A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?
When I was five, huh? I just wanted to fly. Then, jump motorcycles, run fast, be GI Joe, be a singer in a Rock & Roll band, and make my Mom proud.
This post has been over 30 years in the making. Let me explain with a little back story. So, in 1987, a guy I knew in high school suggested three albums. Over a period of several months, this guy and I had drunken conversations about heavy metal. During this time, I knew hardly anything about the genre beyond the typical bands everyone listened to at the time, Van Halen, Motley Crue, and alike. Plus, I had one huge disadvantage. I was Black.
Today, no one gives two shakes about what music you like, but back then, in my region of the world, it was a big deal. I recall getting flack for my taste in music. However, this one guy would come up to me, and we’d rap about metal and drink beer. So, the last album he suggested I buy was King Diamond’s Abigail. He gave me the rundown on how King Diamond used to be with Mercyful Fate and all that. So, I bought the album without reservations because his previous recommendations were solid. In fact, I still listen to those artists.
I put on this album and was immediately thrown. Yeah, I was mindfucked. There was no one there telling me they loved me. No foreplay or heavy petting. Just take this, and you’re gonna like it; I did. Abigail was nothing like any music I had heard before. I sat for hours trying to figure out what I was listening to. All I knew was that I was drawn to it. None of my friends listened to this style of music, so I couldn’t discuss the album. For years, I’ve tried to find someone I could talk to about this album. Either they couldn’t stand King Diamond or never heard of him. I even had people question why a Black guy was listening to heavy metal. Without further ado or hyperbole, I present King Diamond’s Abigail. This entire album is some eerie shit!
“Abigail” is a concept album that tells a gothic horror story set in 1845. The narrative follows a young couple, Jonathan and Miriam La’Fey, who inherit a mansion. Seven mysterious horsemen warn them about a terrible fate awaiting them if they stay in the house. Ignoring the warning, they encounter the spirit of Abigail, a stillborn child whose spirit possesses Miriam, leading to a tragic and gruesome series of events.
The album’s storytelling is a standout feature, with each song advancing the plot while creating a vivid, eerie atmosphere. The lyrics, written by King Diamond, are rich in detail and character development, immersing the listener in the dark tale. Songs like “Arrival,” “The Family Ghost,” and “Black Horsemen” are essential pieces of the narrative puzzle, each contributing to the unfolding horror.
Musically, “Abigail” blends heavy metal, speed metal, and progressive elements. Its complex arrangements, technical proficiency, and King Diamond’s distinctive falsetto vocals characterize it. The album showcases the exceptional musicianship of the band members: Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner on guitars, Timi Hansen on bass, and Mikkey Dee on drums.
The guitar work on “Abigail” is particularly noteworthy. It features intricate riffs, harmonized solos, and melodic passages, enhancing the album’s dramatic effect. Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner’s dual guitar interplay is a highlight, providing both aggression and melodic depth. Tracks like “A Mansion in Darkness” and “The 7th Day of July 1777” display their technical prowess and ability to convey the album’s ominous mood.
The rhythm section, with Timi Hansen on bass and Mikkey Dee on drums, provides a solid foundation for the album’s intensity. Dee’s drumming is dynamic and precise, adding to the album’s relentless energy, while Hansen’s bass lines add depth and complexity to the compositions.
“Abigail” is steeped in themes of horror, possession, and the supernatural, drawing heavily from gothic fiction and classic horror films. The album’s lyrics are filled with vivid imagery, creating a cinematic experience for the listener. King Diamond’s theatrical vocal techniques, including his famous high-pitched falsetto and menacing growls, bring the characters and story to life.
The atmosphere of “Abigail” is dark and foreboding, achieved through the music and the production. The album was produced by King Diamond and Roberto Falcao, who crafted a sound that balances clarity with a raw, menacing edge. The production emphasizes the album’s dramatic dynamics, from the quiet, suspenseful moments to the explosive, intense sections.
Keyboards and sound effects further enhance the album’s eerie ambiance. These elements are used sparingly but effectively, adding to the overall sense of dread and tension. For instance, the haunting intro of “The Possession” and the chilling conclusion of “Black Horsemen” feature atmospheric sounds that contribute to the storytelling.
“Abigail” is widely regarded as one of the greatest concept albums in metal history and a defining work in King Diamond’s career. Its success helped establish King Diamond as a solo artist and set a high standard for narrative-driven metal albums. The album’s blend of horror themes, theatricality, and musical complexity has influenced countless metal bands and artists.
The impact of “Abigail” extends beyond its initial release. Many metal musicians have cited it as influencing numerous tribute performances and covers. The album’s storytelling approach has also paved the way for other concept albums in metal, encouraging artists to explore ambitious, narrative-driven projects.
King Diamond’s ability to create a cohesive and compelling story through music is a significant achievement, demonstrating the potential of the concept album format. “Abigail” remains a testament to his creativity and vision, showcasing his unique blend of horror and metal in a way that continues to resonate with fans.
“Abigail” by King Diamond is a masterful album that combines intricate storytelling, exceptional musicianship, and a haunting atmosphere to create a landmark in the metal genre. Its gothic horror narrative, driven by King Diamond’s distinctive vocals and the band’s technical prowess, has left an indelible mark on the world of heavy metal. More than three decades after its release, “Abigail” continues to be celebrated as a classic, influencing new generations of metal artists and captivating listeners with its dark, compelling tale.
Abigail, I know you’re in control of her brain, Abigail
And I know that you’re the one that’s speaking through her, Abigail
Miriam, can you hear me?
I am alive inside your wife
Miriam’s dead, I am her head
I am alive inside your wife
Miriam’s dead, I am her head
Abigail, don’t you think I know what you’ve done, Abigail
I’ll get a priest
He will know how to get her soul back
Oh, Jonathan, this is Miriam
Our time is out
Remember the stairs, the only way
Abigail, nothing I can do but give in, Abigail
Follow me to the crypt
Abigail, you aught to be reborn where you died, Abigail
Jonathan, I agree, yes, I do
I am alive inside your wife
Miriam’s dead, I am her head
Soon I’ll be free
Songwriters: Kim Bendix Petersen.
Thanks, Jim and Di, for coming up and hosting this theme.
I came up with potential responses to this prompt. Either would have been fine. However, I spent most of the night and a good part of the wee hours working. As a multi-genre artist, work could mean anything. Well, last night, I worked on character descriptions for my fiction. It’s nothing to conjure up a person and make them do stuff. However, sometimes I don’t have a clear picture of their appearance. If I don’t have a clear idea of how I can expect the reader to have one, so I worked on my descriptions.
I fed these descriptions into AI to see what it would render. First, I had to find an image generator that provided realistic renderings. I wasn’t looking for photo quality or anything, just potential mock-ups of the characters. After hours of tweaking, I don’t care how good your chair is; your body will tell you enough is enough. So, I called it quits and went to bed.
I realized something this morning while I had coffee. I truly enjoyed myself last night, but my realization didn’t stop there. It occurred to me that creating art is my jam. It’s the one simple thing that brings me joy.
Here are a few examples of the concepts I worked on last night
None of these renderings are final, but they provide direction as I continue to develop the appearance of these characters.
Here is my response to Writer’s Workshop
The sun through the 4th floor glass felt good, It was partly on my shoulder and partly on my face. It was good to the feel the warmth. I’d been so cold lately. Nothing, I did made me warm enough. Even when AC went out and it was 90’s degrees in the house, I was okay everyone was else, but they kept their complaints out of earshot. I appreciated that.
I’m sitting thinking about the one who got away. The one who was supposed to make things better and all that. I never knew if they really happened or was it something said we believed in publicly, but thought was a crock of shit privately. “The One” worked at Aunt Peg’s candy shop in the local mall. I must have spent hundreds of dollars on soft peppermint sticks that summer.
The neighborhood paperboy loved me. He made a dollar for every trip to the candy shop. You see, I never could muster up enough courage to actually go up to the counter and ask for the candy.
“Do you even like peppermint?” Maynard, the paperboy asked
I didn’t answer. I did my best to give him an evil leer. Although, I don’t think it was working very well.
“Look, if this is all about the girl? She’s right there. Just talk to her.” Maynard took his dollar and left. That was the last day of summer and I never said a word to the girl.
I still eat soft peppermint sticks when I can find them. Those puff balls seem to have cornered the market. Some marketing genius started this whole mess.
Yep, Aunt Peg’s soft peppermint sticks were the best!
Here is my response to MLMM Photo Challenge
I surveyed my kingdom and the lush gardens before me from my perch on the railing. There’s a sign by the gate with a picture of me. It says something below it. They call me Stanley. I wonder which one came up with that name. The humans often walked these paths, marveling at the beauty of nature, but none could truly appreciate it as I did. I am the peacock, the jewel of this realm, and my feathers are the crown jewels.
I strut through the gardens daily, tail feathers trailing behind me like a royal train. The sun catches the iridescent blues and greens, making them shimmer like the waters of a hidden lagoon. Today, I decided to take a break and observe my domain from this higher vantage point.
The air was fresh with the scent of blooming flowers, and the trees whispered secrets to each other in the gentle breeze. I watched as a family strolled by, their eyes widening in awe as they noticed me. The little ones pointed and gasped, tugging at their parents’ sleeves to share their discovery. I preened, feeling a surge of pride. Even the youngest humans recognized my magnificence.
Beyond the garden’s edge, the world seemed a distant dream. Within the bounds of my green paradise, life moved peacefully. Birds flitted from tree to tree, and the occasional squirrel scurried past, always keeping a respectful distance. They knew, without a doubt, who reigned here.
The sun began to dip lower in the sky as the day wore on, casting a golden glow over the garden. I could hear the murmurs of the visitors growing softer as they made their way to the exits, reluctant to leave this haven of beauty. Soon, the garden would be mine again, a quiet sanctuary where I could rest and dream of new ways to dazzle my audience come morning.
For now, I stood still, a statue of elegance and grace, soaking in the admiration of those who lingered. I am the peacock, guardian of this garden, and in my feathers, the world sees the magic of nature.
Do you remember life before the internet?
This is sort of a tricky question. It’s tricky because a version of the internet has been around since the 60’s. However, this version of the internet, wasn’t available to the public. To be honest, only the select few even knew of it existence. Now, the version that this prompt is properly referring to became public in late 80’s. I already a working adult, so I remember the beginning of the transition well.
I also remember life prior to this transition. In the age of technical ignorance, things were quite simple, but very time consuming. We did things by hand. In the 80’s we had computers, but we did not have hard drives or cloud storage. Instead of carrying a flash drive in my pocket. I carried a library card, bus pass, and a floppy disk stuffed between the pages of my notebook with my stories in it.
In the pictures below represent what we used for research before the internet. We had ideas scribbled in our notebooks or index cards. We spent hours going through these drawers of cards sorted by subject and author. We would read passages from several books trying to narrow down the subject matter.
We would spend time in these shelves trying to find the perfect passage for your research. It usually ended up learning something that you never intended to learn. Often, it reshaped your entire direction of your research. So much time spent going into the new direction, only to scrape it because it just became too big for the parameters of your paper. Your notebooks are filled with information to be researched another time.
My Uncle taught me a coding system for notes that I still use today. I found an old notebook from high school and it had so many notations on various subjects it was crazy the stuff I researched back then. There were theories in there that were so far off, but there were a few that I wished I had the notebook during developing a few theorems. It would have saved me some time.
We went to the movie theater and watched matinee because they were cheaper. Face it everyone was poor as hell back then. Well, at least everyone I knew. We had negatives from the photos we took nearly organized in boxes. No one got hacked and private information wasn’t exposed. At least, not by a stranger on the other side of the world.
We sat at uncomfortable desks watching dudes that talked funny telling us how we supposed to think about what we just read written by a dude that his last breath three centuries prior. We had talking ponies named “Patch” telling us not to take candy from stranger. We passed notes under the desk and scribbled the names of our crushes on our notebooks.
We read actual books until our eyes burned. Bookbags filled with pens, pencils, and erasers. Plastic bags with zippers held our sanity and security. It nothing like your pen running in the middle of drafting a paper. Your hands start to ache, and your stomach is growling. Your nowhere close to being to finding what your were looking for. We expressed our thoughts within the pages of these notebooks. For aspiring writers stories begin to blossom from the words of others. It funny how that happens sometimes.
It’s almost like its a part of the writer’s job is to inspire other writers. I don’t think this thoughtful gift is intentional. I think it happens somewhere in the act of telling the story. Often, I wonder if my work has done this for another writer. Then, I decide it’s not important. It’s not something I need to worry about. It will only get in the way.
There was a certain freedom to writing before the internet. Just you, your thoughts, and your aspirations confined in the binds of the notebook of the time. You hope you have written something people want to read. You hope you wrote something that will make a difference for at least reader, even if that reader is you. Sometimes we write something that absolutely doesn’t belong in the thing we are writing. That sentence that appears out of nowhere, but man you know you have something special. I miss writing before the internet. I miss portions of life before the web.
Yes, I remember life before the internet. I recognize how much it has helped so many people, but I’m cognizant of the fact it has also destroyed so many.
Do you practice religion?
My relationship with the Master is a personal one. I believe we must coexist with one another.
Sometimes, it seems like we addicts are trying to duplicate the euphoria from the first fix. It may not last more than a moment, but you never forget how it felt and desperately try to regain that feeling. Yet, we become lost in searching for something we were only supposed to experience once. Perhaps we meant to simply capture these moments and stitch them into a quilt of sanctuary our mothers used to make. Each square represents a euphoric memory.
However, it never seems to work out that way. We waste so much time chasing the dragon we eventually feel cheated. We wind up facing ultimatums concerning the things we have unintentionally neglected. We try to rally but end up a headline below the fold or caption scrolling across the bottom screen with the volume on mute.
Is this what has become my life?
Is this the madness I’ve created?
I have faith that my brothers will hold me up until I can stand on my own. The battle against my demons is real. I sit here in the churn of madness, thinking of everything I was supposed to be—a stranger to myself, a shadow of yesterday. On my soul is a tattoo of the ghost of who I used to be. Memories of yesterday fill the present with fear, and a map to nowhere will be upon my face.
Is this what become of my life?
In the madness I created …
I pray to God to help me find my strength within.
I pray to God for the patience that day to begin.
I pray to God to help me find myself again.
Find me again
I’ve seen evil. Hell, I’ve been evil. We are so intimate that we can be found slow dancing by candlelight to the melody of the whispering darkness. Can you hear it?
In this moment…
the righteous
simply
wait …
Transgressors
plea their
fate …
Black robed, white wigged beaks
decree…
Which is which
Shattering
Souls …
At the hammer’s fall
Echo…
JUSTICE!
Peering out from under the crevasses of my splintered psyche,
Still riding a euphoric high from about That Night,
Collaborative expressions have put my hypothalamus into overdrive.
My serotonin overflowing
Yeah… swaying to that lyrical grove, high on 1000cc of that poetic shit…
Leaning back in my chair
Pulling up my sleeve,
Applying the tourniquet
Tap, tap, tap, and then rub
My vein is ready…
Opening my works, a quill and a hypodermic
I pull back the plunger slowly.
Their ink seeps in
Tap…Tap…tap…
No bubbles …
Just a quick push to fill in the gaps
A squirt, then a single drop oozes…
My mouth salivates in anticipation
So close; it won’t be long now
I feel the cold metal against my skin
A quick prick and a sharp pain,
Slowly, I push the plunger part of the way
The ink is warm as it travels through my bloodstream.
Shadows surround me
As my head spins,
A single drop of drool falls from my shuddering lips
Yes…I feel it in my leg now…
I shake from the chill.
The bathroom floor tile is so cold.
It is as if life is spilling out of me, but the floor is dry
My body feels empty and hollow, like my heart
If I am to live in loneliness
There is no need to live anymore
I push the plunger in a little further…
I am warmth from the sight of the glistening sweat that painted her body
I mimic her labored breathing
The rigidness of her bosom tells the tale
Her crossed legs and popping toes echo the sentiment.
Her body trembles though she cannot see me
But her quivering whimpers
Her flow of nectar
Confirms that I am near
She swallows hard and then gasps.
As I whisper the words she needs,
I push the plunger to the hilt…
Standing in front of a mirror
I wonder who it is before me
Baffled, for I am submerged in silence
Closing my eyes for a moment
Only to open to an image that hasn’t changed
A single tear falls from my swollen eyes
Realizing I didn’t recognize myself,
Knowing I have stripped away my identity,
The single tear is now a stream.
Through my sadness, I find the courage to breathe my name.
Mangus Khan
My health has improved, but my writing is struggling for some reason. Just give me a moment. I will come up with something. It may not be my best work, but it will probably do in a pinch. My cat keeps finding new places to nap. I admit I’m jealous because she can plop her butt anywhere and sleep. I’ve been considered a large fellow, so my plopping is limited. This meme sums up my feelings about my writing as of late.
What personal belongings do you hold most dear?
For a long time, I fought for humor, integrity, and truth. I was steadfast in my duty. Then, for a moment, I fought for glory. This was the moment of corruption.
How can this be?
After years of devotion, it only takes a moment to lose everything. Corruption festers, chipping away at who you are.
So today, with each breath, I fight to protect what is most dear …
All that remains of my soul.
What sacrifices have you made in life?
We all make sacrifices. It’s just a fact of life. Some make more than others, but we all make them. There is one sacrifice that stands out more than others: the moment I sacrificed my innocence. I didn’t know what was happening, but now I understand completely. Now, I mourn the loss of the bliss of ignorance.
I have several collections of various things that captured my interest over the years. I could go on about my book, music, or my hard drives filled with unsorted data to be used at some unspecified time. No data is bad data. However, I have a collection that may be a tad unusual. To the point of interesting in a peculiar way.
Unintentionally, I began to collect unused journals. There are of various sizes and types. This collection started by accident. One of those collections that just appear, and you don’t realize you started until you do.
If you ask me there something with each of these journals. Either it’s the binding, the paper, the size, or a combination of everything. I’ve actually found a few of these journals that could work in a pinch, but they didn’t work with my pen rotation. Now, I when hear a writer begin discussing pen and paper combinations, they have a became a pretentious dick. I’m fully aware that I fit this category. I’m okay with it. I’ve even this excuse for not writing. Yep, I’m that guy.
However, because of my oddity, I learned how to make own journals. Just when you think it can’t get any worse. I can’t write on anything lighter than 24lbs paper. Don’t let me get started on the proper pen rotation. We don’t have enough time for the rant that ensue from my dissatisfaction of inferior writing instruments of today. I find myself pondering with the following query “why?”
Enough of that, I have another collection I’d like to share this evening. I’ve been painstakingly assembling for decades. It’s my annuals of “Weak Ass Excuses for not Writing.” I assure you it is quite impressive. There are several volumes of horseshit. I thump through from time to time for giggles.
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
I suppose when you reach a certain age, you wonder about trying to make a change or improvement—old dogs and alike. Yet, hopefully, with that age comes a bit of wisdom. I know for years I’ve banged my head against the wall for various reasons, all of them valid at the time. However, looking back, I struggle to find the logic. Over the years, I discovered the simplest strategy.
I need to accept that I cannot control everything. Some life events have nothing to do with me or my actions. Yes, I realize I sound a bit like a narcissist; however, this is not my intent. I’m trying to have an honest moment with myself. Can you at least wait until I finish to call horseshit? Seriously, I’m doing my level best to make a change.
I guess we see how it goes …
Do you vote in political elections?
As child, I watched the elders of my community banned together and brave the elements for their chance to be heard. I remember the rumbling of the younger generations about elections being rigged and didn’t matter if they voted or not. The elders wouldn’t hear this foolishness. We have sacrificed so much for this right. How dare you belittle our efforts. This stance changed the minds of some, but others continued in protest. However, they did so silently, because no one wanted to incur the wrath of the elders. I listened to stories of separate bathrooms and drinking fountains. They were hard to believe because it was so different from the world I knew. Unfortunately, the injustice remained vigilant. The methods changed, but the theme remained the same. So, I couldn’t wait to do my part. For years, I waited for my chance to vote. I participated in the voting process in all the school elections. I felt it was civic duty to make a choice. Although I had pledged my devotion to the process, I didn’t really understand why the elders were so committed. So, I looked into it at my grandmother’s request. She never wanted us to do something just because everyone else did it. One of her frequent sayings “If someone jumped off a bridge, you gonna jump too?” “You have the right to do whatever you want, but understand what hell you’re doing. Don’t be a dumbass.” As my research continued, I quickly discovered that the level of injustice ran deeper than I initially thought. Now, I vote at most opportunities. I know this wouldn’t be good enough for the elders, but their legacy is intact. I provided a brief overview of the injustice concerning the right to vote.
The right to vote is often hailed as one of the most fundamental aspects of a democratic society. It is the mechanism through which citizens exercise their sovereignty, choose leaders, and shape the laws that govern them. This right, however, has not always been universally accessible. Its evolution has been marked by struggle, activism, and significant legal reforms. Today, as we strive for more inclusive and fair electoral systems, it is crucial to reflect on the history, importance, and contemporary challenges associated with the right to vote.
The journey toward universal suffrage has been long and arduous. In the early days of democracy, voting rights were typically restricted to a privileged few. In ancient Athens, often cited as the cradle of democracy, only male citizens with property could vote. Women, slaves, and non-property owners were excluded. Similarly, in the early years of the United States, voting was predominantly a right reserved for white, land-owning men.
The first significant wave of expansion in voting rights came in the 19th century with the abolition of property requirements. This change was driven by a growing belief in the principle that all men, regardless of wealth, should have a say in governance. The 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1870, marked another crucial milestone by prohibiting denying the right to vote based on race, color, or previous condition of servitude. Despite this amendment, African Americans, particularly in the Southern states, faced discriminatory practices like literacy tests, poll taxes, and violent intimidation aimed at disenfranchising them.
Women’s suffrage was another significant battle in the history of voting rights. The movement gained momentum in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, culminating in the ratification of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution in 1920, which granted women the right to vote. This victory was a pivotal moment in the fight for gender equality and marked the beginning of a broader struggle for women’s rights.
In the mid-20th century, the civil rights movement brought renewed focus to the disenfranchisement of African Americans. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were landmark pieces of legislation that sought to eliminate racial discrimination in voting. These laws prohibited practices like literacy tests and provided federal oversight of voter registration in areas with a history of discriminatory practices.
Voting is more than just a right; it is a powerful tool for enacting change and holding governments accountable. Through the ballot, citizens can influence policy decisions on issues ranging from healthcare and education to climate change and social justice. It is a means of expressing consent and dissent, giving voice to diverse perspectives within a society.
Moreover, voting is a critical component of political legitimacy. Governments derive their authority from the consent of the governed, and regular, free, and fair elections are the primary mechanism through which this consent is gauged. When citizens participate in elections, they validate the democratic process and reinforce the principle that political power is derived from the will of the people.
Voting also plays a vital role in promoting social cohesion and civic engagement. It encourages individuals to become informed about political issues, candidates, and policies. This engagement fosters a more educated and active citizenry, which is essential for the health and vibrancy of a democracy.
Despite the progress made over the centuries, the right to vote faces numerous challenges in the contemporary era. Voter suppression, electoral fraud, gerrymandering, and disenfranchisement of marginalized groups are issues that continue to undermine the integrity of democratic systems.
To safeguard and strengthen the right to vote, several measures can be implemented:
The right to vote is a cornerstone of democracy, embodying the principles of equality, representation, and political participation. While significant progress has been made in expanding and protecting this right, ongoing challenges necessitate continued vigilance and action. By promoting voter education, enacting electoral reforms, and fostering civic engagement, we can ensure that the right to vote remains a powerful and accessible tool for all citizens. As we navigate the complexities of contemporary democracy, the collective effort to uphold and strengthen this fundamental right will be crucial in shaping a just and equitable society.
One minute, you sleep too long, and the next you can’t sleep at all. I suppose somehow, some way we search for the balance. You haven’t seen it so long you forget it east. I suppose it’s the way things do it. Or else it is just something else to fail at. Just another thing to let you down.
List your top 5 favorite fruits.
When I was a child, candy was truly a treat. Holidays like Easter, Halloween, and Christmas were awesome because we were allowed to eat candy for days. However, the remainder of the time, fruit served as our treat or snack. After wonderful years of sampling different types of fruit, I came up with the following list of favorites.
I actually have a ten, but the response asked for just five. Although I love my candy and went through a period as an adult where I kept a jar full, now I prefer fruit in a way that is better because I choose it.
In the dimly lit room, an ancient cabinet stood solemnly against the wall. Its wood, dark and glossy, whispered tales of forgotten eras. As the key turned in its lock, a soft sigh escaped, revealing secrets nestled within its heart.
Do you ever see wild animals?
Sometimes, it feels like I’m Marlon Perkins from that show Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. It all started when I was invaded by two raccoons, Louie and Smiley. I was visiting my folks, and when I returned, Louie was sitting in my office chair reading the Douay-Rheims version of the bible. Smiley came out of the kitchen with a loaf of bread and a pack of cheese. He didn’t notice me at first.
“Louie! I’ve found the mother lode.” Smiley exclaimed, then went chewing on a slice of bread.
“Shut up, Smiley.” Louie warned, then he looked up and saw me standing there.
“Louie! He’s back! He’s back!”
Louie dropped the bible, and they scurried off past and out the door. I sat at my desk and examined my bible. I was expecting tiny paw prints on the pages, but surprisingly they were clean. However, throughout my kitchen there were paw prints everywhere. I went out to the porch, but there was no sign of the raccoons.
Frequently, I see rabbits, raccoons, and opossums on my property, but they never stay and visit. They see me and run off. I wonder if I’m as nice as I think I am.
Have you ever been camping?
I’ve spent a great deal of time in the woods, sleeping under the stars and even being chased by a family of wild boars, so the idea of going back to the woods for “fun” didn’t really appeal to me. However, I’m aware of oodles of fun had at the campfire, smores, and the guy serenading some girl while playing a single chord on his guitar. I’m so sorry that I missed that; not really!
We mustn’t get lost in its despair, we mustn’t be swallowed before the pain, and we must be careful not to be cut by beauty’s dual edge. But is that even possible? How can we embrace beauty without becoming its victim, without becoming its prey?
I’m beginning to get used to it. It’s almost like it’s second nature or something. Each day is not much different than the last; each day we are closer to being engulfed by the evil charms of its subtle beauty; bright pale blue lore is deceiving; it masks the wickedness that lurks neath its smiles: we are bitten by its breath
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
Fair Venus’ train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gather’d fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin’d in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill’d by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic, while ’tis May.
What topics do you like to discuss?
I find this a bit difficult since I go days without uttering a single word. There’s something about the serenity of silence that soothes me, and most times, I’m not willing to compromise my serenity for the sake of prattle. I have found that my fondness for silence makes people around me unnerved. Nervous people make me irksome. I don’t do irksome. However, I do enjoy a meaningful and civil conversation on the following topics.
Writing – I love to talk about writing. It’s interesting to hear the different approaches my contemporaries take to express their thoughts. If I lucky, they may be a novice writer among the group. To hear the frustration of trying to find the end of their tale. Not to mention, the excitement of finishing a draft of something they are proud of.
Music—I’d say music was my first love. Lyrics served as a spell that enthralled me in this spooky art of writing. The need to convey an emotion, discuss a topic, or simply groove you. I can’t get enough of it. I especially enjoy the different music challenges on WordPress. It’s like I get to geek out and not be judged. Music is a fusion of so many aspects of creativity; it’s breathtaking.
Nonsense – There is something to be said about bullshitting with your buddies. I can’t express the number of times chopping it up has been cathartic.
I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart
For the joys of the multitude.
And I would not have the tears that sadness makes
To flow from my every part turn into laughter.
I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.
A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding
Of life’s secrets and hidden things.
A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and
To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.
A tear to unite me with those of broken heart;
A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.
I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live weary and despairing.
I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the
Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are
Satisfied the most wretched of people.
I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.
With evening’s coming the flower folds her petals
And sleeps, embracing her longing.
At morning’s approach she opens her lips to meet
The sun’s kiss.
The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment.
A tear and a smile.
The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come
Together and are a cloud.
And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys
Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping
To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to return to the sea, its home.
The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting.
A tear and a smile.
And so does the spirit become separated from
The greater spirit to move in the world of matter
And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow
And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death
And return whence it came.
To the ocean of Love and Beauty—-to God.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – RDP WING
Each word, each verse, or each sentence we write. Is an attempt to learn to fly.
Every time I write a story, it’s like doodling in my mind.
Which aspects do you think makes a person unique?
In the discussion of what makes a person unique, it’s a short one. However -, the forced subtopics or categories lengthen the discussion and become a slow grind. The answer is simple. An individual’s personality sets them apart from everyone else. I concede there are aspects about individuals we need to include, but really it isn’t necessary.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – MOONWASHED MUSING’S – STAR-FLECKED
He was enchanted by a woman whose eyes mirrored the night sky—dotted with constellations and shimmering with the light of distant stars. The kind of eyes depicted in storybooks and legend. Each glance into her eyes he fell deeper into their boundless and mesmerizing sea. He was powerless and that was okay. The specks of light slow danced with hope and mystique, a testament to the mysteries and beauties of fantasy. Her gaze was the key to stories untold, worlds unexplored, and the promise of adventure.
“Harold, are you going stand there gawking, my god boy! Close your mouth before you let flies in!”
Harold face redden, “Yes Nanna.”
“Give her the coupons.” Nanna continued. Harold’s embarrassment deepened. He makes eye contact again and her face reddened as well. She is smiling shyly.
“HI! I’m Lucy”
What was the last thing you did for play or fun?
A couple of months back a few co workers had this hair brain scheme to go a local watering hole to I don’t know, hang out? or some just as an annoying social construct. So, under protest, I showed up. To my dismay, I enjoyed myself.
I think it was the willingness of the participants to engage in karaoke. I sat and listened to beloved songs from my childhood butchered unapologetically. It was as if they walked into my memories and randomly snatched out a cut.
It reminds me of public version of singing the shower. You sing your beloved song and don’t give damn. This is the fun part. After returning home, I sat laughing and jotted down a few tracks that fall into the parameters. Here’s my short list
I find most of these songs you only really know the chorus. You mumble your way through the verses and when the chorus you let it rip. If with friends this is the part where eyes closed, drinks hoisted, and heads ended up on shoulders while that songs sung off key beget another cherished memory
How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?
In many ways I viewed the quarantine as a god send. Let me be clear, I wished anything harmful on anyone, but I was dealing with emotionally issues and wanted to be alone. So I was. I encrypted everything and basically dropped on the face of the earth smack in the middle of town. Most of my provisions were stocked, except for fresh vegetables. I brought them fresh every couple of days, then I had to switch to frozen vegetables.
AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!
Due to this development, I was absolutely convinced the world was ending. No, I hadn’t completely flipped my lid. I spent several decades eating my meals out of pouches and cans, so idea of returning back to lifestyle was horrendous.
How have I adjusted ?
I’ve haven’t really, but I’ve made a few concessions in the following areas.
– I no longer expect 2 – Day shipping from Amazon
– My butcher is my homey and I get the best cuts.
– I started in herb and vegetable garden.
My soils sucks and nothing grows well enough to eat. Back to frozen
AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Mabel McGee lived in the quiet town of Willow Creek in a quaint cottage that seemed to hold more memories than objects. To the townsfolk, she was known as the elderly woman with a penchant for mixing up dates and events, often speaking of historical happenings as if she’d lived through them herself. Some whispered about dementia, others about a life too lonely. But little did they know, Mabel’s supposed confusion was not a symptom of her age but rather a consequence of her extraordinary past as a retired time traveler.
Mabel’s journey began in 2045 in a world where time travel was possible and regulated by a strict code. She was one of the elite, a ChronoNavigator tasked with maintaining the integrity of the timeline. Her missions had taken her from the bustling streets of ancient Rome to the futuristic landscapes of the 22nd century, each adventure embedding itself into the fabric of her being.
As the years passed, the toll of her travels grew heavier. The lines between times began to blur, not just in her mind but in her heart. Mabel realized that she yearned for something the vast expanse of time could not give her—a place to call home. And so, she chose to retire in the one era that had always felt like a balm to her soul—the early 21st century.
The townsfolk of Willow Creek knew none of this. To them, Mabel was the eccentric old woman who lived alone, her house filled with strange artifacts and her conversation sprinkled with anachronisms. Children dared each other to peek through her windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of her rumored collection of “antiques” that seemed too out of place, even for a collector. They didn’t realize that each piece in Mabel’s home was a memento from her travels—a Roman coin, a futuristic gadget that no longer worked in this timeline, a painting from an artist who wouldn’t be born for centuries. And the stories she told, dismissed as confused ramblings, were indeed true accounts of historical events she had witnessed firsthand.
One day, a new family moved into Willow Creek, and with them came young Ellie, a curious and bright girl with an insatiable appetite for stories. Unlike the others, Ellie found herself enchanted by Mabel’s tales. She listened, wide-eyed, as Mabel spoke of walking with dinosaurs, witnessing the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and even attending a speech by a future president yet to be elected.
Over time, the seasoned time traveler and the young girl formed a unique friendship. Mabel saw in Ellie a kindred spirit who understood the value of time not by its weight but by its wonders. For Ellie, Mabel was the gateway to a world far beyond the confines of Willow Creek—a world where anything was possible. As their bond deepened, Mabel decided to change Ellie’s life forever. She decided to share her greatest secret, the time device that had been dormant for years. Together, they embarked on a journey that spanned centuries, a final adventure for Mabel and the beginning of a lifetime of wonders for Ellie
In the end, Mabel McGee’s legacy in Willow Creek was not that of a confused old woman but of a mentor who opened the door to the universe for a young girl. As for the townsfolk, they would never look at their world the same way again, always wondering if the stranger passing through was just a visitor or a traveler from another time, inspired by the tales of Mabel McGee, the retired ChronoNavigator who found her home not in time, but in the hearts of those she touched.
In the heart of an attic, amidst a treasure trove of forgotten gadgets, an argument of epochal proportions was unfolding. Oliver, an old, venerable camera with a penchant for nostalgia, found himself at odds with Dexter, a high-tech digital camera with more settings than a spaceship.
“Back in my day, we captured the essence of life, one click at a time,” Oliver boasted, his lens gleaming under the dim attic light.
“Pfft, the essence of life? I can capture, edit, and share a photo before you even figure out your aperture,” Dexter retorted, his LED screen flashing in disdain.
The debate might have ended there if a cheeky squirrel had not chosen that moment to dart across the attic floor, pausing only to strike a pose.
A light bulb flickered to life above Oliver’s viewfinder. “I propose a challenge! Let’s see who can take the best photo of that squirrel,” he declared, adjusting his focus.
Dexter beeped in amusement. “You’re on, grandpa. Prepare to be pixelated.”
Oliver took his time, calculating the light, adjusting his focus, and waiting… waiting for the moment when the squirrel, enticed by a nut left on the windowsill, struck a majestic pose. Click. The sound resonated through the attic, capturing a moment in time.
Meanwhile, Dexter, with the efficiency of a modern marvel, snapped approximately 47 photos in burst mode, applied a “Squirrel-Enhance” filter, and even photoshopped a tiny superhero cape onto the squirrel in one of the shots. “Done. And I’ve already shared it on SquirrelGram,” Dexter announced triumphantly.
They turned to the attic’s old computer to judge their work. Oliver’s photo was a masterpiece of timing and light, showcasing the squirrel in a moment of serene beauty. The soft lighting gave it an almost ethereal quality.
Dexter’s photos were sharp, vivid, and varied, with the superhero squirrel garnering a particular chuckle. “Look at that! It’s going viral among the attic spiders,” Dexter bragged.
Just then, the squirrel, having completed its snack, scampered over to see what all the fuss was about. It peered at the screen, then at the two competitors. With a decisive nod, it grabbed a forgotten paintbrush with its tiny paws. It dashed off a squirrelly masterpiece on a piece of scrap paper: Oliver and Dexter, lenses crossed in friendship, capturing the squirrel in a heroic pose.
The two cameras, old and new, realized that the best photos come from seeing the world through each other’s lenses. They laughed, a sound of mechanical clicks and digital beeps, united in their newfound friendship and respect for each other’s techniques.
As the sun set, casting a golden hue over the attic, Oliver and Dexter understood that photography isn’t just about the camera—it’s about the vision, the moment, and sometimes, a squirrel with a flair for the dramatic.
And so, amidst the dust and memories, two cameras from different generations found common ground, proving once and for all that when it comes to capturing life’s beautiful moments, the best approach is a shared one. As for the squirrel, it became an honorary member of their photographic adventures, always ready for its next close-up—cape and all.
What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?
As a kid, I was obsessed with moving things with my mind. Yeah, I was the kid who laid the pencil on his desk, staring at it, trying to make it move. Of course, it never happened. Then, I got the idea that perhaps my powers would emerge later. Later, I researched superpowers and discovered that the power I wanted was telekinesis and extrasensory perception.
But before I did my research, I watched every movie that featured people with these powers. Everything I saw focused on the darkness of the abilities. Films like The Fury (1978) made the idea of having these powers spooky. Check this out:
We also had Sci-Fi horror flicks like Scanners (1981). Here is a scene from that movie.
Who can forget the psycho-thriller Patrick (1978)? Take a look
After watching movies like these, who wants telekinesis? Then, one day, I had a discussion with fellow film buffs about the pros and cons of telekinesis. We were teenagers, and this discussion was the first of what we considered a”deep” discussion. We were on the verge of deciding telekinesis wasn’t an ability we wanted. Then, one of the girlfriends announced that we were idiots. She couldn’t believe we hadn’t considered “The Force” in our examples of telekinesis. Her comment stopped us all in our tracks. We had never considered the Force as telekinesis. She said, “Our lack of faith was disturbing.”
I don’t know why we never considered The Force. Perhaps it seems to be something much more powerful than everyday telekinesis. I can’t really explain what I felt then, but “the Force” was so much more to me. Perhaps I felt it was a way of life, perhaps an ideal. My Midi-chlorians count was never enough for consideration for being a Jedi or Sithlord. I’ve always admired the ideal.
I’ve been working on music posts all weekend and writing a bit of fiction. So, when I read today’s prompt, this song came to mind as I popped some Tylenol for my aching bones. Then, ask this question.
Then, of course, this song pops into my head.
Fingers popping and belting the lyrics into a seldom used hairbrush. I stop and catch my breath. I realized this track from 1969, and I knew all the words. Scratching the back of my head, I pause and ask what’s my age again?
You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?
I’ve more time behind the wheel than any other mode of transportation. Driving has always relaxed me. I prefer driving alone to think in peace, but I’m not opposed to traveling with someone else. I’ve developed some of my best storylines driving. There’s nothing like working out a difficult scene while gliding across the asphalt sea. The only problem is that I never seem to have a device to capture my thoughts as they come. Yes, yes, I’ve tried the microcassette recorder thing, but I never seem to remember to bring spare tapes. When the digital ones hit the market, the problem is solved, right? Nope, I forget to download to my computer, and when I do, I forget where the hell I put them.
The essentials for a proper road trip: This list varies based on your individual needs, but here are a few suggestions to help you consider what you might need.
Whether you listen to music, podcasts, audiobooks, or talk radio, some items are saved locally on your device for times when you don’t have cell coverage.
If not, you may be forced to listen to stuff like this:
Some of you may enjoy these tracks, so you look at me strangely. However, on one of my road trips, before streaming services were a thing, I found myself listening to a Juice Newton marathon. Now, I ask you, how is this even a thing? It was that day. Some DJ, apparently a huge Juice Newton fan, played all her music. To make matters worse, he had a booming radio station that blasted for miles.
However, you get lucky and get some fun songs like these:
By answering this post when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I’m subject to say anything. I couldn’t resist!
Despite the title, the rain is my favorite type of weather. I never understood why people ran from the rain but spent hours in the shower over a lifetime. They swim laps, surf, and waterski, yet the first raindrops they beat feet for shelter. Trust me, I’m not making fun of anyone. I was just like everyone else until I joined the military.
If it ain’t raining, ain’t, training became our mantra after just a few weeks in service. At my first duty station in Korea, I survived the monsoon season. Trust me, you will stop worrying about the rain after surviving monsoon season. We are soaked to the epidermis, which was wrinkled by the time you were able to put on dry clothes. I can’t remember the last time I ran from the rain.
At any rate, I love the rain. Its something about it I never could put my finger on. Here are some of my favorite songs with rain in the title. I know, it’s Eddie Rabbit’s fault.
Here is my response to RDP’s Daily Prompt – Lithe
In the heart of a bustling city park, where children’s laughter mingled with the melodious chirping of birds, sat a man named Julian. He was a solitary figure amidst the vibrant chaos, a contemplative soul who found peace in the art of people-watching. Julian was particularly drawn to the nuances of human interaction, the subtle play of expressions, and the eloquence of body language.
On this sun-drenched afternoon, his attention was captured by a woman practicing yoga on the lush, green grass. She embodied grace, her movements fluid and effortless, a visual symphony that mesmerized Julian. He noted how the word “lithe” seemed to be crafted for her, the very definition of her elegance and strength. She moved with an almost ethereal poise, her limbs stretching and coiling with a feline agility that left Julian in awe.
For days, Julian returned to the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lithe woman. She became a muse to him, a living embodiment of art and beauty he dared only admire from afar. Her presence stirred something within him, a longing to reach out and connect, to transcend the boundaries of his solitary existence.
Finally, mustering every ounce of courage, Julian decided it was time to step out of the shadows of his observation and into the light of interaction. He approached her on a day painted with the perfect azure of the sky. His heart thundered in his chest, a tumultuous symphony of nerves and excitement.
“Hello,” he said, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the park’s life.
She turned toward him, her expression mildly surprised. Her eyes reflected the tranquility of the world she embraced. “Hello,” she replied, her voice as soft and melodious as he had imagined.
Julian stumbled through his introduction, words tangled with admiration and awe. He spoke of his observations, his fascination with how she moved, how she seemed to personify the word “lithe.” He expected bemusement, perhaps even annoyance. Instead, she smiled, a warm, genuine curvature of her lips that reached her eyes and ignited a spark of connection.
Her name was Elara, and she listened earnestly attentively, making Julian’s words flow more freely. They talked beneath the canopy of verdant leaves, their conversation meandering through the trivial to the profound, just as the park’s myriad pathways did.
In time, their meetings became a cherished ritual, two once-strangers finding solace and joy in shared moments. Julian, who had once been content to observe life from a distance, actively participated in its menagerie, woven with threads of companionship, understanding, and the unexpected beauty of a chance encounter.
And so, in a park where the world seemed to converge, Julian discovered the courage to connect, inspired by a woman who danced with the wind, her lithe form a reminder of life’s boundless grace.
What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?
I suppose ever since childhood, I’ve been a fan of a good Western. The Magnificent Seven was my introduction to the world of justice. I suppose many others my age, I’ve been disappointed with the state of Western movies as of late. However, I’m glad to admit Hollywood must have heard me grumbling and put some decent Westerns. One of those such Westerns is the limited Netflix series entitled Godless.
“Godless” is a gripping Western drama series that debuted on Netflix in 2017. Set in the 1880s, it explores the story of La Belle, a small New Mexico town mysteriously inhabited almost entirely by women after a mining accident claims the lives of nearly all the town’s men. The series intensifies when a menacing outlaw, Frank Griffin, played by Jeff Daniels, and his gang of bandits set their sights on La Belle, seeking revenge on Roy Goode, a former protégé who betrayed him. The show weaves themes of redemption, betrayal, and survival against a backdrop of stunning landscapes and a town fighting to assert its independence. “Godless” offers a unique take on the Western genre, focusing on strong female characters, moral ambiguity, and complex human relationships. It received critical acclaim for its storytelling, performances, and visual style.
Cast of Characters:
During most of Tori Amos’ rise to stardom, my face was buried in the used record stacks, looking for classic jazz and blues. Though I collected many treasures, it wreaked havoc on my sinuses. I’m not sure if I ever fully recovered. Despite my obsession, I remember some of the women ranting about the excellent music of Tori Amos. I’m telling you, if it wasn’t Davis, Monk, Parker, Wolf, or Waters, I wasn’t trying to hear it.
As it turned out, I had three female soldiers assigned to my section. Although I had worked with female soldiers before in various limited capacities, I had never had any assigned to my section. Although they were from different backgrounds and musical tastes, they were all fans of Tori Amos. Finally, they talked me into listening. Here’s the particulars. Let’s get started:
Tori Amos, an American singer-songwriter and pianist, has captivated audiences worldwide with her distinctive voice and profound lyrical content. Known for her emotionally intense songs that blend classical music influences with alternative rock, Amos has carved a unique niche in the music industry. This blog post delves into her life, music, activism, and enduring legacy, offering a comprehensive look at one of the most influential artists of her generation.
Born Myra Ellen Amos on August 22, 1963, in North Carolina, Tori Amos demonstrated prodigious musical talent from a young age. Encouraged by her Methodist minister father and her mother of Eastern Cherokee descent, Amos began playing the piano at two and composing by age five. Her early exposure to gospel music and classical compositions profoundly influenced her musical style.
Amos’ prodigious talent earned her a scholarship to the prestigious Peabody Institute at Johns Hopkins University when she was five. However, her inclination towards rock and popular music led to her dismissal at 11. Undeterred, she played in bars and clubs in the Washington D.C. area during her teenage years, honing her skills and developing her distinctive style.
Her first professional music endeavor was as the lead singer of the 1980s synth-pop band Y Kant Tori Read, which was not a commercial success. This setback paved the way for Amos to establish her solo career, leading to her breakthrough debut solo album, “Little Earthquakes,” in 1992.
“Little Earthquakes” marked a significant turning point in Amos’ career. The album’s raw, emotional intensity and unconventional songwriting resonated with listeners and critics, establishing her as a unique voice in the music industry. With hit singles like “Silent All These Years” and “Crucify,” Amos gained a devoted following and critical acclaim.
Her subsequent albums, including “Under the Pink” (1994) and “Boys for Pele” (1996), continued to explore complex emotional and social themes while showcasing her virtuosic piano skills and innovative arrangements. Amos’ ability to blend classical music elements with contemporary styles helped her maintain a distinctive identity in the evolving music scene of the 1990s.
Amos has received numerous accolades throughout her career, including multiple Grammy Award nominations. Her fearless approach to addressing personal and societal issues through her music has cemented her status as an influential figure in the industry.
Tori Amos’ music defies easy categorization, blending classical, rock, electronica, and folk elements. Her classically trained piano skills are at the forefront of her compositions, often complemented by intricate arrangements and a wide range of instrumentation. Her lyrics are known for their depth, exploring themes such as religion, sexuality, feminism, and personal trauma.
Amos draws inspiration from various sources, including mythology, literature, and personal experiences. Her storytelling ability is evident in her songwriting, where she creates vivid, emotionally charged narratives. Her voice, with its distinctive timbre and dynamic range, adds an additional layer of expressiveness to her music.
Her musical influences are as eclectic as her style, ranging from classical composers like Debussy and Rachmaninoff to rock and folk artists like Led Zeppelin and Joni Mitchell. This blend of influences has helped Amos create a sound that is uniquely her own, resonating with fans across different genres and generations.
Throughout her career, Tori Amos has released a multitude of albums that have garnered critical and commercial success. “Little Earthquakes” and “Under the Pink” are often cited as her most impactful works, featuring songs that address complex emotions and personal struggles. “Boys for Pele” showcased her experimental side, incorporating harpsichord and brass instruments into her music.
Other significant albums include “From the Choirgirl Hotel” (1998) and “Scarlet’s Walk” (2002), each demonstrating Amos’ evolution as an artist and storyteller. Her ability to adapt and explore different musical landscapes while maintaining her core artistic identity is a testament to her talent and versatility.
Beyond her music, Tori Amos is a passionate advocate for various causes, including women’s rights, sexual assault awareness, and LGBTQ+ rights. She co-founded the RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), which has become the largest anti-sexual violence organization in the United States.
Amos’ activism is reflected in her music, where she often tackles challenging and taboo subjects, offering support and solidarity to those who have experienced trauma. Her dedication to these causes has inspired her fans and fellow artists, amplifying her impact beyond the music industry.
Tori Amos’ influence extends far beyond her discography. As a pioneering female artist in the alternative rock and singer-songwriter genres, she has inspired countless musicians with her authenticity, musical innovation, and lyrical depth. Her contributions to music and activism have earned her a dedicated fanbase and a lasting legacy as an influential and respected figure in the industry.
Butterfly Lyrics :
[Verse 1]
Stinky soul, get a little lost in my own
Hey General, need a little love in that hole of yours
So one way’s now and Saturday’s now
And our kittens all wrapped in cement
From cradle to gumdrops got me running girl as fast as I can
[Chorus]
And is it right, Butterfly
They like you better framed and dried?
[Verse 2]
Daddy, dear, if I can kill one man why not two?
Well, nurses smile when you’ve got iron veins
You can’t stain their pretty shoes
And pompoms and cherry blondes
And the kittens still wrapped in cement
From God’s saviors to gumdrops got me running girl as fast as I can
[Chorus]
And is it right, Butterfly
They like you better framed and dried?
[Outro]
Got a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden, yes
Got a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden, yes
You’ll be a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden
In the tapestry of human endeavor, threads shimmer with unyielding tenacity woven from the fiber of women with grit. These women, from varied walks of life and corners of the earth, share a common trait—a relentless fortitude that propels them through adversity, enabling them to emerge not only unscathed but stronger and more resolute.
Consider the woman who rises before dawn, her day stretching ahead like an uncharted expanse, demanding her sweat, intellect, and care. Yet, she meets each challenge undaunted, fueled by an inner fire that refuses to be extinguished. She could be the single mother who juggles multiple jobs to provide for her children, ensuring they receive the opportunities she never had. Or the scientist in a lab, her eyes alight with the spark of discovery, tirelessly pushing against the frontiers of knowledge despite the voices questioning her place in such a world.
Reflect on the women in history who stood firm against the gales of their times, refusing to bend. They are the suffragettes who endured mockery and imprisonment, their eyes fixed on the horizon of equality. They are the trailblazers in arts, sciences, politics, and activism who dismantled barriers and defied conventions to etch their indelible marks on the annals of time.
Women with grit embody resilience, a quality that resonates through their every action, a silent strength that speaks louder than words. They navigate life’s storms with a steely grace, their resolve a beacon for others to follow. In their perseverance, they weave a legacy of inspiration, a call to each of us to harness our own potential, face our battles with courage, and emerge not just enduring but triumphant.
In celebrating these women, we recognize the grit within ourselves, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit embodied in the resilience and determination of women across ages and the world.
My mother was such a woman. She had grit, but she referred to it as gumption. I’ve always liked that word. Despite the challenges of raising me on her own, she refused to surrender the chaos surrounding us, no matter how tempting it had been. She remained steady in all that we faced. A lesson I tried to demonstrate to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’m honored to be a steward of her legacy. No different than the others who have courageous women in their lives.
This challenge was tough for me, not because I didn’t know a song that fit the parameters, but because I knew too many to choose one. So, I decided to cheat a little, just a tad. I’m going to list my Top 3 favorites within the parameters. However, I will only deep drive on the first song. My Top 3 are as follows:
God Bless the Child is my favorite because of the dear memories it holds within the melody and lyrics—memories I rarely recall until I hear the song. Immediately, I’m teleported back into my childhood, listening to my mother playing the track on the HiFi. For the longest time, she only played Diana Ross’s cover of the song. I memorized and sang it along with her. I found the original when I was old enough and brought the 45 for Mom. Here are the particulars about the song.
The Meaning of “God Bless the Child”
“God Bless the Child” is a song that carries profound meanings, intertwining themes of independence, self-reliance, and the harsh realities of inequality and economic disparity. Originating as a jazz standard, it was famously performed by Billie Holiday, who co-wrote the song with Arthur Herzog Jr. in 1939. Through its poignant lyrics and soul-stirring melody, the song delves into the complexities of financial dependency and social stratification, resonating across generations with its timeless relevance.
Interpretation of Lyrics
At its core, “God Bless the Child” emphasizes the value of self-sufficiency. The opening lines, “Them that’s got shall get, Them that’s not shall lose,” reflect a stark observation of societal dynamics, where the rich grow richer and the poor face continual hardship. This sets the stage for the song’s central message, advocating for personal strength and independence in a world rife with inequities.
The chorus, “God bless the child that’s got his own,” underscores the dignity and empowerment found in self-reliance. It suggests a divine favor or resilience bestowed upon those who can stand on their own feet, contrasting the vulnerability of those who depend on the charity or whims of others. This message is particularly poignant, considering Billie Holiday’s own struggles with poverty and racial discrimination, adding a layer of personal testimony to the song’s narrative.
Cultural and Historical Context
“God Bless the Child” emerged during significant social and economic upheaval in the United States, reflecting the hardships of the Great Depression and the subsequent recovery period. Its themes resonated with many who experienced financial insecurity and witnessed the disparities between social classes. Over the decades, the song has been interpreted by numerous artists across various genres, each bringing their own perspective but retaining the core message of autonomy and resilience.
Philosophical and Ethical Considerations
Beyond its commentary on economic issues, “God Bless the Child” also touches on deeper philosophical and ethical questions. It prompts listeners to consider the values of independence versus interdependence and the moral responsibilities of the fortunate towards the less privileged. In this light, the song can be seen as a call to introspection and empathy, encouraging individuals to find their strength while recognizing the interconnectedness of society.
Legacy and Influence
The enduring appeal of “God Bless the Child” lies in its universal message and emotional depth. It has transcended its original context to become an anthem of perseverance and dignity, inspiring listeners to reflect on their circumstances and society. The song’s influence extends beyond music, permeating cultural discussions and academic analyses, attesting to its profound impact and relevance.
In conclusion, “God Bless the Child” is more than a musical composition; it reflects human resilience, social justice, and the quest for dignity. Its message of self-reliance amidst adversity resonates, offering inspiration and insight to each new generation that discovers its timeless verses.
Them that’s got shall have
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
Yes, the strong get smart
While the weak ones fade
Empty pockets don’t ever make the grade
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
Money, you’ve got lots of friends
They’re crowding around the door
But when you’re gone and spending ends
They don’t come no more
Rich relations give crusts of bread and such
You can help yourself, but don’t take too much
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
He just don’t worry ’bout nothing, ’cause he’s got his own
You guys already know how I feel about Concrete Blonde. However, XTC’s Skylarking was packed with amazing songs, and I spent a lot of time listening to it.
Thanks to Jim Andrews for hosting this challenge. Such a fantastic suggestion, Nancy, aka The Sicilian Storyteller.
Here is my response to RDP’s Trifling
A quaint village nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods lived a trifling spirit named Elara. Mischievous and light-hearted, she danced through the villagers’ lives like a playful breeze, her presence barely more substantial than a fleeting shadow. With a penchant for harmless pranks, Elara often left a trail of bewildered smiles and gentle laughter in her wake. She’d whisper riddles in the wind, tie shoelaces together unseen, and sometimes, in a whimsical mood, cause the flowers to bloom out of season, painting the world in unexpected splendor.
Yet, despite her whimsy, Elara held a deeper purpose. Her antics served as gentle reminders not to take life too seriously and to find joy in the small, unexpected moments. In her own trivial way, Elara wove a thread of light-heartedness into the fabric of the village, teaching that sometimes, the heart needs the relief of laughter and the soul the lightness of just being.
Here is my response to RDP’s prompt: Shattered
In the pale moonlight, the world seemed ethereal, yet a profound silence pervaded the air, perforated by the echo of distant footsteps. A mosaic of shattered hopes now lay among the ruins of a forgotten city where dreams once flourished. The remnants of crumbled walls whispered tales of yore, each fractured stone a bearer of untold stories. Underneath the celestial gaze, shadows danced across the fragmented relics, casting an intricate ballet of light and darkness. Here, amidst the vestiges of the past, resilience bloomed anew, forging beauty from despair, a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual rebirth amidst ruin.
A boy named Timmy Sinclair lived in a bustling city named Licksville, known far and wide for his extraordinarily large tongue. Timmy was no ordinary boy, and his tongue was no ordinary tongue. It was the size of a baguette, supple like a gymnast’s and versatile like an artist’s palette.
From an early age, Timmy realized that his large tongue was not a curse but a blessing. He discovered he could use his tongue for tasks that others could not. He could taste the subtlest of flavors in food, making him the best judge in town for cooking competitions. He could also use his large tongue to help clean out jars and reach places his hands could not.
In school, Timmy was the star of the science fair. He used his tongue to demonstrate how taste buds worked, making science fun and exciting. His classmates admired him, and his teachers praised him for his creativity. Unfortunately, not everyone saw Timmy’s tongue that way.
Summer ended, and school began. Timmy was excited. He couldn’t wait for his next adventures. When he arrived at homeroom on the first day, there were two new students: one girl and one boy. Timmy took a seat and waited. He wanted to know everything about the girl. She had long raven hair, caramel-colored skin, and the most enchanting eyes he had ever seen.
Ms. Rowster came into the room, and they settled down for attendance. Timmy barely could contain himself as he anxiously waited to hear the name of this beautiful girl. When Ms. Rowster got to her name, she asked her to stand up and tell the class a little about herself. She did.
“Hello. My name is Simin Karimi, and I’m from Detriot,” Simin said, then sat down.
Timmy felt she had the most beautiful voice to accompany the rest of her beauty.
Ms. Rowster did the same with the new boy as well. He stood and cleared his throat, “I’m Brad Zigler from Ohio. I know everyone has heard of Zigler cheese, right? Brad asked. A few nodded in agreement while the others sat in quiet bewilderment.
They were all sixteen, but Brad stood over 6 feet and had a large nose, freckles, and a fiery beard. Due to his size and attitude, he had already started gaining friends. Timmy knew he would be one of the most popular kids in school before long.
At lunch, Timmy sat at his usual table, watching Simin’s every move, hoping she would sit at his table. Marcy Busch slapped Timmy on the shoulder.
“Who’s that?” Marcy asked.
“S S S imin,” Timmy shuttered. He was a little tongue-tied, as they say. He felt strange because he never shuttered a day in his life. Marcy looked puzzled at Timmy, then Simin. Marcy motioned for Simin to sit with them. Timmy shifted uncomfortably but managed a smile. Marcy introduced herself.
Marcy and Simin chatted away while eating, picking at their food, if you can call it eating. They were well on their way to being fast friends. Timmy sat quietly, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times. Timmy noticed Simin kept glancing and smiling at him. This made Timmy nervous. Here is the most beautiful girl, and he’s suddenly tongue-tied.
“Stop being rude!” Marcy said as she nudged on the shoulder. Timmy tried to say something, but his tongue got in the way. It felt like it filled his entire mouth. Timmy had never experienced this before. Marcy’s comment didn’t help matters.
“So, you see a pretty girl, huh?” Marcy asked.
“You’ve been talking my ear off since first grade. Geez, thanks,” she smiled. Her cobalt blue eyes sparkled when she smiled, and her smile always seemed to do the trick when Timmy got nervous. Marcy made him feel safe.
“Hey, Simin,” Timmy finally managed. Simin smiled.
“Oh my god! So you’re the freak people have been whispering about!” a voice exclaimed. They looked up, and it was Brad Zigler with a horrified expression.
“What are you? Some sort of lizard?” he exclaimed.
Timmy blushed, and his eyes filled with tears. Before he knew it, Marcy had sprung from the table, kneeing Brad, and delivered a well-practiced right cross—the signature move she picked up when she developed breasts at 12. Marcy explained that once all the women in her family had a nice set of girls, her mother, and grandmother taught her the move in case the boys got handsy. Nanna said boys “always get handsy.”
Marcy stood Brad silently, her brunette hair tied in a ponytail. Brad groaned in pain as he clutched his private area. Marcy stepped toward him, and Brad scooted away with his held up in surrender. Marcy turned to look at Timmy. Her pale alabaster skin was rose-colored. Her eyes were like fire. Yet, they softened when Timmy looked up at her. She stood 5 feet even.
“Bullies give me the sweet ass!” she exclaimed as she retook her seat. Marcy didn’t make eye contact with anyone, then whispered, “Sorry.” Simin squeezed her hand. “Marcy, you’re wicked fast. Next time, can you save me some?” Simin asked jokingly. They all chuckled as they left the lunchroom.
Author’s Note:
Today, I felt good enough to write a little fiction. I hope you don’t mind. So, I combined a couple of hosted challenges I felt worked for the story. The third challenge was one I had for myself, and it was two-fold. Primarily, I’ve been writing light non-fiction for the last few weeks. I needed to know if my fiction tools still worked in something light. I also challenged myself to see if my depictions of the characters in this could used with AI image generation. The answer to the latter is yes. Overall, I’m pleased with the image outcome. As for the former, it felt good writing, but I will leave it up to you guys. Should I continue this corky tale? I wrote more, in case you are wondering. Or hit delete and move on to another project?
Prompts used for this story:
SocS: Hosted by Linda Hill – Words starting with “signa”
Ragtag Daily Prompts: Sunday (safe); Thursday (Lizard)
The challenge words are hyperlinked to their origins. I hope you guys enjoy this corky little tale
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt hosted by Sammi Cox. This is my first time participating. I hope I get right.
In the quietude of twilight, a solitary tap resonates through the empty corridors, echoing off the dimly lit walls. It’s a gentle, rhythmic sound, almost musical as if the universe itself were keeping time. With each tap, memories flicker, casting shadows that dance in the mind’s eye. It’s a moment of connection, a simple, unassuming tap that bridges past and present, conjuring a symphony of silent reflections.
What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
Over the last six months, I’ve experienced tremendous health issues. So, for the next six months, my biggest challenge is to maintain the progress I’ve made. I Have to learn to be patient and sit my stubborn butt down and heal. Well, that’s easier said than done.
Here is my answer to The Question of the Night #2
Where do you go to escape stress?
I’ve always been told I had a healthy imagination, so it is there I retreat to in times of stress. And this image is a representation of things going on a moment ago. Who knows what will happen next?
You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?
No one intends to fall in love with an asshole, but it happens; just ask my late wife and current girlfriend; they are the two sitting in the corner shaking their heads as they read this sentence.
What are three objects you couldn’t live without?
If I’m being honest, there are far too many I would hate to give up. I guess I’ve got soft over the years. However, if I absolutely had these three items I couldn’t live without.
1. Coffee – I don’t care about the garbage talked about drinking coffee. Bad things happen when I don’t have my coffee; don’t test me on this subject.
2. iPad Pro 12.9 – This is such a versatile tool. I can read books, Listen to audiobooks, write, and take and edit photos. I’ve been using an iPad model for over a decade. It’s hard to imagine working without one. I even tried out several versions of the Samsung tablets and compared them. Though Samsung makes a solid product, I prefer the iPad.
3. My Briefcase – My briefcase is far cooler than the one in the photo, but you get the idea. I have several items for survival contained inside.
Items may include, but are not limited to, the following:
Well, that’s it. That’s all of it.
Here is my response to Jim Adams’ Song Lyric Sunday
As a child, I can hardly remember when I listened to the radio and didn’t hear this song at least once. I heard so much I memorized the lyrics and sang right along. Yet, as time went on, I found myself growing tired of hearing this song. I remember wondering what was going to be the next big hit? I didn’t realize the song was already several years old. It’s such a timeless classic I had to take a moment and discuss its meaning. This is what I came up with.
The Layers of Meaning in “American Pie”
Don McLean’s iconic song “American Pie” has captivated audiences for decades with its enigmatic lyrics and haunting melodies. Released in 1971, the eight-and-a-half-minute epic is steeped in cultural references, historical events, and personal reflections, inviting listeners on a journey through the turbulent landscape of American society in the 20th century. As one of the most analyzed and debated songs in popular music history, “American Pie” continues to fascinate and inspire, offering layers of meaning that transcend time and space.
At its core, “American Pie” is a lamentation for the loss of innocence and idealism in American society and a nostalgic homage to the golden era of rock and roll. The song opens with the poignant line, “A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile,” evoking a longing for the simpler times of youth and the transformative power of music to unite and uplift.
Central to the song’s narrative is the tragic plane crash that claimed the lives of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper on February 3, 1959, often referred to as “The Day the Music Died.” This event serves as a metaphor for the loss of innocence and optimism in American society, marking the end of an era of rock and roll idealism and the onset of a more turbulent and uncertain period in history.
McLean weaves a tapestry of cultural references and symbolic imagery throughout the song, drawing on Americana, mythology, and spirituality themes to create a rich and evocative narrative. The lyrics are peppered with allusions to historical figures, events, and symbols, from “the King” (Elvis Presley) to “the jester” (Bob Dylan), from “the sacred store” (the record store) to “the holy dove” (a symbol of peace and spirituality).
One of the most debated aspects of “American Pie” is the interpretation of its cryptic lyrics, which have spawned countless theories and analyses over the years. Some interpretations suggest that the song is a commentary on the decline of American society and the loss of traditional values. In contrast, others see it as reflecting popular culture’s changing landscape and commercialism’s rise.
Yet, amidst the ambiguity and complexity of its lyrics, “American Pie” ultimately serves as a testament to the enduring power of music to transcend boundaries, unite disparate voices, and capture the collective consciousness of a generation. As McLean once said, “American Pie” is “a big song with big themes,” encompassing an entire nation’s hopes, dreams, and aspirations.
In conclusion, “American Pie” is a timeless masterpiece that defies easy categorization and interpretation. Its evocative imagery, poetic lyricism, and haunting melodies resonate with listeners of all ages, inviting them to ponder the mysteries of life, love, and loss. Whether viewed as a nostalgic tribute to the golden age of rock and roll or a poignant lament for the loss of innocence in American society, “American Pie” remains a symbol of hope, resilience, and the enduring power of music to inspire and uplift.
A long, long time ago
I can still remember how that music
Used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
Something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
And them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now, do you believe in rock ‘n’ roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Well, I know that you’re in love with him
‘Cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues
I was a lonely teenage bronckin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died
I started singin’, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
Now, for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone
But that’s not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book on Marx
A quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
We were singin’, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
Helter skelter in a summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast
It landed foul on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
Now, the halftime air was sweet perfume
While sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance
‘Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singin’, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
So, come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
‘Cause fire is the Devil’s only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
He was singin’, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play
And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
And they were singin’, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
And them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
They were singin’, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die”
Have you ever unintentionally broken the law?
It isn’t like I was a Boy Scout or something. Because I wasn’t, but I wasn’t a hooligan either. Yet, I got into my fair share of mischief. Strangely, I hardly got in trouble when I knowingly broke the law. However, I remember getting the most trouble when I had no idea I had broken the law. This happened so much, I learned the phrase,”Ignorance of the law is no excuse!” It always was said with a steely monotone. So yes, I’ve broken the law on accident more times than I care to admit.
My response to Sadje’s challenge
Do you like the age you are now?
This is one of the easiest questions I’ve answered in a while. The answer is YES. I love it. However, it feels odd to say so when that hasn’t been the case. For decades, I had this thing where I wanted to be older than my age. Almost like I was born during the wrong era or something. The problem I could never settle on a period I really wanted to be from.
Then was the whole “you’re just a kid. You’ll understand when you get older.” I hated being treated like a kid. I refused to believe that age possessed this fountain of wisdom that eluded my entire youth. Often, I wondered what age or day I was going to understand the mysteries of the world suddenly. Would it be on a weekday? Or on the weekends? I hoped for sometime during the week because, let’s face it, on the weekends, there was beer and women to be ignored by. Disgusted or disapproving looks from members of the opposite sex while standing obnoxious with the fellas is a rite of passage.
However, I would like to be on a Monday if it was during the week. Many complain about Monday’s, but I don’t mind so much. Over the years, I found several to be rather pleasant. Tuesdays would be alright, too, yet it doesn’t pop off on Mondays. Any day after is a negative ghost rider. There to much preparation from the pending weekend. You can’t be bogged down with a complex thought. I can see it now, sitting there tugging on your peach fuzz chins, saying, “Hmm.” For those fellas who could grow full beards in high school, I am jealous.
I enjoy my age now because all I have to do is sit around looking at people like they’re crazy. Who needs cable? Have you ever looked at the younger folks when you get older? They are hilarious, aren’t they? It’s alright. You can admit it. The only drawback is the random, unprovoked ailments that surface periodically. Yes, I said unprovoked. This is my story, and I’m sticking with it. I can speak my mind. I’m old enough to know better but too old to give a shit. After all this crap of wishing I was older, I’m finally in the winter of life. It gets a little chilly at times, but hey. Excuse me while I slip on a sweater.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE
Here is my response to RDP’s prompt: Ink
There’s a thud as my quill hits the desk. My inkwell unleashes a howl mixed with desperation and relief. It’s a little beside itself because I haven’t written anything of note in months. My eyes burn from what was supposed to be all-nighter, but really only a few hours of spits and starts. Baby steps, huh? They got to be better than not writing anything all. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I stare at the ink stained fingers of my aching hands.
I close my eyes and the let the stream of world of random thoughts fill my screen. Each word typed is attempt to rediscover the path to a coherent thought. A thought minus the lure of ineffective painkillers. Taken only to help you forget the torment you’re suffering momentarily. Yet, forget the principle of pain; it’s a reminder we are alive. Each wince, cringe, or scream a verse in the testimony of our lives
Bradbury got it right in a way. We are tattooed neath the surfaces. Each of those tattoos are alive illustrating the moments that matter . Moments we acknowledge, yet include the ones swear that mean anything, but touch us so deeply.
My inkwell unleashes a belch, then stretches. A metallic click fills the room as the licks its lips and throats a “Thank you!” I refill my quill and pull out a fresh notebook. Then lean back in my office chair to rest.
“I knew that shit, you’re such a fucking tease!” My quill and inkwell declare in unison.
I close my eyes and chuckle ….
I discovered Sister Rosetta Tharpe by accident. I was working on my novel and let my Blues playlist play on. I found myself stuck between my prose and the music. It’s one of my favorite places while I’m writing. I found myself lost in an ole’ blues standard. However, the more I listened, the more I realized the tune was different. I stopped and looked at the artist’s name. It was Sister Rosetta Tharpe. I wasn’t familiar with the name, but her sound was familiar.
As I investigated her music, I realized why her sound was so familiar. I remember hearing her music playing in the kitchen of my grandmother. My grandmother would clap, dance, and sing along with her music while she prepared different meals.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe was a pioneering figure in the history of American music. With her distinctive blend of gospel, blues, and rock and roll, Tharpe had a far-reaching impact that continues to be felt to this day. Her unique sound and style were not just revolutionary in terms of music, but also in terms of the societal norms of her time, adding another layer to her legacy.
Born on March 20, 1915, in Cotton Plant, Arkansas, Tharpe displayed musical talent from a very young age. She was raised in a family where religious music was a fundamental part of life, and this early exposure set the stage for her eventual career. She began performing at church services when she was just four years old, accompanied by her mother on guitar. By the age of six, Tharpe was a featured performer in a traveling evangelical troupe, demonstrating her prodigious talent and the power of her voice.
As a teenager, Tharpe moved to Chicago, a city known for its vibrant music scene. She quickly became a sensation in the city’s thriving gospel scene. Her powerful voice and unique guitar playing style set her apart from other artists, and she was soon performing to packed houses throughout the city. This was just the beginning of an illustrious career that would see her reach phenomenal heights.
In 1938, Tharpe took another major step in her career when she moved to New York City and signed with Decca Records. Her first record was an instant success, and she quickly became one of the most popular gospel artists in the country. Tharpe’s style was unique and groundbreaking; she combined the raw emotion of gospel with the driving rhythms of blues and rock and roll, creating entirely her own sound.
Even though Tharpe was a gospel artist, her music transcended the genre and appealed widely. She performed at nightclubs and theaters, breaking down barriers between sacred and secular music. Tharpe was a trailblazer in many ways – she was one of the first black women to perform with a white orchestra, and she was also one of the first artists to use heavy distortion on her electric guitar. This technique would later become a staple in rock music.
Tharpe’s influence extended far beyond her own career. She was a major influence on artists like Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, and Johnny Cash. Her distinctive guitar-playing style paved the way for the development of rock and roll, and her powerful voice continues to inspire singers to this day. It is a testament to her talent and impact that she influenced such iconic figures in music.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe passed away on October 9, 1973, but her legacy remains. She was posthumously inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2018, a fitting tribute to a woman who did so much to shape the course of American music. Her impact is not only seen in the music of those who came after her, but also in the way she broke down racial and gender barriers in her lifetime. Her life and career serve as an inspiring example of the power of music and the strength of individuality.
Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?
Throughout the years, I’ve collected one thing or another. In childhood most of my friends were collecting something. It seemed as though you weren’t a boy if you didn’t some sort of collection. This followed me into adulthood. However, just as it did childhood I would end losing interest or lose my prize of my collection that would render the entire collection worthless.
The hobby I was obsessed with that I have lost interest in is sports cards. I spent a ridiculous amount of time and money in collecting sports cards. I couldn’t tell you want happened to my collection. I can only say it has disappeared into that dimension where everything goes we lose. I’m sure I have a warehouse full of things in this unnamed dimension. I’d like to visit it one day, so I can clear some things out. You know organization is the key to everything..
The thing about sport cards for me is the fact you can a thousand cards stacked up somewhere that are absolutely worthless. You can’t trade them. You even give them away. There are just sitting there in a pile gathering dust. All in search of that coveted rookie card.
I’ve been here over a week. I’m not sure I have I left here on the front. My body is waging war against my spirit. My spirit is losing, but the battle is far from over. Last Monday, I walked into the ED thinking one thing and discovering another. Each day, we take another step toward victory. Each day, it feels we take five steps back toward defeat.
Despite this, I gaze upon the evening skew finding strength in its beauty. Each sighs becomes the breath of hope. In each breath I finds courage.
Something on your “to-do list” that never gets done.
Three things on my list never seem to get crossed off.
1. Service my truck: I never seem to fully service my truck until something breaks. I’m doing reactive maintenance instead of preventive. I can do most of the repairs myself. I haven’t had good enough health to do things properly.
2. Recycle old electronics: I have old electronics stacked up all around the house. I’ve been meaning to recycle them for the past few years. Each year, the pile just gets higher. I suppose I could build something out of the parts. My question is, what and why?
3. Declutter my storage: I’ve needed to organize my storage for a while. I think my problem is that afraid to let go of memories. I hate to seem sentimental, but there are certain things I’m a big softy about
Chester Himes, an acclaimed African American writer, carved a distinct niche with his crime novels that explored the experiences of black characters in the United States. Born on July 29, 1909, in Jefferson City, Missouri, Himes was raised in a middle-class home. This upbringing was notably ordinary until a dramatic event altered the course of his life.
At the tender age of 19, Himes was sentenced to prison for armed robbery. This unfortunate event, however, served as the backdrop for the beginning of his writing career. His years in prison became a fertile ground for creativity, and while confined, Himes began writing short stories. His talent and unique voice were showcased, and his stories were published in national magazines such as Esquire, marking the start of his journey as a recognized writer.
Following his release from prison in 1936, Himes did not abandon his newfound passion. Instead, he continued to write and publish, steadily gaining recognition as a significant voice in African American literature. His works, rooted in his personal experiences and observations, painted a vivid picture of the societal realities faced by African Americans.
In the 1950s, Himes made a bold move by relocating to France. There, he began writing detective novels featuring black protagonists, a genre in which he found considerable success. His most famous works from this period are the “Harlem Detective” series. The series features the characters Coffin Ed Johnson and Grave Digger Jones, two Harlem detectives who navigate a world fraught with crime, racism, and social issues. These novels were celebrated for realism, as Himes used his powerful storytelling to explore Harlem’s complex dynamics of race and class.
Throughout his career, Himes used his writing as a tool to explore themes of race, class, and crime. His narratives presented a unique and unflinching perspective on the African American experience. His works did not shy away from the harsh realities of racial inequality and social injustice, making them deeply resonant and thought-provoking.
Chester Himes passed away in Spain in 1984, but his legacy remains. His powerful and thought-provoking works resonate with readers today, and his contribution to African American literature remains undisputed. Himes’ life and works testify to his courage, resilience, and unyielding commitment to shedding light on the African American experience through his writing.
I didn’t hear of Chester Himes until 2011. I was at a book fair when a random shopper approached me and started telling me about this amazing author. Strangely, he handed me a book, but it wasn’t by Chester Himes. Confused, I took the book, hoping he would leave, but he didn’t. The book was entitled Moth by James Sallis. Finally, he got to his point. It turned out that James Sallis wrote a book about Chester Himes.
Oddly enough, since that day, I have read several books by Chester Himes and James Sallis. I managed to collect a few original pulp editions of Himes’s work. Also, I picked up the Drive series by Sallis, which inspired the motion picture Drive, starring Ryan Gosling. What I haven’t done is read the book about Chester Himes written by James Sallis.
While researching the Transcontinental Railroad, I discovered the involvement of African American and Chinese immigrants in its construction. Because of the post-Civil War era, I investigated Chinese immigrant involvement further. This is when I discovered how the United States treated the Chinese people. I was taken aback because of how much American culture influences Chinese culture.
This discrimination, which started in 1882 and ended in 1965, paints a dark chapter in American history that has fortunately been rectified to some degree. Over the next few days, I will post mini-articles discussing this discrimination.
Enacted in 1882, the Chinese Exclusion Act stands as a stark reminder of a regrettable period in American history when xenophobia and discriminatory policies shaped immigration laws. This legislation marked the first time in the United States that a specific ethnic group was targeted and banned from entering the country, reflecting a troubling trend of prejudice and fear.
The roots of the Chinese Exclusion Act can be traced back to the mid-19th century, when Chinese immigrants arrived in significant numbers, primarily seeking economic opportunities during the California Gold Rush and later contributing to the construction of the transcontinental railroad. As their numbers increased, so did anti-Chinese sentiment among some segments of the American population.
The act, signed into law by President Chester A. Arthur, was ostensibly aimed at addressing economic concerns and protecting American jobs. It prohibited the immigration of Chinese laborers for ten years and explicitly denied Chinese immigrants the opportunity to become naturalized citizens. The Geary Act later extended the act in 1892, making the exclusion indefinite.
The Chinese Exclusion Act had severe consequences for the Chinese community in the United States. Families were separated, and those who left the country faced difficulties returning. The law fueled racial tensions and discrimination against Chinese immigrants, who were often subjected to violence and prejudice. Chinese communities were marginalized and isolated, facing social and economic hardships as a result of discriminatory policies.
The impact of the Chinese Exclusion Act extended beyond its initial enforcement period. The legislation remained in effect until 1943, when the Magnuson Act repealed it, largely due to the geopolitical context of World War II and the alliance between the United States and China against common enemies. The repeal, however, did not immediately eliminate discriminatory practices and attitudes towards Chinese immigrants.
The Chinese Exclusion Act remains a dark chapter in American immigration history, representing a period when fear and prejudice influenced policy decisions. In 2012, the U.S. Congress officially expressed regret for the discriminatory laws against Chinese immigrants, acknowledging the injustice and hardship imposed on the Chinese community during that era.
The legacy of the Chinese Exclusion Act serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of upholding principles of equality, justice, and fairness in shaping immigration policies. As the United States continues to grapple with issues of immigration and diversity, reflecting on the past can provide valuable insights into building a more inclusive and equitable future.
While serving in the military, I never heard of these guys. Once I got out, I started researching military units during wartime. I came across this picture, and it just intrigued me. I have hours of data about this unit and others like it. I thought I would share a very quick overview of this amazing collection of men.
The Harlem Hellfighters, officially known as the 369th Infantry Regiment, were a remarkable group of African American soldiers who served with distinction during World War I. Despite facing racism and segregation in the United States, these courageous men showcased exceptional bravery and resilience on the battlefield, earning respect and admiration from both allies and enemies.
Formed in 1913, the 369th Infantry Regiment was originally a New York National Guard unit. When the United States entered World War I in 1917, the Harlem Hellfighters were among the first African American units to be sent to Europe. However, due to racial prejudices prevailing at the time, they were assigned to the French Army under the command of General Philippe Petain.
The Harlem Hellfighters served on the front lines for 191 days, more time in continuous combat than any other American unit during World War I. They faced intense fighting in the trenches, enduring not only the perils of war but also racism from their fellow citizens. Despite the challenges, they demonstrated exceptional courage in battles such as the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, where they fought tirelessly to overcome the enemy.
One of the most remarkable aspects of the Harlem Hellfighters’ legacy is their introduction of jazz music to Europe. The regiment’s band, led by Lieutenant James Reese Europe, played a significant role in popularizing this uniquely American art form abroad. Their performances entertained both troops and civilians, breaking down cultural barriers and contributing to the global recognition of jazz as a vibrant and influential genre.
The Harlem Hellfighters returned home as heroes, but their fight for equality did not end on the battlefield. Their experiences in World War I played a pivotal role in the broader struggle for civil rights in the United States. The recognition of their sacrifices and achievements contributed to the eventual desegregation of the military and laid the groundwork for the African American soldiers who would follow in their footsteps.
In 2019, a century after their heroic service, the Harlem Hellfighters were posthumously awarded the Congressional Gold Medal, further acknowledging their contributions and sacrifices. Their legacy remains an integral part of American history, serving as a testament to the strength, resilience, and courage of those who fought for justice and equality, both on and off the battlefield.
I’ve reached the age where complaining seems like a superpower. Of course, this expands my current superpower of ranting at the drop of a hat. Not to mention, I drop a few justified gripes when it’s called for. Yet, there are times when I remain silent, but I can’t be held accountable for facial expressions. So, if I think you’re jackass; I don’t have to say a word. My face says it all.
However, lately, the thing that chaps my ass the most is people’s lack of compassion for others. It seems we don’t care about each other like we used to. I get it! Times are different. People are different. I’m no better. I can go days without talking to another person. I’ve always been that way. Anti-social is what they called me. So, trust me, I’m not casting any stones.
I’m sure you have noticed people are walling themselves off more now than ever. As if they prefer interactions on their devices rather than actual human conversation. Another thing I’ve seen is that when you are having these conversations, they aren’t actually listening. There are a lot of head nods and other indicators they aren’t paying attention to, but they are meant to fool you into thinking you’re having a meaningful conversation.
Alas, don’t fret. I, too, have been fooled. We need to slow down, stop, listen, and help one another.
As a child, blowing off these was as much fun as chasing fireflies. However, as an adult, I was told they were weeds that killed lawns. Yet, I can remember my elders drinking tea made of this plant. So today, we will explore the health benefits of dandelion root and shed light on its potential contributions to well-being.
Often dismissed as a common weed, the dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) has a rich history of medicinal use, with its root being recognized for its various health benefits. Beyond its bright yellow flowers and fluffy seed heads, the dandelion plant holds a treasure trove of nutrients and compounds contributing to its therapeutic properties.
Nutritional Profile:
Dandelion root is a nutritional powerhouse that boasts diverse vitamins and minerals. Rich in vitamins A, C, and K, calcium, potassium, and iron, the root provides a concentrated source of essential nutrients. Additionally, dandelion root contains antioxidants, which are crucial in neutralizing free radicals and promoting overall health.
Liver Support and Detoxification:
One of the primary benefits of dandelion root is its role in supporting liver health and detoxification. The root has traditionally been used in herbal medicine as a liver tonic, believed to enhance the organ’s ability to process and eliminate toxins from the body. Some studies suggest that dandelion root may stimulate the production of bile, a digestive fluid that assists in the breakdown of fats and the elimination of waste.
Anti-Inflammatory Properties:
Inflammation is a natural response to injury or infection, but chronic inflammation can contribute to various health issues. Dandelion root contains compounds with anti-inflammatory properties, such as beta-carotene and polyphenols, which may help reduce inflammation in the body. This anti-inflammatory effect may contribute to the herb’s traditional use in managing conditions like arthritis.
Digestive Health:
Dandelion root has been historically employed to address digestive issues. Its mild diuretic properties may support kidney function, while its bitter components can stimulate digestion by enhancing the production of digestive juices. Some people use dandelion root tea or supplements to alleviate symptoms of indigestion and bloating.
Weight Management:
While more research is needed, some evidence suggests that dandelion root may play a role in weight management. Some studies have explored its potential to reduce fat accumulation and regulate blood sugar levels. However, it’s essential to approach such findings cautiously, as more research is required to establish a clear connection between dandelion root and weight-related benefits.
How to Incorporate Dandelion Root:
Dandelion root is versatile and can be incorporated into your diet in various ways. Here are some popular methods:
1. **Tea:** Dandelion root tea is a popular and easy way to enjoy its benefits. You can find commercially available dandelion root tea bags or make your own by steeping dried dandelion root in hot water.
2. **Supplements:** Dandelion root is available in supplement form, such as capsules or liquid extracts. Before incorporating supplements into your routine, it’s advisable to consult with a healthcare professional.
3. **Culinary Use:** Dandelion roots can be roasted and ground to make a coffee substitute. The leaves are also edible and can be used in salads or sautéed as a nutritious meal addition.
Conclusion:
While dandelion root may have once been seen as a pesky weed, its myriad health benefits have elevated it to a status of herbal importance. This humble root has found its way into traditional medicine practices and contemporary wellness trends, from liver support to anti-inflammatory properties. However, as with any herbal remedy, it’s crucial to approach dandelion root with an understanding of individual health needs and consult with healthcare professionals when considering its inclusion in your routine. Embracing the potential benefits of dandelion root may offer a natural and holistic approach to supporting overall well-being.
If I’m honest, I really only wanted to be one thing: a writer. As a child, I told and wrote stories, which landed me in more trouble than I care to admit. It’s something about writing I can’t quite put into words. At least not anything meaningful or moving. So, it is simple: my dream job is to write stories that touch the reader. Provide the reader an opportunity to travel, feel, identify, or enjoy the snippets of life I depict in my stories.
I may never accomplish this dream; it’s one of those ideas we had as children that may be impossible to obtain. However, this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to fulfill them- not at all. We keep chipping away at them, and maybe one day, they will come true. Who knows?
During some research I did years ago, I came across the legend of Saint Rita. Here is an overall of the legend.
Saint Rita of Cascia, often called the “Saint of the Impossible,” occupies a special place in the hearts of the faithful worldwide. Born Margherita Lotti in the 14th century in Roccaporena, Italy, Saint Rita’s life journey is one of unwavering faith, resilience, and a profound connection with the divine.
Early Life and Marriage:
Margherita Lotti entered the world in 1381 amidst Italy’s political upheaval and social change. At an early age, she expressed a deep desire to dedicate her life to God. However, she obediently followed her parents’ wishes and married Paolo Mancini, a man with a troubled reputation. Despite the challenges in her marriage, Saint Rita remained steadfast in her commitment to her vows and embraced her role as a wife and mother.
Widowhood and Religious Life:
Tragedy struck Saint Rita when both her husband and sons succumbed to a violent end. Widowed and grief-stricken, she sought solace in prayer and contemplation. In a remarkable turn of events, Saint Rita’s sons’ destinies took a divine twist – they died before seeking vengeance for their father’s murder, preventing a cycle of violence.
Following her family’s tragedies, Saint Rita sought entry into the Augustinian convent at Cascia. Her initial request was met with resistance, as the convent had reservations about admitting a widow with a connection to a violent family. However, it is said that Saint Rita’s perseverance and her ability to perform a miraculous feat involving a dried fig tree blossoming out of season convinced the sisters to accept her.
Life in the Convent and Miracles:
Saint Rita’s years in the convent were marked by profound devotion to prayer, penance, and acts of charity. She received the stigmata, wounds similar to those of Christ, a sign of her deep spiritual connection. Saint Rita is also renowned for her devotion to the Passion of Christ and her advocacy for peace and reconciliation.
One of the most famous miracles associated with Saint Rita is the episode of the rose. According to legend, Saint Rita requested a rose from her garden during winter; miraculously, a single rose bloomed in her hands. This act of divine intervention is often cited as a symbol of hope and the miraculous nature of Saint Rita’s intercession.
Canonization and Patronage:
Pope Leo XIII canonized Saint Rita of Cascia on May 24, 1900; her feast day is celebrated on May 22. She is venerated as the patron saint of impossible causes, abused women, and mourning parents. Pilgrims worldwide visit the Shrine of Saint Rita in Cascia, where her relics are enshrined, seeking her intercession for their troubles and tribulations.
Legacy:
Saint Rita’s life and miracles inspire millions of believers, offering a testament to the transformative power of faith and the enduring hope found in times of adversity. Her story serves as a beacon of compassion, forgiveness, and the miraculous, reminding us that the divine can bring about healing and redemption even in the face of seemingly insurmountable challenges.
Conclusion:
In the rich tapestry of Catholic saints, Saint Rita of Cascia stands out as a luminary figure, admired for her unwavering faith, resilience in the face of tragedy, and the miracles attributed to her intercession. Her legacy extends far beyond the boundaries of time and geography, resonating with those seeking solace, hope, and the miraculous in their lives. Saint Rita’s enduring impact underscores the universal human desire for connection with the divine and the belief that faith can light the way even in the most challenging circumstances.
Throughout my life, I’ve heard countless legends about multiple saints. None is less credible than the other. There’s beauty in our beliefs.
List five things you do for fun.
I live a simple life. Due to this, several folks accuse me of being unable to have fun. At first, this consensus troubled me. For 30 seconds, I considered that I might need to adjust my lifestyle. Once I explained my former everyday life, some turned green, others turned pale, and then my favorites informed me I’d earned the right to relax. I appreciate them saying that. I really do.
Here are my five things in no order. I do them whenever I feel like it.
That’s it. That’s all of it. The down and dirty.
Like many people our names are chosen with no idea why? Several of us are named after a relative we never met. Sometimes we carry names of relative that has been deceased for generations. Most of the people I know don’t a clue of etymology of their names. Madre Khan said she heard someone with my name and thought it was cool. So, today when I looked into the origin of my name. I was taken back a little. Let’s take a look at what I found.
Mangus, a derivative of its Latin roots, holds a profound and significant meaning – “great.” This single term encapsulates many virtues, such as strength, honor, and greatness, depicting a person of high stature or noble character. The Latin lineage of the name lends it a timeless appeal, resonating with an aura of power, dignity, and regality. The name Mangus, therefore, transcends beyond just being a name; it mirrors character and virtue.
Cultures worldwide often attribute a profound influence to names, shaping the character and destiny of the individual. Mangus, with its inherent connotation of greatness, can be perceived as a blessing and an expectation set upon the individual. It can be a guiding beacon, nudging the individual towards virtues of strength, honor, and nobleness. Consequently, the cultural implications of the name Mangus are significant and far-reaching, potentially influencing the individual’s life path and destiny.
The annals of history are replete with references to the name Mangus, associating it with figures of power, nobility, and great stature. This name has weathered the tests of time, retaining its relevance, significance, and reverence across different eras and epochs. The name’s historical significance further magnifies its meaning, reinforcing its virtues and attributes. Hence, Mangus symbolizes a rich historical legacy of power and greatness, etching its mark in the sands of time.
In today’s world, the name Mangus inspires awe and respect. Its timeless appeal and powerful meaning make it a popular choice for those seeking a name with depth and significance. The virtues associated with Mangus – strength, honor, and greatness – are universally admired and sought after, making the name a beacon of aspiration and inspiration. Moreover, the rich historical legacy and cultural implications associated with Mangus add depth, making the name even more appealing in the modern context.
In the modern world, where names are often chosen based on their meaning and significance, the name Mangus remains popular. Its profound meaning of “greatness” and its historical and cultural importance make it a meaningful and inspiring name. Those who bear the name Mangus carry a sense of strength, honor, and greatness – virtues that are admired and respected in today’s society.
With my name meaning all this … wow, no pressure!
After looking at the RDP Friday prompt. I decided to dig in the subject a little further.
Time, as we understand it, is a dimension. It’s a constant, flowing entity, moving from the past to the present and future. Physicists describe it as the fourth dimension of our universe, following the three spatial dimensions. Unlike the spatial dimensions, however, time has a direction – it is always moving forward, never backward. This unidirectionality of time, often called the ‘arrow of time,’ is a fundamental aspect of its nature.
But what does it mean for time to ‘flow’? This is a question that continues to perplex scientists and philosophers alike. The ‘flow’ of time is often associated with change – the ticking of a clock, the rising and setting of the Sun, the changing of seasons – all are manifestations of time’s ceaseless march forward.
While the nature of time is constant, our perception of it is not. We, as humans, experience time in a highly subjective manner. The exact length of time can often feel different depending on various factors. Sometimes, an hour can feel like an eternity, while at other times, years seem to slip by in the blink of an eye.
Several factors influence this variability in our perception of time. Age, for instance, is often said to alter our perception of time. As we grow older, time passes more quickly. Our mental state – anxious, relaxed, focused, or distracted – can also dramatically affect how we perceive time. Additionally, the activities we engage in and the intensity of our experiences can modulate our sense of time.
Our relationship with time is complex and multifaceted. On the one hand, time is an essential part of our lives – it structures our days, determines the rhythm of our activities, and marks the milestones of our journey through life. On the other hand, time can also be a source of stress and anxiety – the pressure of deadlines, the fear of wasting time, and the relentless clock reminding us of our mortality.
Moreover, our relationship with time is not just individual but also collective. Societies, cultures, and civilizations have their ways of conceptualizing and measuring time – from the lunar calendars of ancient organizations to today’s atomic clocks.
Time plays a pivotal role in our lives. It is a universal measure used to quantify everything from a mayfly’s lifespan to the universe’s age. It governs our daily routines, life events, and even our existence. Understanding and managing time is critical in today’s fast-paced world, where every second counts.
In this context, time management is about efficiency, productivity, balance, and well-being. It’s about making the most of our time, not by filling every moment with activity, but by using our time in a meaningful and fulfilling way.
The measurement of time is an essential aspect of human civilization. It provides structure, order, and predictability to our daily lives and is deeply ingrained in almost every aspect of our existence. This essay explores the historical development of timekeeping, the standard units of time measurement, the modern technologies employed in timekeeping, and the future implications of advancements in this field.
The concept of measuring time has been integral to human societies throughout history. Ancient civilizations such as the Egyptians, Babylonians, and Greeks relied on primitive yet ingenious devices like sundials and water clocks. These devices marked the passage of time using the Sun’s position or water flow, providing these civilizations with a rudimentary but vital sense of temporal order and structure.
As societies progressed, so too did their timekeeping methods. The invention of the mechanical clock in the 14th century marked a significant milestone in the history of timekeeping. Powered by weights and gears, these clocks provided a more accurate and reliable means of measuring time than their predecessors.
The 20th century saw the advent of the atomic clock, a device that measures time-based on the vibrations of atoms. This marked a monumental leap in timekeeping technology, reflecting the immense technological advancements of the era.
The standard units of time—seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years—are universally recognized and utilized. These units were primarily based on the movements of the celestial bodies. For instance, a day is determined by the rotation of the Earth on its axis, while a year is defined by the Earth’s orbit around the Sun.
The second, the base unit of time in the International System of Units, was redefined in 1967 regarding the oscillation period of a cesium-133 atom. This redefinition provided an exact time measurement unit, demonstrating humanity’s growing understanding of the natural world and our ability to harness it for our needs.
In the present day, timekeeping has become more precise and accurate due to technological advances. Atomic clocks, which use the vibrations of atoms to measure time, are currently the most precise timekeeping devices known to man. These clocks are pivotal in various fields, including telecommunications, scientific research, and global navigation satellite systems such as GPS.
Other modern technologies have also revolutionized timekeeping. Digital clocks and watches have become commonplace, offering easy and convenient access to accurate timekeeping. These devices, often synchronized with atomic clocks, ensure high accuracy and reliability.
The ancient Egyptians had a unique and sophisticated understanding of time, deeply rooted in their cosmological and religious beliefs. They divided the day into 24 hours, with 12 hours dedicated to the daytime and another 12 hours for the nighttime. This division was not arbitrary but was based on the movement of the Sun god Ra across the sky, illustrating how their understanding of time was intertwined with their religious beliefs.
Additionally, the Egyptians used a lunar calendar, but they also developed a 365-day solar calendar. This solar calendar became the foundation for our modern calendars, a testament to the advanced nature of their civilization. The importance of time for the Egyptians was further evident in their elaborate burial rituals, which were based on the belief in eternal life after death. These rituals often involved extensive preparations and ceremonies, reflecting their faith in the continuity of time even after death.
The Mayans, a civilization that thrived in Central America, had an intricate and complex understanding of time. They developed a detailed calendar system that included a 260-day sacred calendar (Tzolkin), a 365-day solar calendar (Haab), and a Long Count calendar that tracked longer periods. These calendars were not just a way to track days and years but also deeply connected to their religious and cultural practices.
Moreover, the Mayans viewed time as cyclical, with creation, destruction, and rebirth periods. This concept of time greatly influenced their architecture, agriculture, and religious practices. For instance, many of their architectural structures were built in alignment with celestial events, showing their understanding of time and its cyclical nature.
The ancient Greeks had a dual concept of time, represented by two gods: Chronos and Kairos. Chronos referred to sequential or quantitative time, while Kairos represented the right or opportune moment. This dichotomy reflected the Greek understanding of time as both measurable and qualitative, a complex interpretation unique to their civilization.
The Greeks also developed the concept of ‘Aion,’ representing eternity or infinite time. This concept was central to their philosophy and metaphysical thought, influencing the works of philosophers like Plato and Aristotle. Their understanding of time, therefore, was not just practical but also philosophical, shaping their worldview and understanding of existence.
When we have a conversation about leadership, one can find opinions and ideals with a few keystrokes. There are seminars, books, and articles thoroughly covering the subject. During my time in the military I read several in an attempt to find everything I could about becoming a better leader. I’ve listed a few below.
Principles of Leadership
Key leadership traits, each with a brief description:
Being a leader is more than the things found in books or articles. Leaders aren’t born. They are developed. Titles or positions don’t make you a leader. Learning how to handle the burden of leadership does. Good luck!
Here is my response to today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt – Time
Sitting within the wondering of unknown destiny.
Riding the waves of the abyss of sorrow.
Like the sands of the hourglass, the moments of a promiseless
tomorrow slip away
But…
Have you heard the news today?
Our kinsmen…
Our brethren…
Has passed away
Not of blood, but of spirit
What is felt goes by many names
yet the pain
remains the same
Remember…
He has been called home
to sit alongside our Master
and his golden throne
Boundfull
dutiful
we are
to acknowledge his words of passion and grace
for they have
Lifted us…
Caressed us…
Consoled us…
I wish to thank all those who have taken the time to read the ranting of a feeble mind.
From my stoop, on my soapbox, I stare into the abyss, then begin reading my list.
Life is short…
So kiss it…
taste it..
Close your eyes and
Savor it…
But most of all
LIVE IT !!!
One minute at a time
I wrote this piece years ago after the writing community had lost one of its brethren. To me, he was gentle, but wise soul with so much to offer. The writing community took a blow that day.
It doesn’t matter about the existence of time, moments we spend with one another count. Make the moments we spend even with strangers matter. Humanity’s most precious gift to one another is their time.
If you could un-invent something, what would it be?
I was in public today, watching people because I’m a people watcher. Not one of those creepy people who gawk at you with sinister smiles, but one who is entirely aware of their surroundings. A by-product of my PTSD. I noticed people were inches from one another and weren’t talking. Their faces were buried in their mobile devices. What freaked me out was that nearly everyone, young and old. Myself included. Immediately, I looked around for a magazine or left behind newspaper. There weren’t any.
I opened a document on my iPad and started documenting my outrage. Yes, I’m aware of the hypocrisy of this rant, but it was either my iPad or my phone. So, I ended up at a diner with the intention of finishing this post, but I got sidetracked. There was a veteran eating with his wife, and I struck up a conversation with them. Though I don’t know the couple’s names, I learned his family had served in the military in various capacities for four generations, starting with WWII.
We began to discuss the rudeness of society and how no one talks to one another anymore. We laughed about how we get in trouble with wives and so much more. I closed my iPad and just enjoyed the conversation. They left and tried to remember the last time I had a decent conversation with a stranger. I remember today’s occurrence wasn’t a rarity but the norm.
For those who know me personally, what I’m saying may shock you. Most of you have never seen me with some sort tech in my hands. I purchased my first mobile device in the early nineties. And now I wish we could un-invent them. Even as I write this post, I have something processing on multiple devices. I started writing code in the mid-eighties. So, I’ve been working with tech in one or another for over 40 years.
I’ve witnessed or been a part of miscommunication issues; it’s ridiculous. Why can’t we just talk to one another?
Below is a bit of prose I wrote over fifteen years ago; I feel it is still relevant today. Especially the closing line, I believe, sums up my feelings on the matter.
Archaic
The pulsing glow fades on your monitor. Closing the door is one’s outlet, portal, or means to escape. Escaping the insanity that is sometimes right outside your front door. Sometimes, sitting right there in your living room, sitting on your couch looking crazy, talking about some “what?”
Thinking back, one would take a walk, read a book, or sip some lemonade while sitting on the front porch. Sitting wondering what the hell your neighbor is wearing or just sitting there letting the night breeze caress you into a calm?
Saddened, we are by the daunting realization that a clever array of ones and zeros now defines our existence. Once complete, syllable vocabulary is reduced to an abbreviation of some unknown order. Deviance is becoming the norm, as the once social norm is fading into a deviant wasteland.
Identities expanded behind hexadecimal veils in fleeting hopes of discovering who we are. All the while, all that is necessary is to stand in front of the mirror facing the face they have come to hate. Yearning for some form of validation of who you are or what you are. Searching for answers that can only be found within ourselves.
If surrendering one’s identity is the price we must pay in the pursuit of progress, then may I forever be archaic.
Here is my response for RDP Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.
Let me be blunt from the beginning. The snow was coming down heavy, but the wind blew it sideways. The temperature was dropping rapidly. I didn’t want to be out here, but the gig paid the bills. Prices were so high that you bought a loaf of bread or a gallon of gas. I got a letter in the mail today. An old friend I hadn’t heard from since we both reeked of innocence. I was more than a little envious because he had found the love of his life. He had found happiness. Sighs … good on you, brother! Good on you.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have a network of people in my life who let me know daily I’m loved. They have no problem letting me know when I’m full of crap or any other adjective they choose to use at any given time. I can’t blame them or hold any ill will because I’m a handful, as they say.
You may remember a post I made last year about two individuals who were geniuses. If not, here is a link to that post. What I didn’t tell you is these incredible women have been putting up with my crap for well over a decade. Every rant, tantrum, or foul mood, they have endured it all. They have been with me while I was grief-stricken from the loss of my wife. They were there when I rebuilt myself as a writer and educator to witness me self-destruct through my battle with cancer.
My closest and dearest friend, my editor, you’ve heard me complain about on several occasions on this blog. She put down her red pen and helped me through my cancer battle. She stopped everything and came to the initial surgery. Then she returned for my cancer’s aggressive reemergence. 56 treatments later, I took her home and started to rebuild my life once again. Honestly, I would have been a basket case without her support through all of this madness.
A few years ago, I could barely breathe, and my lady showed up and put a foot in my butt and got me back on my feet. Mumbling something about she couldn’t leave it to me to get proper medical attention. Now, that wasn’t the vernacular she used during her time here. I’m sure you can imagine what was said to a stubborn person such as myself. Their words, not mine. I’m an utterly compliant person. I assure you.
It can’t be easy to deal with me, but their devotion, compassion, and love mean everything. It may even seem at times I don’t appreciate you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I love you and appreciate you both; never doubt this. Yep, you guys are a pain, but I love ya.
What I’ve learned over the years in regards to clutter is you never know how much crap you have accumulated until you get ready to move. Also, I discovered the things in the basement, the storage unit, and the garage. You probably don’t need it. I’m aware that somehow we find justification to keep these forgotten treasures or the unknown items contained inside labeled “Misc.” So do your best to load the unnecessary items and take them to your local charity or consignment store.
Let’s change direction for a minute. We are still discussing the reduction of clutter but in a different way.
“The unexamined life is not worth living”
― Socrates
I’ve come to realize that the area with the greatest need for decluttering is one’s self. I’ve been ill these last few months, and it doesn’t seem I’m going to get any relief in the near future. However, I’ve had an opportunity for self-reflection. Let me tell you, some wickedness has been passing through my mind. Despite this, I’ve had moments of clarity.
I’ve taken the time to really look at what I need to live my best life. I need to take the time to let go of my preconceptions about myself and the world around me. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. I find self-examination to be the most challenging endeavor I ever embarked on. It’s going to be a work in progress. Yet, it is a task worth doing.
Once you let go of your internal baggage, I believe you can tackle the basement, storage unit, or garage with a clear mind and spirit. You just might be able to get something done.
The morning chill creeps through my layers as I sit on my porch, twirling my finger playfully in my whiskers. I swallow a sip of coffee while tugging at them, lost in the depths of my thoughts. The amber glow of the collision between night and dawn illuminates the horizon. Today, a man was born that brought so much light to the world. His presence hurled us out of a darkness that had engulfed us for nearly a hundred years—a man whose vision, courage, and devotion to humanity will never be forgotten.
Sipping coffee, I watch the lights turn on one by one as the neighborhood awakens. A community in which I could have never lived if it wasn’t for this man’s efforts. Not because where I live now is better than where I grew up. Society’s attitude is better. I remember the speech of this brave man as a child being replayed every year during my youth: a vision of hope, love, determination, and courage. His speech or vision served as a beacon representing one of hell of a dream.
Now a seasoned man, I wonder if my efforts in life have helped fulfill that dream. We fought for God, Country, and the ideal of freedom. We spent countless hours away from home in pursuit of the vision on the mountaintop. The endless miles walked for the dream of the Promised Land. No mile did I walk alone. Each mile walked and every hour spent away was in the faith that a moment of hatred was erased. I hoped they would ring the bell of freedom. A sound heard in the souls of each man and woman in the land. A faith I held on to with all my might, even though it was sometimes fleeting.
Each time I heard the word Jew, it took away a little bit of hope. Whenever I heard the word cracker, freedom’s bell rang a little softer. Every time I heard the word spick or chili pepper, humanity’s love got a little weaker. Each time I heard the nigger humanity’s dignity lessen. However, each time I heard these, we fought harder to fulfill the dream of a man we had never known. We risked our lives to fulfill a dream our forefathers wrote nearly two hundred years before my birth.
I look upon my granddaughter, who shifts under her blanket of freedom provided by the fulfillment of this dream, a granddaughter who turns a year older today. She is allowed to live in a world and taste the crispness of a freedom that wouldn’t have been without his dream. A smile comes across my face as I finish my coffee. I smack my lips because I, too, taste the crispness of freedom in the fresh morning air.
Now, I’m a great-grandfather. I still taste the crispness of freedom in the morning air. It’s rather tasty!
As a kid, my favorite animal was a dog. Then I watched Ole Yeller and Sounder, and suddenly, the idea of caring for a dog seemed less appealing. Though I’ve had various versions of man’s best friend. I couldn’t help but be enthralled by the mystic of werewolves. In 1981, I was catapulted into the lure of werewolves with the movie American Werewolf in London.
This fascination evolved into my love for wolves. All variations. Quietly, I’ve read many articles over the years, watched documentaries, and read books on wolves.
I can’t explain my fascination with wolves. I can’t explain what makes me stop in my tracks and soak in the beauty of this majestic creature. Perhaps I yearn for its power, its grace, or its presence. No matter, I have to make do with the gifts I possess.
Yesterday, I stood in line at a local store when the computer system went down. After a wave of groans and disapproving looks, the manager assured us the system would be online shortly. This didn’t help the groans. I understood a possible reason for the atmosphere. We were in the middle of a snowstorm, and the conditions were worsening by the second. However, examining the crowd, I’m pretty sure they would have been complaining regardless. Complaining is the latest trend, like yoga pants and foo-foo coffee.
The system took longer than expected, and the manager declared, “It’s like dial-up!” I shook my head, “Not even close,” I corrected. We had a laugh; the system was up a few seconds later, and all was right in the world. Within a few minutes, the grandson and I were inside, safe and warm.
I see this prompt, and I’m reminded of how impatient we all have become since the advancements of technology. Despite this, I pretty much communicate the same way I did at the start of all this. Other than things being a helluva a lot faster, I’m the same guy. I’ve added social media stuff from time to time, but I basically avoid it. With the exception of Twitter, there is a writing community over there that I’ve been a part of for nearly a decade.
So when things get crazy … I just think … I remember dial-up
What job would you do for free?
The unfinished projects have formed a pile. Ideas, rants, and incoherent sentences fester. Sometimes I wonder what Goofball gave me the idea to become a writer. Where the hell are they at? I need to hunt them down wherever they may cleverly hide. To the corners of the earth if I must. By God, I need to find and look at them square in the eyes and thank them. Pull them into an embrace. Please do not think less of me, for I may weep. They have provided me with a fantastic gift. You see, boredom will never be a problem for me. Inside each project is the potential to create something that never existed before. At the very least, the potential to heal.
Today has been the longest of days for no reason. Nothing I can put my finger on anyway. I got so much accomplished, but so much more to do. There isn’t enough time to get it all done. I never complete it all. My Lord, what will I do? What will I do? We have all said this statement, felt it, or both. It doesn’t matter if you don’t admit it. It’s fine. Know that wherever you are in your journey, we all have or will walk it. The trail right in front of you. You can get to the other side step by step, word by word, or sentence by sentence. Whatever the method you will be the better for it.
As I lay across my bed, I lit a cigarette, letting it burn in the ashtray for a few minutes before I took another drag. I read a poem in Vietnamese, then I listened to it. Next, I read some prose in Italian; then again, I listened to it. The beauty of the words captured me. I’m reminded of hearing The Holy Quran recited. So beautiful and tranquil. I’m reminded how much I miss Latin Mass. I memorized it as a lad and recited it in English when the priests performed Mass. Though exhausted, hearing these works in their native language healed and recharged me a bit.
I would not have discovered the beauty of our world if I had chosen another profession on the day they whispered to me to become a writer. Although we live in a vast world full of wonder and delight, I wonder why we live so small.
Nope, this is the only profession I would do for free. Nothing else completes me.
When are you most happy?
I find myself the most happy when I’m lost in a good story. It took a long time to figure out how to enjoy reading stories without my imagination taking off, and I lost interest in the story. I began making notes in little spiral notebooks of the thoughts that came to me as I read. Soon, those notebooks were being filled with my own stories. I’m unsure what makes me happier? The words of others or the words of mine? To me, it doesn’t matter, not really. As long as the story is good.
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
The item I was most attached to as a child was my mother’s album collection. I spent hours listening to her music. It was my mother’s love for music that shaped mine. The Madre turned me on to some of the greatest music classics.
My first concert was with George Benson. I had no idea what jazz was, but I liked what I heard. This love led me to explore more of her albums. Stanley Turrentine, Spyro Gyra, and Ramsey Lewis are a few examples.
I found my Madre jamming to Boz Skaggs, The Doobie Brothers, and Steely Dan. None of my friend’s mothers listened to the same music as my mother. As I listened to the radio, I heard many of the songs that played nights in the living room.
Of course, we had the standards playing in the house. Al Green, Billy Paul, Issac Hayes, and Teddy Penderness. As I dug deeper into her collection, I found some gems I wasn’t expecting: Johnnie Taylor, Solomon Burke, and Otis Redding. My taste kept growing. Soon, I discovered Billie Holiday and Nina Simone.
Then, I discovered what I wanted to be as an adult: a radio disc jockey. I had the knowledge of music and the voice, so why not? Like a lot of childhood fantasies, nothing real becomes of it. I deejayed a few parties and even had a pirate radio show with an army buddy, but I realized my talents were more in tune with writing.
What became of the Madre’s collection?
Well, what’s left of it is stored in my living room. The most important part is that I share its influence with you most days. Well, that’s it for this post, but it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t leave you with a little something.
I remember when I was feeling down as kid, my mother would drag my butt over to our local DQ and get me one of these masterfully crafted desserts of deliciousness. She always knew just the right time to take me to get one. It never seemed like I knew the exact time. But I’m thinking I might need one today. It’s been a rough couple of months.
Questions like these make me roll my eyes and shake my head. It seems like the next thing they will be asking is,
“What does it all mean?”
What’s my place in the world?”
And more nonsense questions. I have this attitude because it is the decisions we make that cause us to become who we are.
Sure, we have situations in life we would like to do-over or take back. It’s just the nature of life. However, neither of those things are possible. So, when someone asks questions like these. I respond with the following question:
“You’ve had your entire life to prepare for this moment … why aren’t you ready?”
Every decision we have made in life has led to where we are … the good, the bad, and the ugly. Do we really want to change anything?
As always,
As a writer of a certain age, I spend time thinking about the past for several reasons. Sometimes, things that happened in the past make interesting ideas that may form a basis for a story. Other times they may lend an expected scene. Typically, I use the past in the following areas in regards to writing.
Utilizing the memories of past experiences has crucial in some of my successes as a writer. I have to keep in mind, I must let the story tell itself. I know that may sound strange, but experience has taught to never force anything.
As a man, I often refer back to situations, to see if I still them the same as I did initially. On several occasions, I found some insight hidden in the corners of my psyche. It had been there the entire time. It was just waiting for me to understand what I looking at and why.
I’ve been fortunate to have received some amazing gifts throughout my life. However, that depends on how the word “gift” is defined. Most of the time, when talking to others, I find gifts to be defined as something tangible. Something one can display on a desk or show someone. I would define these sorts of gifts as awesome, wonderful, or cool; maybe? Yet, neither rise up to the occasion of the “greatest.” I think if you take a moment and think about it, you may agree with me or not.
However, the greatest gift to me is when someone gives you their time. Time is a precious commodity, something you can’t get back. Well, at least not right now; give me another ten years; the machine I’m building should be thoroughly tested and ready for the public. Until then, I view the time people choose to spend with us as special and intimate. I know I may be a little bent on this point, but it seems to be working.
In a previous post, I discussed autodidactic learning. It’s this method of education I’m most familiar with. However, I always wanted to obtain a college degree of some sort. For whatever reason, I convinced myself I wasn’t smart enough to achieve my goal. As I was torn between my beliefs and desires, I spent considerable time trying to further my education. Throughout the years, I attended several colleges utilizing distance learning platforms.
I attended schools located in the following states:
In most cases, I wasn’t anywhere near the campus. Eventually, I got over my fear and finished my undergraduate degree. I consider my education journey as “The School of Hard Knocks.” If I had believed in myself earlier, achieving the first step of my goal wouldn’t have been so challenging. Throughout my journey, I learned much about life, the world, and, most importantly, myself. Let’s take a moment to explore some of the benefits of distance learning.
Distance learning, also known as online education, has become increasingly popular in recent years. With advancements in technology, more and more people are turning to distance learning as a convenient and flexible way to further their education. Recently, we see online education being used to educate our children. Technology has made online learning a viable option for achieving an education.
One of the most significant advantages of distance learning is its flexibility. Distance learning allows students to conveniently access course materials and lectures, unlike traditional classroom settings. This flexibility is particularly beneficial for individuals with other commitments, such as work or family responsibilities. Distance learning allows students to create their study schedules and learn at their own pace, making it easier to balance their personal and professional lives.
Moreover, distance learning allows students to study from anywhere in the world. The constraints of a physical classroom do not bind them, and they can access their coursework from their homes or while traveling. This level of flexibility allows learners to adapt their education to their individual needs and circumstances.
Another advantage of distance learning is its accessibility. In traditional education, individuals who live in remote areas or have physical disabilities may face challenges in accessing educational institutions. Distance learning eliminates these barriers by providing access to education regardless of geographical location or physical abilities.
Through online platforms, students can participate in classes, submit assignments, and interact with instructors and fellow students from anywhere in the world. This accessibility opens up opportunities for individuals who may not have had access to education otherwise. It also fosters a diverse and inclusive learning environment where students from different backgrounds and cultures can exchange ideas and perspectives.
Furthermore, distance learning allows individuals to pursue their education while juggling other responsibilities. Many students who are working full-time or taking care of their families find it difficult to attend traditional on-campus classes. Distance learning allows them to continue their education without compromising their other commitments.
Distance learning can also be a cost-effective option for many students. Traditional education often involves additional expenses such as commuting, accommodation, and textbooks. Students can save on these costs by studying from their homes with distance learning.
Additionally, many online courses and programs are more affordable than their on-campus counterparts. This affordability makes education more accessible to a broader range of individuals, regardless of their financial circumstances. It also allows students to explore a variety of courses and programs without worrying about the financial burden.
If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?
As a child, I remember watching baseball on television with my mother. I didn’t understand what I was watching, but I enjoyed my mother’s excitement as she watched her beloved “Cubbies.” However, the idea of playing the sport never really stuck. I played softball for a while but lost interest. I still enjoy watching the games when I have time to catch them. So, when I read this prompt, I knew I had to write a baseball story of sorts.
Once upon a time, a man named Rico Strong lived in a small town called Willowville. Rico was known far and wide for his extraordinary talent in training animals. He had a special connection with ferrets and platypuses and a dream – to create a baseball team like no other. But not just any baseball team; Rico wanted to form a team with pink ferrets and an angry platypus.
Rico had always been fascinated by the agility and quickness of ferrets. He believed their instincts and nimbleness would make them perfect for the outfield. As for the platypus, Rico had observed their fierce determination and strong-willed nature, which he thought would be ideal for a powerful pitcher. It was a crazy idea, but Rico was determined to make it a reality.
He traveled far and wide, scouring the world for pink ferrets and an angry platypus. He visited rainforests, deserts, and even remote islands in search of these unique creatures. He encountered countless challenges along his journey, but Rico’s determination never wavered. He faced treacherous terrains, wild animals, and even unexpected weather but pressed on, fueled by his unwavering passion.
Finally, after months of searching, Rico found what he was looking for. In a hidden valley deep within the mountains, he discovered a group of pink ferrets with shimmering fur. They were playful, agile, and had an undeniable charm. Rico knew he had struck gold with these ferrets.
But his journey wasn’t over yet. Rico had heard rumors of an angry platypus living in a far-off swamp. Determined not to give up, he ventured into the swamp despite the warnings of its dangers. And there, in a murky pond, Rico found the angry platypus. It was bigger and fiercer than he had imagined, with venomous spurs and a fiery gaze. Rico knew he had found the missing piece of his team.
With his team of pink ferrets and the angry platypus, Rico set out to fulfill his dream. He built a baseball field in Willowville with state-of-the-art facilities and a cheering crowd. Word quickly spread about his unique team, and people from all over came to watch the Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus play. The team’s agility, speed, and determination were unmatched, making them a force to be reckoned with.
As the team played their games, they faced many challenges. They encountered teams with stronger hitters, faster runners, and more experienced pitchers. But Rico’s team had something special – their unbreakable bond and unwavering spirit. They supported each other, cheered on, and never gave up.
The Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus became the talk of the town with their incredible plays and electrifying performances. They won game after game, leaving their opponents in awe. Rico’s unique team captured the hearts of the locals and, media and baseball enthusiasts worldwide.
Ultimately, the Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus became more than just a baseball team. They symbolized courage, unity, and the power of following one’s dreams. Rico Strong’s extraordinary vision had turned a seemingly crazy idea into a remarkable reality.
And so, the legacy of the Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus baseball team lived on, inspiring generations to come. Their story was passed down from one baseball fan to another, reminding everyone that anything is possible with passion, determination, and a little imagination. The team’s success paved the way for more unconventional and innovative approaches in sports, proving that sometimes, the most extraordinary things can come from the most unexpected places.
The Traveling Pink Ferrets & Angry Platypus left a lasting impact on the baseball world, forever etching their names in the annals of sports history. Their remarkable journey was a testament to the power of teamwork, dedication, and belief in the impossible. Rico Strong’s dream had not only come true but had exceeded all expectations, leaving an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of all who witnessed their extraordinary feats.
The rattling of the window in the wind wakes me. Slowly, I stretch away the night, my eyes shift from darkness to a haze, and my eyes shift into focus from slumber to reality. I hear the whirling hiss as the snow hits the screen. I make my way to the kitchen to brew some sanity. Its aroma filled the room in a matter of seconds. In minutes, I am nursing a cup by the window. The night has yet to surrender to dawn. Yet, to tuck itself away, partaking in the much-needed rest. If you look closely and catch it just right, you can see the snowflake’s form before it dissolves against the glass.
It is the perfect day for cuddling. Her head nestled in that special place. My breathing was slow, and my heart skipped a beat, so we were in unison. So that we are connected. Connected on the spiritual level, not just the profane, it is a perfect morning for loving. A soft, slow, lingering turns into a slow grind. To evolve into a breathless gasp that surrenders to a moan. A moan becomes a pant, then a scream, then a contentment sigh is released. Then, fall into a deep, coma-like sleep.
The night is coming, just like it did the night before. It really isn’t anything special to me, just a darker shade of grey. You see, I view the world through a pair of monochrome lenses. It’s been this way since birth, well, at least until I saw her. Her lips glowed like rubies, her hair seemed on fire, and something shimmery hung from her ears. I can only imagine these colors to be shades of red. Is this what red looks like? How beautiful, how enchanting. Who was she? Who was this woman in red?
How have your political views changed over time?
The short answer is NO. However, as I have gotten older and gained more experience, I better understand some of the motives. Politics is in almost every aspect of life. I would love to say, “I don’t do politics,” as I have said on several occasions, but that would be incorrect. What I mean is I prefer a straightforward approach to things. This way, one knows where they stand in a given situation. However, that’s not how things work, is it? There seems to be some hidden agenda.
As we get older, we often find we don’t remember things the way we used to. I asked a doctor once about my failing memory, and his response was less than gratifying. I’ve never been one who took sweeping generalizations seriously. Despite aging, several conditions have an impact on memory. I’ve listed a few.
As a person living with PTSD, I have issues with my short-term memory. Through researching the different conditions that affect my memory, I discovered several techniques that can assist with any memory issues one may be experiencing. One of the techniques I found that sounded sort of cool was a technique called a Memory Palace. Let’s take a look at an overview of the technique.
Memory Palace, also known as the Method of Loci, is a powerful technique used for centuries to enhance memory and recall. This technique involves creating a mental map or imaginary location, such as a house or a palace, and associating each piece of information with a specific location within that space. Individuals can effectively store and retrieve vast amounts of data by visualizing and navigating through this memory palace.
The Memory Palace technique dates back to ancient Greece and Rome, where orators and scholars widely used it to memorize speeches, poems, and other important information. The Roman orator Cicero popularized the method, who believed associating ideas with vivid mental images created a lasting impression in the mind. This technique has been employed by many notable figures throughout history, including Aristotle, Sherlock Holmes, and even modern memory champions. Understanding the historical roots of the Memory Palace technique provides insight into its longevity and effectiveness as a memory enhancement tool.
The Memory Palace technique leverages the brain’s ability to remember spatial information. It capitalizes on the fact that our minds are naturally adept at recalling physical locations and their details. By mentally placing pieces of information in specific locations within a familiar or imagined space, we create a structured and organized system for storing and retrieving information. The process involves choosing a memory palace, mentally walking through it, and associating data with different locations. This technique allows readily recalling stored information by navigating through the memory palace. Understanding the inner workings of the Memory Palace technique helps individuals grasp its effectiveness and apply it to their own memory improvement goals.
The Memory Palace technique has a wide range of applications and can enhance memory in various areas of life. Students can utilize this technique to remember complex subjects, such as history timelines or scientific formulas. Professionals can employ it to remember important details for presentations or speeches, ensuring a confident and accurate delivery. The Memory Palace technique can also improve language learning, memorizing scripts for acting or public speaking, or even remembering a grocery list. The versatility of the Memory Palace technique makes it applicable to various fields and everyday life scenarios.
The Memory Palace technique offers several benefits for memory improvement. Firstly, it provides a structured and organized system for storing and retrieving information, making it easier to recall. Individuals create strong mental connections that aid in memory retention by associating information with specific locations within a memory palace. Additionally, the visualization and navigation involved in the Memory Palace technique engage multiple senses, further enhancing memory and recall. This technique also promotes creativity and imagination, as individuals create vivid mental images to associate with the information they want to remember. Lastly, the Memory Palace technique is a practical and effective approach to enhancing cognitive abilities, regardless of age or educational background.
In conclusion, the Memory Palace technique is powerful for enhancing memory and recall. Its historical roots, working principles, applications, and benefits highlight its effectiveness as a memory enhancement technique. By leveraging the brain’s natural ability to remember spatial information, individuals can create a mental map that serves as a structured system for storing and retrieving information. Whether you are a student, professional, or simply looking to improve your memory, the Memory Palace technique offers a practical and effective approach to enhancing your cognitive abilities. Embrace the power of the Memory Palace and unlock your full memory potential.
If you find yourself or someone close to you experiencing cognitive issues, please seek assistance from a healthcare professional.
My body is healing, so I’ve been sleeping a lot. It’s strange how remarkable the body can be if you allow it to do its thing. I haven’t been able to get much done in these past weeks, but I’ve had the strength to create. This is a blessing in itself. I may never return to being the man I was before all this happened, but honestly, they may not be such a bad thing. In part, it’s because of him; I’m in this situation, and it’s also because of him; I know I can survive it. Who or what will I be after it is all said and done? Who knows? But it’s gonna be fun figuring things out.
I took this photo a week before my health took a nose dive. I remember feeling horrible that day. However, I pushed through because I’m a tough guy and all that.
What is your all time favorite automobile?
In an earlier post, I discussed my dream cars, so in this response, I’ll talk about my favorite vehicle I have owned. I’ve owned several cars over the years. My first pickup truck was a 1969 Ford F-100. She was called ”The Gypsy” and was the ugliest vehicle I ever owned. However, she ran like a dream. I missed that ole’ girl.
What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?
There is nothing like taking a walk. I would add cigarettes and coffee to the mi, but that would only dimish the benefits. I was poor as a child, we had two ways to get anywhere; walking or riding your bike. In some cases, you ended up doing both. So I learned early to enjoy the journey. To freely allow the thoughts in my head to run wild. No one there sticking their opinion mudding up the process.
Even now, I walk with headphones on. The music provides a blanket shielding me from the outside. I hear my thoughts exhale, clear their throats, and call the rest of my body to order. My arms and legs are moving in unison to a subconscious rhythm. Yet, I realize my breathing is setting the tempo. My thoughts and ideas line up to me counted.
Next, I exclaim, not looking up at the next idea waiting to have their say.
“Good day, Mr. Khan”
“Good day.” I reply, waiting for them to get on with it. They take a moment to gather themselves to ensure not to waste my time. I’m thankful for the gesture actually. I can’t count the numerous times progress has been striflield by a ridiculous idea.
‘“Well get on with it,” I nudge.
“You see Sir, I been thinking the story needs a bit of restructuring.” Idea stated.
“How so?” I questioned. The idea went on to explain its opinion in great deal. I have to admit I like the idea. But I couldn’t let this go unchallenged. It was the principle of the thing. I can’t be having ideas rushing up to me at hours of the night thinking they’re to get their say. The other day I saw a wanna-be Picasso paint his cat pink.
Painting a cat pink, really?
Uncle Willie told me a story about a fella who had an idea to impress a woman. We all know the lengths men go to impress women. It’s ridiculous the things we come up with. Well this fella, got the idea that the women of his dreams was worth it. He met her at the local bowling alley. The story goes, she liked him well enough, but she always wanted to see what a kangaroo looked like up close. For months, they’d meet at the bowling alley and talk, but she kept bringing up the kangaroo thing. Finally, the fella invited her to fly with him to Australia to see a kangaroo. Her reply was that she didn’t know him well enough to go on a trip like that. What kind of woman did he think she was?
Cedric, the fella, was determined to have Gretchen, the woman, by any means necessary. So, he contacted a navy buddy who owed him a favor and got a damn kangaroo. Christmas Day 1966, when the bowling alley was closed, arranged for the place to open and convinced Gretchen to meet him there. So, Gretchen’s Christmas present was a kangaroo, named Rocky. Of course, Gretchen didn’t have any place to keep Rocky, so he lived with Cedric. Christmas 1967, they were married. The marriage lasted five years. Gretchen got the house and Rocky in the settlement. I know this may be hard to believe, but here is a photo from the day Gretchen and Rocky met.
Aunt Willie, on my father’s side, a bit touched if you listen to Nana. Despite this, Aunt Willie, was the most successful pig farmer in the state. A winter’s back, Aunt Willie got a notion that Charlene and Jessup, her pet pigs didn’t want to spend the winter in the cold. So, she pack them up and took them to the beach. The local took exception to the pigs at the beach and made a big ruckus. However, Aunt Willie was to snap a picture of Charlene and Jessup before things got out of hand.
I have to admit I’m a bit jealous, they look rather peaceful.
There’s nothing like a good stroll to clear your mind and you get a little exercise to boot.
What cities do you want to visit?
I’ve been pretty fortunate in my life, for the most part. I’ve done a great deal of traveling in my lifetime. I found myself in places I didn’t know existed and places I thought you only read about in travel books that lay on the coffee tables of most of my friend’s living rooms. I remember several mothers sitting in their chairs, thumbing through the magazines, sporadically mentioning something that caught their eye. Honestly, I never imagined leaving the state, let alone leaving the country.
Despite my travels, there are a few cities I wouldn’t mind visiting. Crete, Milan, and Sydney.
While I was stationed in Korea, a few friends of mine got the notion that we wanted to spend Christmas in Australia. This is the same crew that participated in the high jinxes of I Got Drunk in Korea and Woke Up in Japan. Not familiar with that story? Click here. Now, we intended to have a relatively tame experience in comparison to the previously mentioned adventure, but no fun is for suckers. At least, that was the favorite saying of one of the members of the crew.
The unit we assigned was constantly on alert status. So, I was on call 70 percent of the time I was there. Another specialist was assigned to the unit about a couple of months before the holidays, and he finally had enough training to take a shift. This meant I got a much needed break. My plans were to drink and drink some more. I had never been one to plan anything special. I just kind of went with the flow. The crew suggested the Australia trip. I thought about it and responded with why not. We didn’t have much money, so we couldn’t afford plane tickets. This is where I came in. I was the idea guy. So I made a call, and there was a Hop over to Australia.
I couldn’t believe it. Christmas in Sydney. I got all excited, so the fever had got to us all. We put in for passes and packed our bags. We rode the bus as far south as possible, then took a cab. There we were at the airport, congratulating one another. The only problem was on a Hop it was space available. You could get bumped for several reasons. So, we sat anxiously waiting to see if we could catch the flight. One of the guys flirted with a female Airmen, and she assured us we would be good to go. I wasn’t paying it, but who knows it might work out.
As it turned out, the Airmen was true to her word; we got seats. We were heading to the plane and heard an announcement over the intercom. I didn’t hear what was said initially, but the guys grabbed me and said come on. The announcement had called for us by name, which only meant one thing: our unit was on alert. So, the plan was to pretend we didn’t hear the announcement and get on the flight. We could deal with any punishment when we got back, So we hid and waited for an opening to board the plane.
The opening we had been waiting for had finally arrived. We were making our move towards the plane when I heard a soft voice behind me.
“You gonna make me chase you, soldier?”
Sydney was 100 feet away. I could make it. However, I turned around to look into the eyes of one of the most beautiful women I had seen. I tried not to react, but apparently, my expression gave me away.
The MP sergeant stepped to me and said softly,” Let me guess, you think I’m cute and don’t take me seriously?” I swallowed and presumed the position of parade rest. Three extremely large MPs joined her, bearing no-nonsense expressions. She studied me momentarily with her emerald eyes and then nodded.
“Follow us, soldiers,” she ordered.
She and another soldier drove us back to our unit. Defeated, we exited the van and were met by our boss. He looked relieved at the sight of us, which meant things were bad. I turned to look back at the van and gazed right into the eyes of the Sergeant again. We held each other gaze momentarily, and then they drove off. For the next three days, I didn’t sleep. I worked on what seemed like every system we had. The chatter was they would strike us from multiple fronts, but it turned out to be nothing but smoke.
I finally made it to my rack late in the morning, Christmas day. The scratchy wool blanket and worn out pillow never felt so good.
“Wiz….Wiz!” my boss woke me from my coma. “Step lively … free booze,” he continued. I jumped into a pair of jeans and a sweater. We got the NCO Club, and there was an amazing spread. The crew was already there slipping on wine. I instantly perked up. It was a lovely dinner, and after a couple, only a few of us left drinking and telling stories. Then I heard a familiar soft voice.
“May we join you?” the voice asked, I looked up into the eyes of the MP sergeant. She had three other women with her. “These are my friends; I hope you don’t mind?” she asked. I looked at my friends, who were grinning like schoolboys. I nodded, and they all sat down. Each of them took their pick. The sergeant sat next to me.
“I’m Fiona, and you are?” she asked, smiling. She knew exactly who I was. We chuckled and enjoyed the rest of the night with our friends.
It wasn’t Sydney, but that Christmas turned out okay.
As Always
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
I’ve given speeches and lectures several times during my adulthood. However, I’ve been a victim of stage fright. Yet, I’ve done so many of them you couldn’t tell. However, I’ve only performed on stage once.
My stage debut was in a musical called Let George Do It. My teacher came into the class and told us we would perform a musical for the whole school. I didn’t understand what that really meant, but I listened. I can’t remember how this happened, but I ended up with the lead part of George Washington. Of course, since this was a musical, the lead role required me to sing. I didn’t sing then, and I don’t sing now. However, I figured my refusal to sing would indeed send me to the back, where I could pretend to sing along. As it turned out, my teacher had other ideas.
She decided I speak all the parts of the lead role. I was terrified, but somehow I got through it. Unbeknownst to her, this brilliant move launched my public speaking career. I’m indebted to her for that. It has served me well over the years. Thanks teach.
Memoirs of Madness 