Tuesday, November 29, 2011
I Think My Name Would be "Steele"
Pronounced like the metal, but my middle name sure as Hell wouldn't be "Stainless!" Neither would it be "Spine." I like, "Donatello," or something else exotic, like me. This is half of my 150% speaking now. If you know me intimately as close friend, partner or family, who would number about two, maybe three, you will know exactly what I mean. BTW, not "Wool" either, don't be cute.
Pending Permissions, Thinking ....
I believe that we need our expletives, thinking of doing my Master's thesis on this. These taboo words add emphasis and sometimes clarity. All languages have their own juju, their own la caca en la lecha, etc. I am not trying to offend anyone's sensitivities, or to bring down imaginary curses, I'm trying to SPEAK! Our recent distaste of certain words to the point of censorship is almost Orwellian, especially when refusal to post honest and meaningful material is brought about by such a large-scale entity as .... everybody. I signed up for freedom of speech, protected for a good reason, and I see this petty behavior towards certain words as the beginning of a "slippery slope." What will be cut out of the real world and real emotional responses or human proclivities of speech next? I wasn't speaking against some powerful political figure, but what if I was? Would that post also be withheld from view, "PENDING PERMISSIONS?" This one probably will be, too. What's the point?
The Gospel According to Sheila
The Gospel According to Sheila Hey babe, whassup?It's my favorite time of day, except for late evening, sometimes up till midnight, but usually way too tired or I have to be somewhere in the morning, and that involves biking and catching buses. My bike is heavy for a name brand, but it is a combo trail/city bike. Messes with my back. I have to lift it a lot to get it into the racks for bikes on the front of the bus. I have to get it about chest-high. I need dual suspension and heavy tires and tubes. I've popped two rear tires already. Also need some quick-release features, a good high gear for speed downhill, low-gear uphill. I also want tires I can easily take on and off the rims to change flats as I have with the bike I have now. Hmm, I wonder if my bike could be inexpensively ($100 or less) modified into rear suspension or tinkered with to give me a softer ride in the rear? I know how to go up and down curbs, but it isn't fun, takes a little skill, but mostly slows me way down overall and is hard on my back. I HATE curbs!! At least the wind isn't a factor, as it was in flat-land Amarillo.I "recommended" a couple of blog posts to you on Google+ to see if you get them, and your comments are welcome. I try for funny entries if I can, or meaningful entries to make one think. Thinking, as we both know, is a GOOD thing. So few people really know how to do it, or they do it poorly. My thought at this moment is that I don't want to "flood" you with stuff, so please read, but take your time if you want to answer, and answering, of course, is totally optional. I tried to send you 2 posts from Frog in a Blender, my blog in Blogger.I have to write a letter to my mother, as she is getting old and starting to get frail and ailing on and off, and wants me to write to her so badly. She's going to figure into my blogs. She rejected being "somebody's wife and mother" (ouch) when I was only 8 and she divorced my father. She shrinks away from me any time I seek anything motherly from her. Well, THIS letter to her is going to be addressed, not "Dear Brenda," but "Dear Mom." SHE's the one who wants me to write, and said, "you are my daughter, after all..." Her guilt-trip attempt will be turned on its head. If she needs me now, where was she for me? If I have to go to Seattle and use all the unfamiliar and scary bus routes, exhausting, to help her, they by God, she can let me inside her heart or tolerate letting me call her "Mom." She doesn't deserve the title, but I need her to cowboy up and take it.I've never had a parent to call as a young and confused or conflicted young adult who was desperate for $50 on loan or most importantly, in need of soothing or experienced advice when I was conflicted or wasn't sure what to do, or just plain lonely. You can do this with me when you are out on your own, you know.I never stopped wanting to be your mother. I didn't quit the job, even when you were still gone and missing from my life. I'm glad I don't have to cry anymore. I am so proud of you, and I hope that sometimes I have helped you in some way.Since we were apart for SO long, most of your life and a quarter of mine, I hope to also be a friend to you. Not long after that pregnancy test came up positive, I realized I wanted you very much, even though I was also terrified. When you were born, I heard you cry and said, as I've probably related, "My God, I'm Somebody's Mother..." I was in total awe. From the first time I held you, I knew I had found my life's calling; to be a good mother where I had had none or worse. I experienced intense cruelty and terror and degradation in combination with indoctrination into a harsh religion that disagreed with itself and relied on a book, the words of god only knows who, which also disagreed with itself in its fundamental definitions of God and his characteristics, desires and plans. So it's an ancient text. BFD.At 19 I began to de-program myself, and it was terrifying, confusing, painful and ultimately angry. It took a few years to really be complete, and more years to me are more miles with all that crap behind me. They don't have a license to drive into young hearts or claim any "holy" status, nor do they have any idea who or what God is, whoever he is. I use the generic English "he" in my writing, I don't believe any real cosmic consciousness would be a he or a she. If we were created by some consciousness, it was probably exactly as modern science tells us, the incredibly long and complex journey from amino acids floating in a pool to hundreds of millions of years later for us to be here and be what we are.If some God made us, we are probably more like pets. Who knows, maybe there are hundreds of thousands of planets with complex, conscious intelligent life? I wonder if they think about any of the same things we do, the things we wonder about and make up stories about simply because we are programmed to need to KNOW things, always so curious. We can't know certain things, so we make mythology, legends, vision-quests, creation stories, and beliefs based on fertile imaginations. "Blessed are those who are the stupid, for they shall find comfort in fairy tales." Gospel of Sheila 1:10Don't think that I don't believe in some kind of cosmic-scale consciousness that out of convenience I call God, but I don't think [i]anybody [/i]has any (censored) clue as to what he is, but they tell themselves they do. I have prayed and what the Hell but freakish and improbable things came about after, including you. Even Einstein believed in God, I recently learned, and his "faith" was much like mine. Kind of sends shivers up my spine.Screw King James and 3000 year old parchments and the (censored) Red Sea. Screw all of the books similar. (Although certain "nuggets" of truth or beauty are indelibly lodged within the old books if one knows how to look for them). What is true is not necessarily beautiful, and anything lovely is not necessarily true. Gospel according to Sheila*, 1: 23 (There IS no Book of Sheila, lol!) I think The Gospel According to... might be a great title for an autobiography! LOL! XD XDI wanted another child when you were young, and I wanted Monty to be home enough to make us a real family and help keep me from being so depressed. My life's whole purpose revolved around this and being a good mother, or at least trying hard to be. I grieved for you and my rightful and needed place in the world [i]both[/i] ripped from my loving arms. I wasn't always perfect, and in some ways I was considerably lacking, but not from lack of effort or care. I love you, my child. I did not write the last line.
THIS POST PENDING PERMISSIONS!
THIS POST PENDING PERMISSIONS!
God's Poetry
3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510 < Ask me to quote this verse.
Man is proven a finite being who falters in the face of the infinite. Here is a kind of poetry greater than the stars and all the infintesimal forms of matter, making us monkeys all.
The lines may be seperated oddly despite my efforts, but these terminate at 1,000 digits,
copied from http:/www.eveandersson.com/pi/digits/pi-digits. It is on record that well over 2 trillion digits have been calculated. Some people celebrate "Pi Day" on each March 14. Do you suppose they have cake? I would. White with white frosting. Many people have memorized the digits of Pi to over 1,000. I have made it my own hobby. I call it, "Eating Pi." When I get to 1,000 digits, I'll quit. This is truly an irrational response to an irrational number, but someone somewhere threw down an imaginary gauntlet. If I live long enough, someday I'll quote more than the first 50, until then, remember to have cake on 3-14-15, the Pi Day of a millenium.
5820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844
60955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442
881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821
33936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903
600113305305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326
1179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065
6643086021394946395224737190702179860943702770539217176293176752384674818467669
4051320005681271452635608277857713427577896091736371787214684409012249534301465
495853710507922796892589235420199561121290219608640344181598136297747713099605
187072113499999983729780499510597317328160963185950244594553469083026425223082
533446850352619311881710100031378387528865875332083814206171776691473035982534904287554687311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712268066130019278766111959092164201989
Man is proven a finite being who falters in the face of the infinite. Here is a kind of poetry greater than the stars and all the infintesimal forms of matter, making us monkeys all.
The lines may be seperated oddly despite my efforts, but these terminate at 1,000 digits,
copied from http:/www.eveandersson.com/pi/digits/pi-digits. It is on record that well over 2 trillion digits have been calculated. Some people celebrate "Pi Day" on each March 14. Do you suppose they have cake? I would. White with white frosting. Many people have memorized the digits of Pi to over 1,000. I have made it my own hobby. I call it, "Eating Pi." When I get to 1,000 digits, I'll quit. This is truly an irrational response to an irrational number, but someone somewhere threw down an imaginary gauntlet. If I live long enough, someday I'll quote more than the first 50, until then, remember to have cake on 3-14-15, the Pi Day of a millenium.
5820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844
60955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442
881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821
33936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903
600113305305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326
1179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065
6643086021394946395224737190702179860943702770539217176293176752384674818467669
4051320005681271452635608277857713427577896091736371787214684409012249534301465
495853710507922796892589235420199561121290219608640344181598136297747713099605
187072113499999983729780499510597317328160963185950244594553469083026425223082
533446850352619311881710100031378387528865875332083814206171776691473035982534904287554687311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712268066130019278766111959092164201989
Thursday, November 3, 2011
My Secret Mission from God
I am on a secret mission from God. The mission is secret even to me, and by my use of the word "God," I refer to a universal, ubiquitous, sentient, invisible, undetectable and unknowable entity similar to Einstein's God. I search for truth and wisdom, to express thoughts that will linger and grow into wholesome fruit trees even afer my ashes are long cold and scattered. Truth is everywhere but very hard to discern. It is very easy to reject what we do not understand, and as far as my holistic world and all of its diverse megatons of data are concerned, I understand very little, but to reject these is the job of a fool. I really only hope to make some small difference for having lived, which I work on every day.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Speed Test Dot Net
Yes, it really is a website. This day has been, hmm, let's just say "messy." I feel that someday we will all have jacks implanted in our brains, for linking to computers or even other people, and when that day comes, maybe "speedtest" can help me know which days to just safely stay in bed, like today, for example. I'm not sure where things seemed to get out of hand, though I did get a couple of troublesome and tricky nests of plug-ins and wires and such redone and they do look much better.
Maybe it was when I noticed my TracPhone chirping at me to be recharged, and when I confidently went to the two places I always kept the charger plugged in and ready, I found that it had become lodged in the middle of Nowhere. That means I lost it without a clue.
Nowhere is a great, malicous and evil entity who dogs my every step. It eats things. Needless to say, (so why did I say it?), I hate Nowhere, my very own Grendle, if you like Beowulf. It sneaks in and slays all sense of order I thought I had, and looking for things makes me insane. Nowhere usually just takes a sock or two from someone's laundry, and feeds on small things like pens and pencils, or the homework assignments of small children. But then it strikes gold in people like me and mines them for every paperclip, book, diary, tool, office supply item, piece of jewelry, (it prefers the most valuable in either dollars or meaning). I work daily to slay it, but then I find it has fed again, in some campaign to destroy all sense of order and control in my life. Where did it go? That's no helpful question for me, because I KNOW where it went and I am the more tortured the more I look.
Nowhere. That's both where it went and how it got there. I spend whole days erecting my castle walls for defense, organizing, counting, sorting. I stopped buying socks as other people do. I wait for sales on black socks in big packages, then I buy them and put them away. I do the same for white socks. When my current supply of identical socks runs low due to their age and condition (I throw out "bad" socks), I then gather them all up and give them away or throw them away and fill my dresser drawer with the fresh ones I bought. No mismatched socks, ever, and if one sock gets ruined and the other is good, I just throw out the bad one. I'm sure that Nowhere eats a few, but such a low challenge-level probably isn't very tasty. After all, it is actually human pain and suffering he thrives on.
At least Don Quixote had his windmills. Me? I get Nowhere. Fast. If I lived like Ghandi and had but one possession, I'm sure I would lose it, and I'd know exactly where it would be, happy as a clam in the belly of....well, irretreivably turned into anti-matter, dark energy, quarks and quirks and quicksand, swallowed and digested, given over to entropy.
Until Speed Test Dot Net can give me my prospects for the day, I'm going back to bed.
Maybe it was when I noticed my TracPhone chirping at me to be recharged, and when I confidently went to the two places I always kept the charger plugged in and ready, I found that it had become lodged in the middle of Nowhere. That means I lost it without a clue.
Nowhere is a great, malicous and evil entity who dogs my every step. It eats things. Needless to say, (so why did I say it?), I hate Nowhere, my very own Grendle, if you like Beowulf. It sneaks in and slays all sense of order I thought I had, and looking for things makes me insane. Nowhere usually just takes a sock or two from someone's laundry, and feeds on small things like pens and pencils, or the homework assignments of small children. But then it strikes gold in people like me and mines them for every paperclip, book, diary, tool, office supply item, piece of jewelry, (it prefers the most valuable in either dollars or meaning). I work daily to slay it, but then I find it has fed again, in some campaign to destroy all sense of order and control in my life. Where did it go? That's no helpful question for me, because I KNOW where it went and I am the more tortured the more I look.
Nowhere. That's both where it went and how it got there. I spend whole days erecting my castle walls for defense, organizing, counting, sorting. I stopped buying socks as other people do. I wait for sales on black socks in big packages, then I buy them and put them away. I do the same for white socks. When my current supply of identical socks runs low due to their age and condition (I throw out "bad" socks), I then gather them all up and give them away or throw them away and fill my dresser drawer with the fresh ones I bought. No mismatched socks, ever, and if one sock gets ruined and the other is good, I just throw out the bad one. I'm sure that Nowhere eats a few, but such a low challenge-level probably isn't very tasty. After all, it is actually human pain and suffering he thrives on.
At least Don Quixote had his windmills. Me? I get Nowhere. Fast. If I lived like Ghandi and had but one possession, I'm sure I would lose it, and I'd know exactly where it would be, happy as a clam in the belly of....well, irretreivably turned into anti-matter, dark energy, quarks and quirks and quicksand, swallowed and digested, given over to entropy.
Until Speed Test Dot Net can give me my prospects for the day, I'm going back to bed.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Terminal Boredom is a Slow, Painful Death
I often joke, if Cherokee's bored, there's something wrong. Today started being a wrong day when I woke up at 5 am. There was my lover, leaving me again in just a few short hours, again. I knew I'd miss her. Our weekend had been so short. They always are. I live in my apartment, she in hers, and I had been so unprepared this year, kind of overwhelmed with the October 1st beginning of the annual Holiday Whirligig, red and green moving in fast, beginning with our half-assed, 5th anniversary, which I failed to step up for and celebrate properly, too freaked out by my relative lack of funds, though I did spend some money. I can't believe I forgot to get her a loving card and sign it "With All the Love I'll Ever Have, Your Hubby."
Oh, there's a back-story, always is. Yeah, I'm gay. We have that in common. But "hubby?" Where did that come from? Backstory, etc. I love her calling me that. I'd be an out and out cross-dressing dyke, but even though I'm only being myself and this is just about who I love, really, even though all I want is peace and brotherhood among men, (and among women, of course, but I stick to the English generic "he" as it is established, long-standing and clear), people tend to hate me if I wear a tie and keep short hair. It's really not that big of a deal, even though I was so homophobic that 24 years ago, (no, I'm not even wrinkly yet, just 40 + X), I felt suicidal and very confused. Since then? Not confused a bit, but not without enduring some dislike and even out-and-out hate. I'm even in what's supposed to be a liberal part of the country.
I once painted a random face while experimenting with my paints to mollify the boredom thing, probably about 10 years ago, and (she came out latina!?) I just accidentally began to express myself from the non-verbal part of my mind, usually only an artist's privilege. I decided to divide her face, because even though I'm just another cracker-with-native-blood and a slug who can't work due to multiple disabilities (yes, I'll tell the slug story sometime, if I remember), I was HER and she was me. She resembled me only in spirit, a spirit-form and vision of myself. I gave her the realities of my self and my life, right on her face. I gave her a tiny whisp of gray, though I wasn't graying yet. Like I said, this was my spirit-self. I gave her sad, large brown eyes and pale, soft pink lips. I gave her my high cheekbones. I gave her the war-paint of the Amazon woman-warrior, as interpreted by some silent, painting part of my brain. I darkened this half a few shades to a negro color, filled with the primitive paints used by the native African before he was plundered and debased by greedy white men. I too bear that shame, and I am no racist. My father is, but we never talk. Maybe it would do him good to live down in Southern parts of our great country with liberty and freedom for all - Except liberty and freedom to exist as who you were born to be.
Her warpaint was for self-defense only; hers was a war to exist as who (other side of her face) she truly was and the person she longed to be. This side got a rainbow, and peace and unity symbols. I felt like that, because when I "came out" the whole world changed. I'd been a cute young woman, used to gentle treatment by almost everybody, and I returned the same. Suddenly I was openly hated, sometimes afraid for my safety. I didn't even have a girlfriend yet. I just, well, changed. I couldn't help it. I was finally free only to find a new form of bondage. Technically, I'm not even totally gay, I'm bisexual with a preference for women.
When I displayed this painting, it was misinterpreted, even by the gay community, though I think I can understand why now. I felt that the world was suddenly at war with me, and I was forced to watch my back, expect less civility, less acceptance - hello, homophobia.
We just hit a population of 7 billion for the world, and there's a plentiful supply of American children. One of these American children is even mine, though grown now, she was the only sunshine in my life for the long years of a short marriage. I thought he loved me, and yes, I loved him. Sex? Yes, plenty, and it was good, always good with him. I just came to a critical mass and I couldn't carry on without a long-overdue phase of my maturity coming to haunt me.
He overworked, hardly seemed to know what to do with any of the tender emotions, I was alone all of the time, mentally ill, narcoleptic and miserable in a foreign part of the country, isolated, barely able to carry on at all except for the overwhelming need to love, feed, bathe, nurse, dress and teach my only child, who I would have sold my soul for, who WAS the embodiment of soul enough for us both, my only joy.
Let's just leave this part as it is. All true, but nearing a disastrous tell-all. Strange, we don't talk about the things that really matter. We also tend to reject those things we don't understand. Can you understand?
I mean no harm, I represent no threat to family or any other values, and to no other persons. I just happen to be of the approximately 10% of our society who are something a little short of straight, no matter their intellectual desires, their upbringing, even if they hate themselves. Some think it's genetic, lots of religious folk who claim they love their God hate their gays; ESPECIALLY them, and to rock the boat further, what they use to justify their very un-love-like behavior is being badly misinterpreted according to the best Biblical scholars. And doesn't every country have its own religions, usually with some ancient text accepted among themselves as holy? Whose book is right? Whose interpretation? Wars have been fought over religion for millenia. Would Christ want blood shed over those who resisted his teachings of love? That's what Christ truly tried to teach, yet so many have no love for one who loves. Look what they did to HIM.
I was once immersed and made native to a deeply conservative, fundamenalist religion, but I grew, I learned, I worked, and the more I learned, the more the case made itself abundantly clear that I could no longer agree with what was once fed to me and which I gobbled readily, because their book and their doctrines and actions were in some bizarre state of unquestioned chaos of self-disagreement. To this I had quite a frightened confusion, like a dreamer half-awake, and waking in a different place than he had fallen asleep. I was not even aware of my sexuality at that time, since I had never considered the matter at all. I simply woke in a different place, got my bearings and began a conscious search for all those wonderful things like God, truth and love, with interesting results still coming in. My search is not for the destination anymore. The search IS the destination.
I am aware that many consider Einstein atheist, but he was actually strongly against atheism. He believed that a great Cosmic Being ran the laws of the Universe. Being who he was, he created his own category of belief style, as I did before I ever learned of Einstein's views. I too am considered extremely gifted by some, now a "hopeful agnostic theist," but while I may (and have, according to some) qualify as one in a thousand, Einstein was one in untold millions. He was an agnostic theist who marvelled at his Cosmic Being, his title for one who defies naming and keeps the planets spinning. Who am I to argue with Albert Einstein?
Perhaps, always the jokester, as well as the spell-seeker, he created this name for his beliefs as a litle joke on himself, as "agnostic theist" could very well be considered an oxymoron, and also the self-description of a man in awe, a man in battle with himself in that he finally found something he thought he believed yet couldn't prove, something he could not deny possibility of nor prove existence of, as his only argument FOR was a sort of an a priori and his argument against was impossible. He cast his vote as FOR. So do I these days, but I think He/God/Cosmic Being transcends any single religion or school of thought. I once wrote a poem titled, "The Quantum God." Now, remember that He created me.
He has answered my prayers in stunning ways, too stunning to ignore; not the constant prayers of the lonely, church-bound, studious, teenage girl but the sparing, struggling prayers of a soul often in pain and need. I now pray that you no longer hate me, if you did before you heard me. You HAVE heard me, know that.
I've traded my war-paint for long hair I keep in a braid in the custom of my favorite, most-compatible bloodline. My great-great Grandfather Ray was full Cherokee. I can't prove anything now, but I can cerainly FEEL. That 1/16th more and more outweighs the rest, all the usual European immigrant-salad that makes up most of us.
Now, wasn't I just complaining of boredom? I still miss her, but I'm not bored anymore, and I've found a certain peace, and to think it started with war. Perhaps war of some form is the ultimate pre-requisite for peace, because what is peace, if not another name for balance, for freedom? I am free now. My spirit-self soars.
Soar with me and love that certain one whom you couldn't love before. We are only who we are.
While you soar, consider: are you soaring as a parrot? Much better the thinker, though the colorful singer is sweeter. Are you a starling, an heron, a sparrow, a raven, a dove, an eagle, or perhaps a falcon? To inject a bit of my own self-laughter, sometimes my spirit-self tells me that perhaps I and all others who would soar are really just pteridactyls with a few feathers and a little paint.
We all deserve to love and be loved, because without love, there is no hope, and without hope, there is no rational reason to continue to exist.
Oh, there's a back-story, always is. Yeah, I'm gay. We have that in common. But "hubby?" Where did that come from? Backstory, etc. I love her calling me that. I'd be an out and out cross-dressing dyke, but even though I'm only being myself and this is just about who I love, really, even though all I want is peace and brotherhood among men, (and among women, of course, but I stick to the English generic "he" as it is established, long-standing and clear), people tend to hate me if I wear a tie and keep short hair. It's really not that big of a deal, even though I was so homophobic that 24 years ago, (no, I'm not even wrinkly yet, just 40 + X), I felt suicidal and very confused. Since then? Not confused a bit, but not without enduring some dislike and even out-and-out hate. I'm even in what's supposed to be a liberal part of the country.
I once painted a random face while experimenting with my paints to mollify the boredom thing, probably about 10 years ago, and (she came out latina!?) I just accidentally began to express myself from the non-verbal part of my mind, usually only an artist's privilege. I decided to divide her face, because even though I'm just another cracker-with-native-blood and a slug who can't work due to multiple disabilities (yes, I'll tell the slug story sometime, if I remember), I was HER and she was me. She resembled me only in spirit, a spirit-form and vision of myself. I gave her the realities of my self and my life, right on her face. I gave her a tiny whisp of gray, though I wasn't graying yet. Like I said, this was my spirit-self. I gave her sad, large brown eyes and pale, soft pink lips. I gave her my high cheekbones. I gave her the war-paint of the Amazon woman-warrior, as interpreted by some silent, painting part of my brain. I darkened this half a few shades to a negro color, filled with the primitive paints used by the native African before he was plundered and debased by greedy white men. I too bear that shame, and I am no racist. My father is, but we never talk. Maybe it would do him good to live down in Southern parts of our great country with liberty and freedom for all - Except liberty and freedom to exist as who you were born to be.
Her warpaint was for self-defense only; hers was a war to exist as who (other side of her face) she truly was and the person she longed to be. This side got a rainbow, and peace and unity symbols. I felt like that, because when I "came out" the whole world changed. I'd been a cute young woman, used to gentle treatment by almost everybody, and I returned the same. Suddenly I was openly hated, sometimes afraid for my safety. I didn't even have a girlfriend yet. I just, well, changed. I couldn't help it. I was finally free only to find a new form of bondage. Technically, I'm not even totally gay, I'm bisexual with a preference for women.
When I displayed this painting, it was misinterpreted, even by the gay community, though I think I can understand why now. I felt that the world was suddenly at war with me, and I was forced to watch my back, expect less civility, less acceptance - hello, homophobia.
We just hit a population of 7 billion for the world, and there's a plentiful supply of American children. One of these American children is even mine, though grown now, she was the only sunshine in my life for the long years of a short marriage. I thought he loved me, and yes, I loved him. Sex? Yes, plenty, and it was good, always good with him. I just came to a critical mass and I couldn't carry on without a long-overdue phase of my maturity coming to haunt me.
He overworked, hardly seemed to know what to do with any of the tender emotions, I was alone all of the time, mentally ill, narcoleptic and miserable in a foreign part of the country, isolated, barely able to carry on at all except for the overwhelming need to love, feed, bathe, nurse, dress and teach my only child, who I would have sold my soul for, who WAS the embodiment of soul enough for us both, my only joy.
Let's just leave this part as it is. All true, but nearing a disastrous tell-all. Strange, we don't talk about the things that really matter. We also tend to reject those things we don't understand. Can you understand?
I mean no harm, I represent no threat to family or any other values, and to no other persons. I just happen to be of the approximately 10% of our society who are something a little short of straight, no matter their intellectual desires, their upbringing, even if they hate themselves. Some think it's genetic, lots of religious folk who claim they love their God hate their gays; ESPECIALLY them, and to rock the boat further, what they use to justify their very un-love-like behavior is being badly misinterpreted according to the best Biblical scholars. And doesn't every country have its own religions, usually with some ancient text accepted among themselves as holy? Whose book is right? Whose interpretation? Wars have been fought over religion for millenia. Would Christ want blood shed over those who resisted his teachings of love? That's what Christ truly tried to teach, yet so many have no love for one who loves. Look what they did to HIM.
I was once immersed and made native to a deeply conservative, fundamenalist religion, but I grew, I learned, I worked, and the more I learned, the more the case made itself abundantly clear that I could no longer agree with what was once fed to me and which I gobbled readily, because their book and their doctrines and actions were in some bizarre state of unquestioned chaos of self-disagreement. To this I had quite a frightened confusion, like a dreamer half-awake, and waking in a different place than he had fallen asleep. I was not even aware of my sexuality at that time, since I had never considered the matter at all. I simply woke in a different place, got my bearings and began a conscious search for all those wonderful things like God, truth and love, with interesting results still coming in. My search is not for the destination anymore. The search IS the destination.
I am aware that many consider Einstein atheist, but he was actually strongly against atheism. He believed that a great Cosmic Being ran the laws of the Universe. Being who he was, he created his own category of belief style, as I did before I ever learned of Einstein's views. I too am considered extremely gifted by some, now a "hopeful agnostic theist," but while I may (and have, according to some) qualify as one in a thousand, Einstein was one in untold millions. He was an agnostic theist who marvelled at his Cosmic Being, his title for one who defies naming and keeps the planets spinning. Who am I to argue with Albert Einstein?
Perhaps, always the jokester, as well as the spell-seeker, he created this name for his beliefs as a litle joke on himself, as "agnostic theist" could very well be considered an oxymoron, and also the self-description of a man in awe, a man in battle with himself in that he finally found something he thought he believed yet couldn't prove, something he could not deny possibility of nor prove existence of, as his only argument FOR was a sort of an a priori and his argument against was impossible. He cast his vote as FOR. So do I these days, but I think He/God/Cosmic Being transcends any single religion or school of thought. I once wrote a poem titled, "The Quantum God." Now, remember that He created me.
He has answered my prayers in stunning ways, too stunning to ignore; not the constant prayers of the lonely, church-bound, studious, teenage girl but the sparing, struggling prayers of a soul often in pain and need. I now pray that you no longer hate me, if you did before you heard me. You HAVE heard me, know that.
I've traded my war-paint for long hair I keep in a braid in the custom of my favorite, most-compatible bloodline. My great-great Grandfather Ray was full Cherokee. I can't prove anything now, but I can cerainly FEEL. That 1/16th more and more outweighs the rest, all the usual European immigrant-salad that makes up most of us.
Now, wasn't I just complaining of boredom? I still miss her, but I'm not bored anymore, and I've found a certain peace, and to think it started with war. Perhaps war of some form is the ultimate pre-requisite for peace, because what is peace, if not another name for balance, for freedom? I am free now. My spirit-self soars.
Soar with me and love that certain one whom you couldn't love before. We are only who we are.
While you soar, consider: are you soaring as a parrot? Much better the thinker, though the colorful singer is sweeter. Are you a starling, an heron, a sparrow, a raven, a dove, an eagle, or perhaps a falcon? To inject a bit of my own self-laughter, sometimes my spirit-self tells me that perhaps I and all others who would soar are really just pteridactyls with a few feathers and a little paint.
We all deserve to love and be loved, because without love, there is no hope, and without hope, there is no rational reason to continue to exist.
It's Been A While
I have other blogs, but they are old. This is my new blank screen challenge as a person who loves to write. This is going to hold all kinds of things; ideas, scraps of writing that never really went anywhere, or didn't belong anywhere, Homeless words.
I wrote so many other boring things but my cursor did a weird demonic delete thing, lost two paragraphs, so I'll just leave you with my terms of service, (honor code), for all who might see my words.
1. I reserve the right to put your ass up on billlboards,
2. Without prior notice, I may sell your information to Lucifer.
3. Like all agreements, you agree that I can pretty well do whatever
I like and be liability-free, as any great EULA-reading person could
relate.
4. Thou shalt not taunt the Happy Fun Ball. - The Gospel of Me, 123456789:890
(What? You haven't heard of the book of Me?)
Really, I wish you the best, silly sarcasm aside. Welcome.
I wrote so many other boring things but my cursor did a weird demonic delete thing, lost two paragraphs, so I'll just leave you with my terms of service, (honor code), for all who might see my words.
1. I reserve the right to put your ass up on billlboards,
2. Without prior notice, I may sell your information to Lucifer.
3. Like all agreements, you agree that I can pretty well do whatever
I like and be liability-free, as any great EULA-reading person could
relate.
4. Thou shalt not taunt the Happy Fun Ball. - The Gospel of Me, 123456789:890
(What? You haven't heard of the book of Me?)
Really, I wish you the best, silly sarcasm aside. Welcome.
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