holding her hands together in prayer. “Sweet Jesus, it’s the end of the world.”
Ellie was a hold over from the sixties, hippie era. She believed that one day the earth would give up and be enveloped in some sort of apocalyptic hiccup and this was it.
“Calm down. Calm down,” said Norton Penzer , a literary professor in his mid-fifties who taught at one of the universities uptown.
Oliver looked down his street only to see phantom groups of people hovering under street lights. Many of them were on their knees praying, while others stood erect with their hands waving in the air shouting “Save us. Oh my God. This is it. It ‘s finally happened.”