Some things in life go relatively unnoticed until they are over.
For some people it is childhood. For some friendship. For some family ties. For others a good job. And for many life itself. For those starving to death-----is it all something of a lie, something beyond nightmares, something beyond a mother’s smile? Yes, life was a lie, a promise unkempt, a body denied, a mind spoiled, a soul unnoticed by man…..and their god. Though not unnoticed by God. Will starvation ever end? No. Will humans notice? Not really. Human reaction to suffering is instinctive, self-preserving. The idea of Christ’s love and compassion is inhuman. Modern day ‘christs’ are superheroes, who notice evil, but cannot see deprivation of the body as worth their time. These ‘heroes’ reflect our lack of compassion for starving masses. If we notice starvation we may put ourselves in peril.
The corpses are noticed, the body count tallied. Counting the dead is a job, a secure job. Reinstituting the lie is another. What is the lie?---that the starving matter. Be sure to notice the lie. Then be sure to do nothing.

Do you still believe the IT myth?

The latest Newsweek cover story attempts to perpetuate the IT myth....that IT is saving the human race. The article wreaks of self interest and east coast patronizing. The droids can fry eggs for breakfast, but they cannot stop 30,000 humans from starving to death each day. It appears the Google and Apple nerds don't give a rip either.
The droids tell the nerds that IT remains a profitable investment, since more humans are being born than dying.

THE SIXTIES

The other day sittin around bitchin and moaning about how I missed out on the Sixties. You know,....how my parents never let us off the farm; how life would have been so different, so better.

No one sitting at the picnic table outside the apartment complex is buying my bitching. Their eyes range from boredom to skepticism to loathing. A voice interrupts our debate, a voice from above....from the second floor stairway.

"The Sixties is internal." She smiles at us all puffing on our cigs. She smiles on our weak dispositions. She smiles down upon our confusion and sense of being lost. I turn away from her, to the table of companions for help. But there is no one to be seen. How odd. Where had my companions gone so quickly? Where had.......gone? I couldn't remember his name. I couldn't remember any of their names. Bizarre!!

"Don't worry about them. You never really needed any of that crowd." She speaks as my eyes search the courtyard for signs of my friends.

"Did you see where they went," I ask increduously?
"They're gone.....just like The Sixties." Her calm voice is firm, definitive.
"Bullshit!!" Fear is creeping in like a fog.....cold and clamy.
"It's true," she says. "You create things in your mind."

Now she is closer, near the bottom of the stairway. I feel threatened.

"So what's your story?.....what are you doing here," I say defensively?
She pauses on the steps...... that mischievious smile, those piercing eyes. She speaks.
"Of course.......that is entirely up to you."

Tornado Aftermath

Terence and I are helping a hay customer clean up his alfalfa fields after the storm. He lives northwest of AL near Manchester. The place where we are working is an old abandoned farm place where this guy built some huge sheds to store hay, and he also parks farm equipment there. An old dilapidated abandoned house sits on a high spot in the yard. The old house survived. It now looks about at utter destruction. Tree trunk stubs, a foot and a half in diameter. Metal sheds lay in a twisted heap. Grain bins full of grain toppled over. Augers and equipment tossed about. Huge sheets of metal wrapped around a field cultivator like a piece of tin foil. Debris from a neighbor's destroyed garage lays scattered in the fields. Pieces of heavy corrugated metal from somewhere, ripped and mutilated into small pieces.

A child's toy tractor, its axles bent, lays lost and alone in the hay field.
The old house, with it's dark empty windows, looks further. The path of this monster appears to be nearly a half mile wide. Maybe there were multiple tornadoes? The further the house looks the more destruction....more sheds destroyed. Groves of old stand oaks shredded and mangled, the remaining leaves turning gray and black from the abuse. Roofs gone from houses. There is the smell of burning wood as people cremate massive piles of destroyed trees. The mangled remains of a large grain bin lays in a road ditch, rolled across a corn field like a toy. A machine shed... the strongest made.. has imploded, destroying equipment inside.


The old house can see the damage stretches to the horizon in either direction, mile after mile of destruction. It is amazed at how many houses survived utter destruction about. One house has been lifted from its foundation and set down nearly 50 feet away, still intact!

The old house saved many memories over the years. It will not forget this monster storm.

ESCAPE FROM MEDIA PRISON

Three months on the run following my escape. Hiding places are few. The airports are swarming with media-bots....television screens, ads, and cellphones. Slurking from town to town on dusty dark roads, slowed by a few remaining chains...remnants of Media Prison. Billboards and electronic digital signs scan the main roads for any attempted escapees. Restaurants and bars are sure places to avoid. On my seventh pair of ear-plugs, which sometimes cause ear-aches, but nothing compared to the pain in Media Prison. The daily beatings and routine rapes, the media pimps on the prowl for more meat, the wealth of internal crime upon humanity.....all these sought to murder my Self.

And out here who can be trusted?......not taxis, not buses, not trains, not those who offer me a ride. Not even home. All these are sectors of Media Prison. The maniacal obsessive search for information has imprisoned so many. Billions imprisoned as Media Prison adds more walls to freedom.

During these three months my health has improved tremendously. That horrible aching....the incessant addictive need to know the latest....has dissipated. And it feels great! Ridding my Self of Media memories is more difficult. The scars are deep. The damn-age still burns.

Resting now on soft sand.... my back to a cliff, my face to an open ocean....I wonder. Will Media Prison find me? Will I become tired of running, and turn my Self over to the dogs, the bright search lights, the never ending beatings from Information, the Media Prison bosses and thugs, and to the mercy of the billions of inmates in Media Prison??

I shiver, and close my eyes.

“El Viaje Definitivo” (The Definitive Journey)

. . . and I will leave. But the birds will stay, singing:and my garden will stay, with its green tree,with its water well.

Many afternoons the skies will be blue and placid,and the bells in the belfry will chime,as they are chiming this very afternoon.

The people who have loved me will pass away,and the town will burst anew every year.
But my spirit will always wander nostalgic in the same recondite corner of my flowery garden.

CRY BABY PUBLIC REFUSES OBAMA

The spoiled american public(with the upper-class as mentors) believe it is their right to live lavish lifestyles no matter the circumstances....the poor who beg for assistance while toting cell-phones, name brand clothes, big screen TVs, and chrome wheels on their vehicles......the "struggling" middle-class that refuse to sacrifice many of their expensive obscene habits (i.e. three car garages, vacations, RVs, $5 lattes, $4000 lawnmowers, etc, etc.)....remember.....these are seen as a RIGHT, not a choice of lifestyle. And when asked to give them up they cry foul. There is no need to explain the upper-class. Their actions speak for themselves. In the end you reap what you sow. I shed no tears for this or the next generation. Their insistance that they can "text" their way to success, that political protests take place on Facebook, that technology(the new religion) will solve the growth of corruption, poverty, greed, ...all these are a convenient myth to satisfy lazy bodies and minds.Obama asked the american people to volunteer, and to get off their fat asses. Most refuse. It is too much to ask. How dare anyone ask such! It is un-american.