I learned an interesting lesson about the time of my mission that has helped me see people more clearly. That is to say that in our interactions with each other, there are those specific people in our lives that are more specifically significant to our eternal welfare than others. I personally believe the Lord places in our lives the very souls with whom he can use to enhance in us our growth and progression and who ultimately bring us the greatest satisfaction and joy.
This introduces what I call the "polar people" in our lives. While we randomly see and hold conversation and communication with a wide variety of acquaintances in our lives, there are those polar people that suddenly stick out from the rest. I call them polar people because they have two sides, a strong attraction for our interests or a strong repulsion of our interests. In this regard, those who are polar people are strongly significant in our lives, and depending on choices made in the interaction between them, they will become your best friends or your worst enemies.
I have met in my life many of my polar influences and have, with almost a sixth sense, recognized their placement and impeccable representation of trials and significant progressive moments that have occurred along my journey. For instance, in the mission I remember one Elder with whom I completely disdained for his lifestyle habits that seemed to directly diverge from my ideals and the standards I held on a pedistle, such as cleanliness, tack, and ambition. And somehow with myself, and through subsequent hints of revelation, I realized that the Lord was going to use this Elder to test me, and a few month later we became companions. Now I believe at this point with our polar people, there stands a strong choice to be made, and depending on our depth of understanding and grappling to the Lord's Christian doctrine, he defines us by our interaction to these significants, and helps us to develop our strong personal opinions of them for good or bad through his own fire. And then, by our faith and use of agency, these polars become either the friends that we would take a bullet for, or the enemy that Fiji could not hide well enough.
By this, I believe there exists a thread of doctrine that is highly useful here as taught us by the Lord. There exists no excuse to not love another. There is no excuse to not love every single being in this world. Through enough faith, endurance, patience, and long-suffering, everyone we would through a carnal estimation esteem as our worst enemy, can and will be changed into the friend we would give our life for, and this because the heart is molded by the humble awakenings of the spirit to envision correctly, as the Lord might. And then we begin to understand how the Lord made it possible to love even the hostile and devilish soldier who derided him, whipped him, and pushed that plate of crowns even deeper into his flesh.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Meanings of Being Human
I walked toward the glass doorway on the great brick building as she was coming out. My delayed speed in approaching the door and her pressing to get through the door made for an awkward crossing in the doorway with a suggested impetus of human interaction. It was all a split-second instant. After doing the infamous shake and back aversion of running into one another, we both moved toward fronting one another as we crossed so that we were physically turned into the other's space. Sheepishly, I thought to avoid further awkwardness by turning my eyes into hers to form a quick smile and verbal apology for the hilarious human foible as I positioned myself to make a better passing. But when I drew my eyes toward hers, she never even flinched to look into mine....She brushed past me as I were a ghost, hardly showing evidence to my existence.
What if I told you we were perfect strangers making a random passing, would you blame her then for not looking in my eyes?
What if I told you that we were actually acquaintances, that she was majoring in Life Science and loved reading, and I was majoring in Film and just got an internship, would you blame her then for not looking in my eyes?
Or what if I told you that the door to the building at our crossing was an apartment complex, that we had seen each other multiple times, and that we had found a common thread one day for several minutes as we sat and complained about the landlord ripping us off with rent. What if she had looked back and smiled at me when I commented about one of her deep answers in our philosophy class, that I had shyly averted my gaze at her in the same moment, and that she took it to mean that I was repulsed by her and none the bit attracted. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes.
Or what if I told you that we had dated for two years, that I could tell you the day she became completely comfortable with me with an outrageous belch? I was stunned at the girth of power from such a tiny frame, she was blue with laughter at my sullen reaction. What if she could tell you she knew I was about to kiss her for our first time because my hands were trembling as I moved to embrace her. We had fallen in love. Standing on the overlooking cliff with the slapping sound of the waterfall hitting the rocks far below, I put my arms around her waist and kissed her. She whispered in my ear that she loved me. I pulled a ring from my pocket and she started to cry. I slipped it on her finger and she hugged me tightly, tears falling down in synchronizing crests with the slapping water on the rocks below. What if I told you that two days later I called off the engagement out of fear? Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes.
What if I told you we were perfect strangers making a random passing, would you blame her then for not looking in my eyes?
What if I told you that we were actually acquaintances, that she was majoring in Life Science and loved reading, and I was majoring in Film and just got an internship, would you blame her then for not looking in my eyes?
Or what if I told you that the door to the building at our crossing was an apartment complex, that we had seen each other multiple times, and that we had found a common thread one day for several minutes as we sat and complained about the landlord ripping us off with rent. What if she had looked back and smiled at me when I commented about one of her deep answers in our philosophy class, that I had shyly averted my gaze at her in the same moment, and that she took it to mean that I was repulsed by her and none the bit attracted. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes.
Or what if I told you that we had dated for two years, that I could tell you the day she became completely comfortable with me with an outrageous belch? I was stunned at the girth of power from such a tiny frame, she was blue with laughter at my sullen reaction. What if she could tell you she knew I was about to kiss her for our first time because my hands were trembling as I moved to embrace her. We had fallen in love. Standing on the overlooking cliff with the slapping sound of the waterfall hitting the rocks far below, I put my arms around her waist and kissed her. She whispered in my ear that she loved me. I pulled a ring from my pocket and she started to cry. I slipped it on her finger and she hugged me tightly, tears falling down in synchronizing crests with the slapping water on the rocks below. What if I told you that two days later I called off the engagement out of fear? Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes.
to me talking about how many kids we wanted to have, and our dream home, and how I was going . That one day I had proposed to her but called it off because I was scared. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or what if we had been married for fifteen years and had four kids. We had grown together through sacrifice and serving one another and had a love that was untarnished. Yet, we still felt we knew so little about one another and that there was always room for improvement. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
How about if the brick building was a breadstore in the projects, that I was best friends with her older brother and we had been playing with a handgun two weeks before when it suddenly went off and killed him. What if I told you that he was really close to her and always promised to protect her from the hell that surrounded her every second. Would you blame her then for not looking me in the eyes?
Or what if we were in Mississippi, I was born white and she black. I had come from a long line of white supremasists and felt it my obligation to demean every black female I came into contact with. What if I had made no facial expression for contempt because of the unexpected passing but that years of human conditioning in discrimination had given each of us non-verbal cues to show our disregard for one another through out own symbolic interaction. Would you blame her then for not looking me in the eyes?
Or what if she was molested by her father when she was five years old. She might have been attempting everything she could to muster eye contact and a greeting to me but could not. Her mind was frozen in psychological pain that baracaded all trust she ever had for any male. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
What if she was the happiest person alive. She worked at the local supermarket and greeted everyone she could because she sincerely loved them for the value they had as a human being. However, this day, she had had too much. In her car, she had cut off a motorcyclist earlier who afterward knocked on her window and flashed her the 'birdie'. Then, she had failed her economics test and her boyfriend told her that he wanted to date other people. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or what if she was thinking about the Lord in her mind with a prayer in her heart. She had been thanking him for the beautiful sunny day it had been and for the sparrow chirping in the tree above me that I had never noticed when I passed her. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
What if her mother had called her to tell her that she was planning to leave her father and that she was in a rush to drive over and stop her mother for rash thinking. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or what if we wre two Christian kids who were taught all of our lives to love one another and do service unto others. We understood our true purpose in this life and had great expectations of the next life. That we had both attended separate institutes, seminaries, religion classes, Sunday schools, church meetings, young men/woman activities, and many social activities, that we relatively understood one another pretty well because we had been born and raised from similar background structured in righteous living. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
What if we were humans? Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or above all, what if she was a daughter of God, and I was a Son of God? Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Give a little, because we will NEVER have a clue about each other. But we at least have the most important things in common!
Or what if we had been married for fifteen years and had four kids. We had grown together through sacrifice and serving one another and had a love that was untarnished. Yet, we still felt we knew so little about one another and that there was always room for improvement. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
How about if the brick building was a breadstore in the projects, that I was best friends with her older brother and we had been playing with a handgun two weeks before when it suddenly went off and killed him. What if I told you that he was really close to her and always promised to protect her from the hell that surrounded her every second. Would you blame her then for not looking me in the eyes?
Or what if we were in Mississippi, I was born white and she black. I had come from a long line of white supremasists and felt it my obligation to demean every black female I came into contact with. What if I had made no facial expression for contempt because of the unexpected passing but that years of human conditioning in discrimination had given each of us non-verbal cues to show our disregard for one another through out own symbolic interaction. Would you blame her then for not looking me in the eyes?
Or what if she was molested by her father when she was five years old. She might have been attempting everything she could to muster eye contact and a greeting to me but could not. Her mind was frozen in psychological pain that baracaded all trust she ever had for any male. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
What if she was the happiest person alive. She worked at the local supermarket and greeted everyone she could because she sincerely loved them for the value they had as a human being. However, this day, she had had too much. In her car, she had cut off a motorcyclist earlier who afterward knocked on her window and flashed her the 'birdie'. Then, she had failed her economics test and her boyfriend told her that he wanted to date other people. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or what if she was thinking about the Lord in her mind with a prayer in her heart. She had been thanking him for the beautiful sunny day it had been and for the sparrow chirping in the tree above me that I had never noticed when I passed her. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
What if her mother had called her to tell her that she was planning to leave her father and that she was in a rush to drive over and stop her mother for rash thinking. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or what if we wre two Christian kids who were taught all of our lives to love one another and do service unto others. We understood our true purpose in this life and had great expectations of the next life. That we had both attended separate institutes, seminaries, religion classes, Sunday schools, church meetings, young men/woman activities, and many social activities, that we relatively understood one another pretty well because we had been born and raised from similar background structured in righteous living. Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
What if we were humans? Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Or above all, what if she was a daughter of God, and I was a Son of God? Would you blame her then for not looking into my eyes?
Give a little, because we will NEVER have a clue about each other. But we at least have the most important things in common!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
What We Carry
At time of the precious, ripe fruit
A white taste divine
Found the boy from the wiseman
Two strings attached in time
For the abundant message had befallen
Amongst deaf ears of late
Where once it greatly astonished
And all the same bred hate
The first string from passed men
Of those who spoke it clear
The other from heavenly wind
A pearl for those who fear
And yet strings become detachment
As lost upon deaf ears
If a generation in ignorance
Those who lis't not the seers
Such permission to carry this message
Made to me by the higher hand
And Magnificence carried me forth
To hold my place and stand
Why my brothers would not lis't
A treasure with all its bliss?
More valuable to them than world
Into me... snickers, and slams, and hiss.
If the wisemen had not hearkened
Where would wisdom be?
If faithful men are void,
Then wisdom must surely flee.
A white taste divine
Found the boy from the wiseman
Two strings attached in time
For the abundant message had befallen
Amongst deaf ears of late
Where once it greatly astonished
And all the same bred hate
The first string from passed men
Of those who spoke it clear
The other from heavenly wind
A pearl for those who fear
And yet strings become detachment
As lost upon deaf ears
If a generation in ignorance
Those who lis't not the seers
Such permission to carry this message
Made to me by the higher hand
And Magnificence carried me forth
To hold my place and stand
Why my brothers would not lis't
A treasure with all its bliss?
More valuable to them than world
Into me... snickers, and slams, and hiss.
If the wisemen had not hearkened
Where would wisdom be?
If faithful men are void,
Then wisdom must surely flee.
Sand Bridges
How can a soul break forth
when earth has buried it,
that seeks naturally what is naturally involved.
The mighty bridge holds the frame of the designer,
And towers over so man may pass,
but when howling wind surge over the midst
Man tears down the bridge and builds it afresh.
Why bridges built from those that are sound?
Why material involved when material is giv'n?
In abundance or not enough indeed
Proves the Master's allotment of our need.
Where is the hypocrite who builds bridges,
taking his material from the Master's pail,
For when the rains come, his bridge collapses
And his volition with him fall to hell.
Wash the sand from your eyes, the master bore
And surely I will give you more,
For laws you don't understand heal your sore,
And flows away the sand evermore.
when earth has buried it,
that seeks naturally what is naturally involved.
The mighty bridge holds the frame of the designer,
And towers over so man may pass,
but when howling wind surge over the midst
Man tears down the bridge and builds it afresh.
Why bridges built from those that are sound?
Why material involved when material is giv'n?
In abundance or not enough indeed
Proves the Master's allotment of our need.
Where is the hypocrite who builds bridges,
taking his material from the Master's pail,
For when the rains come, his bridge collapses
And his volition with him fall to hell.
Wash the sand from your eyes, the master bore
And surely I will give you more,
For laws you don't understand heal your sore,
And flows away the sand evermore.
The Legacy of Jack Handey
Dumb Questions
*How come men are never known as 'gold diggers'?
*If I was a chipmunk with a candybar head, would other chipmunks accept me as one of their own or gnaw at my head?
*They say it is genetically dominant to have six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. If this is true, who executed all the six finger tards, and if they survived, what would we do with all the five-finger gloves in the world?
*What is the deal with the nursery rhyme "black sheep, black sheep"? I have never seen a black shep in my life! If this is true, what do they make my red shirts out of?
*They say that tag-a-longs can be so annoying. But I think they are useful. I stuff all my packages with them.
*Why can't we look on the positive side of natural disasters. Like if there was a bunch of tree logs rolling down from the mountains to crush us, that would make things a ton easier for the paper mill.
*I think people are always looking for a problem to think about. Like if they didn't have something to compare with other people, they would be annoyed because everyone was trying to be exactly like them.
*I can't stand abuse! Everytime I see a man yelling at his wife violently, I want to beat the crap out of him.
*This is how I write when I have insomnia.................
*Did you ever notice how everything in life is a blessing and a curse? Like for instances: eating icecream tastes good but makes you fat, big noses are not socially attractive but great for shooting snot rockets, having a crappy car doesn't score with the ladies but is the shizzle at monster rallies, and Lebron James may make millions on the basketball court because of his size but must feel claustrophobic in just about every building he enters.
*If everyone was shifted back a lunch in the McDonald's drive-thru line so that the person behind paid for the person in front of them, would the last person in line get a free lunch? (Don't think too hard about this one, I am way beyond tired!)
*How come men are never known as 'gold diggers'?
*If I was a chipmunk with a candybar head, would other chipmunks accept me as one of their own or gnaw at my head?
*They say it is genetically dominant to have six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. If this is true, who executed all the six finger tards, and if they survived, what would we do with all the five-finger gloves in the world?
*What is the deal with the nursery rhyme "black sheep, black sheep"? I have never seen a black shep in my life! If this is true, what do they make my red shirts out of?
*They say that tag-a-longs can be so annoying. But I think they are useful. I stuff all my packages with them.
*Why can't we look on the positive side of natural disasters. Like if there was a bunch of tree logs rolling down from the mountains to crush us, that would make things a ton easier for the paper mill.
*I think people are always looking for a problem to think about. Like if they didn't have something to compare with other people, they would be annoyed because everyone was trying to be exactly like them.
*I can't stand abuse! Everytime I see a man yelling at his wife violently, I want to beat the crap out of him.
*This is how I write when I have insomnia.................
*Did you ever notice how everything in life is a blessing and a curse? Like for instances: eating icecream tastes good but makes you fat, big noses are not socially attractive but great for shooting snot rockets, having a crappy car doesn't score with the ladies but is the shizzle at monster rallies, and Lebron James may make millions on the basketball court because of his size but must feel claustrophobic in just about every building he enters.
*If everyone was shifted back a lunch in the McDonald's drive-thru line so that the person behind paid for the person in front of them, would the last person in line get a free lunch? (Don't think too hard about this one, I am way beyond tired!)
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Low Down Dissing of Social Network Communication Desperation Dawg!
(This is mostly a parody on the socially isolated misfits of network coummunicators.)
Sitting out there in the frontiers of known world in the corner of his attic, I envision some lonely sap, typing responses to his monitor, searching long picture lists of female snap shots, hoping in his deepest soul to connect with some poor fool who might, in a blessed moment, offer him her attention. Too introverted to leave the attic, too desperate to power off. And then one screenshot later he will find his opportunity, the one in a million that would accept his friendship would not have happened had it not been for the wonderful world of network communications. Beautiful Georgia Dixie Love will desire to meet Stick In the Mud 45 from his attic in Wyoming. They will write and chat and reminisce and smile and eventually he will send a picture. Interesting twist, his picture does not divert her interest, so powerful the ability of this captivating magic, and suddenly she will find herself on a long flight to Dale Creek Wyoming, pop. 33, giddy and bubbly.
She arrives from the airport to Dale Creek, Wyoming by travelling down the long highway that heads to Stick in the Mud 45's small prairie house. Three times she rings the door bell and three times she knocks, to no avail. She turns in shame, her abnoxious repetoire littered with standups, tears in the eyes. As the mascara smears across her puffy cheeks, she sits violently down on his broken porch right into a large unrepaired hole between the planks. Her bum slices across a pointy board, tearing her pink capris across the right pocket side. She shreeks in pain and stands up holding her bum, yelling out a loud curse. Still holding her bum, she kicks at the dead weeds in his wraparound plantar, attempting to rhyme profanity with his profile name (don't try it). Stick In the Mud grins through his eyes with satisfaction from the corner of his areal view. She sits down on the porch again, this time taking precaution to scout out the landing site for a painless clearance. Still in a fit, shemopes as her elbows slam against her knees and her head goes down between her knees in shame. In the corner window, 45's once excited eyes now show boredom at her inaction. Suddenly, Dixie Chick lifts her golden head from her lap, pulling a neck muscle from the weight of 3 pounds of hair, 1 pound of touchup makeup, 2 pounds of regular makeup, 7 oz. of Botox, 5 ounces from each of her hoop earrings, and 10 ounces from the Colt Magnum she has hidden under her towering hair bun. Gun you ask?
After wringing and massaging her neck, she jumps to her feet in a burst of rage. With a sadistical tone she calmly speaks, "I refuse to let another one do this, Manly! I didn't come here be stood up again! So I brought a lovely present, a 45 for my 45?" She pulls out the loaded handgun gun from her big hair, carefully avoiding fingernail splits as she cocks it. Stick's eyebrows raise and his eyes grow big at the site. Then, from the non-torn back pocket, she pulls out the damaged photograph of Mariusz Pudzianowski, a "personal" photo that Stick in the Mud had sent her three months previous. Pudzianowski's is the newest member inducted into the Strong Man Competition. As she softly taps the end of the barrel of the Magnum against the photo, she yells loudly into space, "You better come out here and show me these guns before I show you mine!" Stick's grin spreads from cheek to cheek in delight as he shifts his position to peer from a different corner of the pained window.
In a quick burst of speed Dixie Chick rushes around the house, all the time waving her revolver in the air. She goes through the backyard, over the dead plantar, through the scattered garbage and debris to the backdoor, searching the windows; no lights, no sounds, no answer. And all the while Creepy Eyes 45 peers out, clapping with excitement. With a stinky blanket wrapped around his frail body, his body temperature has never raised so high. This human contact almost too unbearable for his sensory input. His body seems to move like a ghost from window to window for a better vantage point of her every move.
In frustration, Dixie stops in exhaustion, tears streaming down her modified face, smearing the five layers of mascara and eyeliner caked theron. Waiting and waiting she stands, checking her bright red digits for fingernail breakage between peering through at quiet doors and through windows to the staleness inside. But no one ever comes, a door is never opened, and the silence of the Wyoming desolation brings fear to her trembling body. In anger she screams and unloads four shots into the wooden siding on the leanto against his house and then throws the revolver through a window. Like the Flash, she instantaneously B-lines towards her Geo Metro on dirt road highway a few hundred yards out. Leatherskin boots clack loudly on the concrete sidewalk as she runs from the house in despair. Taking quick, miniature strides, she arrives to the gravel driveway leading from the house. Her first step brings a twisted ankle as the weight of her body falls into a waterless irrigation ditch alongside the driveway. Throwing off her boots, she jumps to her feet again and hobbles quickly toward the highway to her carriage waitng to carry her away from this recurring and excrusciating humiliation. And yet a less understood grin on 45's sadistical face and chuckling as he imagines her a mutants from Night of the Living Dead.
She finally crosses the highway to her car, which shows the marcations of being scarred from the keying of a hundred yards of barbwire fencing. Bumper Billy Bucks, a local cattle truck driver and midnight Network Communication devotee cruises down the highway at 60 miles an hour, throwing an empty Bud Light can out the window as he heads to the local airport to pick up his latest prospect, I Look Like Brittany Spears 780. Beautiful Georgia Dixie Girl leaves a beautiful, body sized impression in the cattle trucks front windshield. She rolls for a second time into a ditch as Bumper Billy blows his tires with the halt, and 45 witnesses all from the corner of his omniscient attic window pane.
The police come to investigate, her body is carried away in a mummy bag. the funeral bells are heardin 45's house from down the long highway. 45 listens as he peer out the little pane window days later, his face void of emotion. However he has been graced by a solid week of chatroom abstinence for the purpose of his mourner's duties. Time passes and finally he unwraps the thick quilt from around his body. His stiff body recirculates the blood as his processor loads. Suddenly, the beaming light of the LCD gives him his endeared rush. A new web page, a new social networking site, and most importantly, a new profile.
And without regard to the former, he finds the newest flavor as the trauma of Georgia fades to black within hours. This new one is number 780. He likes her because she doesn't look anything like the other 779 listed photos displayed vertically before her. ''I always liked brunettes", he thinks, "but this one will have to do." They passionately write and he discovers she's been to Wyoming, and that in fact, she was stood up at an airport by another profiler. A solid connection is made between the two but the question of romance is left up in the air.
And so the twisted cycle continues.....subscribe to Myspace.com
Sitting out there in the frontiers of known world in the corner of his attic, I envision some lonely sap, typing responses to his monitor, searching long picture lists of female snap shots, hoping in his deepest soul to connect with some poor fool who might, in a blessed moment, offer him her attention. Too introverted to leave the attic, too desperate to power off. And then one screenshot later he will find his opportunity, the one in a million that would accept his friendship would not have happened had it not been for the wonderful world of network communications. Beautiful Georgia Dixie Love will desire to meet Stick In the Mud 45 from his attic in Wyoming. They will write and chat and reminisce and smile and eventually he will send a picture. Interesting twist, his picture does not divert her interest, so powerful the ability of this captivating magic, and suddenly she will find herself on a long flight to Dale Creek Wyoming, pop. 33, giddy and bubbly.
She arrives from the airport to Dale Creek, Wyoming by travelling down the long highway that heads to Stick in the Mud 45's small prairie house. Three times she rings the door bell and three times she knocks, to no avail. She turns in shame, her abnoxious repetoire littered with standups, tears in the eyes. As the mascara smears across her puffy cheeks, she sits violently down on his broken porch right into a large unrepaired hole between the planks. Her bum slices across a pointy board, tearing her pink capris across the right pocket side. She shreeks in pain and stands up holding her bum, yelling out a loud curse. Still holding her bum, she kicks at the dead weeds in his wraparound plantar, attempting to rhyme profanity with his profile name (don't try it). Stick In the Mud grins through his eyes with satisfaction from the corner of his areal view. She sits down on the porch again, this time taking precaution to scout out the landing site for a painless clearance. Still in a fit, shemopes as her elbows slam against her knees and her head goes down between her knees in shame. In the corner window, 45's once excited eyes now show boredom at her inaction. Suddenly, Dixie Chick lifts her golden head from her lap, pulling a neck muscle from the weight of 3 pounds of hair, 1 pound of touchup makeup, 2 pounds of regular makeup, 7 oz. of Botox, 5 ounces from each of her hoop earrings, and 10 ounces from the Colt Magnum she has hidden under her towering hair bun. Gun you ask?
After wringing and massaging her neck, she jumps to her feet in a burst of rage. With a sadistical tone she calmly speaks, "I refuse to let another one do this, Manly! I didn't come here be stood up again! So I brought a lovely present, a 45 for my 45?" She pulls out the loaded handgun gun from her big hair, carefully avoiding fingernail splits as she cocks it. Stick's eyebrows raise and his eyes grow big at the site. Then, from the non-torn back pocket, she pulls out the damaged photograph of Mariusz Pudzianowski, a "personal" photo that Stick in the Mud had sent her three months previous. Pudzianowski's is the newest member inducted into the Strong Man Competition. As she softly taps the end of the barrel of the Magnum against the photo, she yells loudly into space, "You better come out here and show me these guns before I show you mine!" Stick's grin spreads from cheek to cheek in delight as he shifts his position to peer from a different corner of the pained window.
In a quick burst of speed Dixie Chick rushes around the house, all the time waving her revolver in the air. She goes through the backyard, over the dead plantar, through the scattered garbage and debris to the backdoor, searching the windows; no lights, no sounds, no answer. And all the while Creepy Eyes 45 peers out, clapping with excitement. With a stinky blanket wrapped around his frail body, his body temperature has never raised so high. This human contact almost too unbearable for his sensory input. His body seems to move like a ghost from window to window for a better vantage point of her every move.
In frustration, Dixie stops in exhaustion, tears streaming down her modified face, smearing the five layers of mascara and eyeliner caked theron. Waiting and waiting she stands, checking her bright red digits for fingernail breakage between peering through at quiet doors and through windows to the staleness inside. But no one ever comes, a door is never opened, and the silence of the Wyoming desolation brings fear to her trembling body. In anger she screams and unloads four shots into the wooden siding on the leanto against his house and then throws the revolver through a window. Like the Flash, she instantaneously B-lines towards her Geo Metro on dirt road highway a few hundred yards out. Leatherskin boots clack loudly on the concrete sidewalk as she runs from the house in despair. Taking quick, miniature strides, she arrives to the gravel driveway leading from the house. Her first step brings a twisted ankle as the weight of her body falls into a waterless irrigation ditch alongside the driveway. Throwing off her boots, she jumps to her feet again and hobbles quickly toward the highway to her carriage waitng to carry her away from this recurring and excrusciating humiliation. And yet a less understood grin on 45's sadistical face and chuckling as he imagines her a mutants from Night of the Living Dead.
She finally crosses the highway to her car, which shows the marcations of being scarred from the keying of a hundred yards of barbwire fencing. Bumper Billy Bucks, a local cattle truck driver and midnight Network Communication devotee cruises down the highway at 60 miles an hour, throwing an empty Bud Light can out the window as he heads to the local airport to pick up his latest prospect, I Look Like Brittany Spears 780. Beautiful Georgia Dixie Girl leaves a beautiful, body sized impression in the cattle trucks front windshield. She rolls for a second time into a ditch as Bumper Billy blows his tires with the halt, and 45 witnesses all from the corner of his omniscient attic window pane.
The police come to investigate, her body is carried away in a mummy bag. the funeral bells are heardin 45's house from down the long highway. 45 listens as he peer out the little pane window days later, his face void of emotion. However he has been graced by a solid week of chatroom abstinence for the purpose of his mourner's duties. Time passes and finally he unwraps the thick quilt from around his body. His stiff body recirculates the blood as his processor loads. Suddenly, the beaming light of the LCD gives him his endeared rush. A new web page, a new social networking site, and most importantly, a new profile.
And without regard to the former, he finds the newest flavor as the trauma of Georgia fades to black within hours. This new one is number 780. He likes her because she doesn't look anything like the other 779 listed photos displayed vertically before her. ''I always liked brunettes", he thinks, "but this one will have to do." They passionately write and he discovers she's been to Wyoming, and that in fact, she was stood up at an airport by another profiler. A solid connection is made between the two but the question of romance is left up in the air.
And so the twisted cycle continues.....subscribe to Myspace.com
Sunday, March 22, 2009
First Intorduction (the first trial entry)
This blog is to my friends, the bla bla bla blabbers. I must first adress the Miniature Man, my blogging four-foot roommate Kris whose added pressures in the doorstep scene after our double date yesterday makes our simple anxieties in such a scenario seem trivial. Can you imagine being four-foot tall with a 5'3'' girl and having to decide whether the typical end-of-date hug would be even physically possible? While the rest of us males have to re-evaluate the transpiring event that take place during the date in making an executive decision in our door step scene--whether that be a simple handshake, hug, or the over-zealous unfathomable kiss--Kris has to overturn the idea of a less-comfortable and more-awkward handshake with the physical implications of some two-head close proximity symbol of affection that has to be precisely calculated based on female-height ratio to his own. That makes a certain female height range awkwardly impossible, and trying to guess or judge any girl's hope for such an event must be unbearingly difficult! You see, when a male is largely taller than a girl, a simple tippie-toe reach to hug or kiss a boy at the doorstep is actually a desirable and passionate situation, one you see in all the movies and could quite possibly accompany the infamous leg pop. However, on the reverse side, a girl having to bend down for a boy to hug or kiss her is less socially desirable because it is less seen. You would think that many girls would be more excited to have a change in their affection pattern with such an unlikely position. So how do we change this situation? Should we work in the social networks to increase understanding and acceptance of shorter men and the female-bend-to-hug or kiss doorstep scene? No, that would take too long...and it wouldn't be that much fun.
No, instead we first lobby to President Obama to keep taking more money from the federal reserve to make our country completely dependent upon the executive branch. Then we allow him to socialize the country's institutions by giving him as much of our money as possible through taxation so that his cabinet will have all the resources they need to use coercion, theft, and bribery to obtain supreme power and absorb all the government branches into one, making monarchal power possible. Then we elect him King. However, as we do this, we keep back some of the our own money, but only enough to hire Jason Bourne to plug Obama in a helpless moment. Then we elect Kris to be King. Kris will play off all uneasiness of the people through a year of buying off his subjects with bubble gum and groceries, for which we will all so humble learn to love him for. Once he has the support of the people, we move forward to change. We use the people's taxes for technology to make feet implants. Once this is accomplished and in a moment of the nation's complete dependence, we allow Kris to make an executive order. This suggests that all two-year old males have their legs amputated at the knees and feet re-emplaced on the knee stubs. All taller men will eventually die off and though unable to walk appropriately, the next generation of males will be shorter than their female counterparts, and the superficial social constructs of the taller-man to shorter female stygma will be eradicated.
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