Posts Tagged ‘death

16
Aug
25

There Is Only So Much Torture One Man Can Take

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Concerns and Alerts and Confessions of the Rabbit Kind
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

***

Where to begin?  After all…my last post said this was or may be the end…of me.

I fear the end is near.  And, the past few days have been utter torture.  Every day a new batch of caustic solution is cast upon my emotional and financial wounds…if not also my mental and physical health.

Let me count the ways:

@ My home gets flooded, moldy and all occupants are forced to evacuate the biohazard.

@ My basement collections, including valuables and artwork….let’s just say a ton was ruined by the flood.

@ My family hirers movers to help move stuff to a truck to ship to a storage facility.  And, they spend more time putting stuff in garbage bags than loading anything.  As far as I recall, my sis, brother-in-law and I did most if not all of the loading.  And, my helpers were not the least bit concerned about what happened to what we loaded.  They had no emotional attachment.  All they saw was a clock and wanted to get done fast.  So, they threw stuff in the truck.  And, some fell out…getting damaged.  Why am I paying for storage if you’re going to damage what goes into it?

@ Weather is the worst.  Hot.  Muggy.  Every step you take draws another bucket of sweat from your face.  So lifting one box is a pain.  Lifting three is murder.  But, more rain is on the way; so you’d better get moving.

@ Brother helps by working with the movers.  He throws $800 of valuables on the ground, claiming it was in a wet box.  I highly doubt that.  But, I don’t doubt the collection is now worth about $600 or less.  His assistants fail to bring up stuff I am sure was safe and dry and worth a small fortune.  I suspect that went into garbage bags before going with the movers.  Thieves with cellphones who can look up the value of what they are moving and walk past stupid family members.

@ Brother offers to help move stuff as I myself move stuff upstairs, struggling with the poor air quality.  He drops my most precious handful in the sewage.

@ When I convince myself I need to just walk away and trash a bunch, family tries telling me to wash it off and salvage it, even if mint condition boxes are lost.  If I stop to wash things, they tell me I need to move quicker and load a truck, instead.  If I load the truck, they tell me to take care of the wet stuff coating the lawn.  There is no win.  And, everyone is clashing with each other.  It’s an ugly scene.

@ Sisters say they are on my side and supporting me, but their patience quickly thin, and I am feeling threatened with ultimatums…fearing they will put me in a group home when I totally lose my mind from this disaster.

@ I thoroughly regret ever getting involved with collecting and will surely never collect so foolishly again.  Nor will I be able to ever truly love my family.  They have earned my hate.

10
Aug
25

(Never) The End…of Writingbolt’s Creation

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Concerns and Alerts, Confessions of the Rabbit Kind and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

***

I am barely able to type words right now.  I may have lost everything I’ve ever called my own, everything I’ve invested in and spent time creating outside this laptop.  My home was flooded last night.  I tried to save what I could and couldn’t take anything but a few items with me that I could carry, because rescue crews were no help.  My family was no help.  I barely escaped a crumbling basement alive, and my family was still telling me what I was doing wrong instead of being helpful or supportive.

I have no art supplies.  No art history.  No guitars I was saving for a time I could play with someone I loved.  I have no love.  No friends who reach out to me with help.  Just a bunch of people telling me what I SHOULD do with my life.  My stories in notebooks…may be lost.  My artworks….may be lost.

The water was coming in so fast.  It’s still raining and will rain for 3 days more.  I watched a nightmare crumble around me and tried to photograph what I could with a crappy digital camera….for what?  For a family that has so little understanding and tolerance of me as I am?

I just found out a pen pal from Germany, a rare online friend, just died from chemo, from losing that fight so many lose when steered down a path they can’t change because no one is on there side.  She had no one.  I have no one that makes me feel good about anything.  My family is a hot mess.  I am a bigger hot mess.

I am lucky to be typing these words.  They may be the last you ever read, whoever finds this.

20
Dec
24

Life Is a Crime, Dec. 2024 edition

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

****

Get ready for another one of my potential philosophical breakthroughs.

Life…is a crime.

[Actually, I’m pretty sure this isn’t a new statement…and that I’ve touched on this, before. I have a comic-strip panel, which I like to reuse, to prove it.]

Well, it must be…

…considering…

There are SO many crime stories filling the space and time of our lives. If it’s not a crime report on the local news, there’s one of a dozen “new” shows featuring some cop squad or policing-government-organization-with-an-acronym-for-the-title. And, if the new material–cough–isn’t enough, there are plenty of channels showing streams upon floods of the shows that already ran, caught the crooks and bailed.

Any recent/current show that isn’t crime-related seems to last maybe eight episodes before it’s thrust into reruns or a seasonal “finale,” already; that’s pathetic. Crime shows never stop running. Apparently, there is an ocean of material to pump, but how many ways can you cover the same damn crimes? There are only so many types of wrong. You either assault someone, murder them, abduct someone or try to take someone’s money/property. And, there are only so many ways to pursue those cases. You could cover them all in one season of one show. But, there is so much time to fill for all the writers suffering from mental block!

What never makes sense to me is how anyone draws entertainment or pleasure from all of that. You find enjoyment in (others) solving or resolving crime? Then get out there and DO that! Maybe we’d have “cleaner” lives if we put a stop to or just didn’t commit those crimes. Are we “safe” by filling our time watching others commit and resolve crimes? Does televised crime make the world more peaceful?

I suspect people desperately need to fill their heads with solutions to problems. In school, I recall wishing I had a “cheat code” to get through my classes, some days. And, there were some out there, if you could get your hands on them. I guess, as adults, we need other means to convince our aging heads that problems can be solved; so we turn to these crime shows, in which someone else solves the problems. Yet, must every problem smell alike? Must every crime involve violence and, often, death?

Does seeing someone catch a murderer help you figure out a financial struggle? It doesn’t help me, at all. If I am struggling with a History assignment, seeing someone find a solution to a Math problem isn’t going to make my struggle any easier.

I consider myself a Sherlock-Holmes fan, but I can only stomach so much of his antics before I need a break. I don’t need to watch him every day or week (although I did get a little hooked on a silly animated version). I certainly do not need to see Sherlock Hawaii, Denver and L.A. Nights. That’s overkill. Don’t even get me started on how many versions of Scooby-Doo, a show about a big dog and some oddly dressed young adults running around with costumed crooks, there have been. ‘Longest running animated series; I wonder why.

Advertisers, particularly those featured on talk shows, which are multiplying like gremlins, like to tell you how some bargain, dropping an inflated retail price to something more sensible for a cheaply made import that’s only a passing-fad item, anyway, is a steal. That’s just asking for crime.

Every Christmas season, the Grinch gets promoted or discussed in some way. His whole story is about stealing the goods. His only competition for most referenced holiday character might be Scrooge, from A Christmas Carol, and the latter was criminal for how he treated others until he was given a forced sentence of spiritual intervention.

If what they say about government is true, we’re practically ruled by a faulty system.

Heck, even the wild creatures around us are prone to stealing from each other.

So, when you’re done with all of that, how do you have any time or breath left to live a respectable life? Can you? I’d say the ultimate test of this life is remaining “straight.” But, you’d have to be a saint above many other saints to pull that off…and is it worth it? Heaven knows.

I’m gonna get a lil dark for a moment. Maybe…people who end their own life are just trying to go on the lam or get out of jail (free). Ya think? Maybe it’s the only way to escape all the criminal madness. If this world is a prison, how do you get out? If everyone around you is potentially criminal, how can you be anything but crooked?

Now, if anyone takes what I just said seriously and ends their own life, you can consider me guilty of giving you the idea. Cuff me and throw away the key. But, I already feel like I’m wearing striped pajamas. So, what would that really do?

I’m just one, among the many, living a day in the life of some Russian prisoner who survived by fashioning a scrap of metal into a pocket knife so he could ration his bread and fish-bone soup when he wasn’t cleaning floors and dodging scuffles with his fellow inmates. [If you know the book, you get the reference. And, if you don’t, well you just didn’t go to the same criminal high school.]

 

 

12
Jan
22

The Life of an Artist Is Cursed; Artists Are Cursed

By writingbolt 28 Comments
Categories: Concerns and Alerts, Confessions of the Rabbit Kind and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

****

The life of an artist is a cursed one. Let me be more specific. An artist who draws, paints or creates sculptures has a cursed life. Performing artists (actors/actresses and musicians) might also fall prey to curses. But, there is certainly a difference. Only artists who give their time, talent and heart to tangible works seem to share a miserable bond.

Performing artists go through an excessive amount of fuss and labor to make something supposedly worth thousands and/or millions of dollars soon after creation; but the value of the work sharply declines with time. Sure; some props/souvenirs and/or autographs might retain some value. But, the original performed creation sort of gets dusty and loses its appeal.

If you are a lucky artist, you don’t strive for perfection; you simply enjoy your craft. Perfectionism is a chronic disease that pushes artists, including me, to invest more time in a project than what is necessary, compounded by unnecessary distress and other health issues. A little voice consistently tells you to do better, making you doubt yourself and your abilities. I imagine some–the happiest–artists are immune to this; they can easily craft and sell or barter with their creations because they don’t fuss over details; they just create the way some plants produce fruit. You might get some deformed tomatoes, but the plant isn’t complaining about its output.

A lucky artist also worries the least about the demise and/or safety of their work. Someone like the infamous Robin-Hood-of-art, “Banksy,” must have a rather thick skin. They put their work on a building, without permission, and there is no guarantee it won’t be removed or replaced. [Of course, with all the good press, lately, there doesn’t seem to be much reason to worry about losing any artwork, amazingly. And, surely this prompts other younger artists to paint walls in their area, most likely with less success and far less reward.]

The best way to be an artist is to create from the heart without any concern for what others think and say, letting your creation fall and crumble where it may. I think Picasso tried to do that, moving from house to house, leaving heaps of creations behind. But, how many of us can afford that? And, isn’t that a tragic investment? All of that money for supplies and time that could have been spent earning retirement income (a disturbing concept of the present world) or sharing memories and experiences with other people…devoted to solitary crafting which can only, potentially, guarantee a passing pleasure from the effort. It’s sort of like exercise, you either positively or miserably power through it to achieve some uncertain benefit and then cope with the consequences, whether those include injury or just require cleaning up a mess of sweat. You don’t frame your sweat or muscle tone and put it on a wall for all to admire; you just create it to feel good for a moment. [I guess that sort of living, creating and letting go, is like casual sex. It’s not about procreation and achieving some higher purpose or status; it’s just a passing good feeling which might be similar to a drug high/buzz.]

Regardless of that, if you are a fellow artist, you and I spend so much time creating things that don’t necessarily bring us enough wealth and resources while we are still living. Instead, if our work survives our own demises, it suddenly goes up in value and becomes wanted. You might think nothing about some artwork you currently have sitting in a corner or bad box. But, when you die, even your worst doodle could suddenly be given a value that would make your head spin. [I’ve seen people discuss the value of horrible, poorly drawn doodles by famous artists like Picasso, and the shock hurts my full head.] Also, such artists invest the very money they need to afford their lives to buy more supplies to make more art which, again, may not bring them any financial or other assistance until they are already dead.

This sort of life is like giving everything to a charity that doesn’t achieve any noble good. And, what good does this life achieve/provide? Why wouldn’t the artist see his or her work achieve a positive difference in their lifetime? Why can’t their creativity be applied to something of noble value while they are still breathing and able to appear at a celebration of that work? Instead, artists die all too soon, and other people become hasty and competitive about acquiring their creations at ridiculous prices. Where is the merit or respect in that? Kids? The moral of the story is…art creates madness and is just as tragically wasteful as the mass packaging of modern consumerism/commercialism.

I’ve spent nearly half of my life fawning over goddesses of Greek mythology, particularly Athena, who is said to be a goddess of the arts. But, what if that power or influence, her legendary skill with strategy, was used to deceive humankind? What if instilling, stoking creative talent is a curse to make mortals suffer in exchange for the prayers and offerings that keep a goddess alive? [Just like some say Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty and passion, having an association with Ares, the Greek god of war, could stoke the fires of violence, including mass murder, which sort of depletes the awe one might expect to feel when thinking of such a beautiful goddess.] There have been countless tales of people being induced into trances to squander their lives, submitting to and dying from addictions. That’s a sort of blackmail; isn’t it? [No offense intended, Athena; I still adore you…I just am not sure I can trust you, right now. Maybe there IS something to being associated with snakes that should be concerning.]

It’s no wonder why some parents get mad at the kid who wants to be an artist. It’s not just about not making a big salary; it’s a costly passion that resembles a slow suicide. And, no wonder Van Gogh became crazy enough to remove an ear for a girl who didn’t fully accept him.

This is serious life-threatening stuff, people. Yet, if someone were to convince me to give up art, completely, I worry what would become of me. I worry about losing my soul and becoming just another unfeeling drone in this mad beehive-like world of “make it faster” and “replace it, quickly.” Giving up art is like giving up faith, and too many have already done the latter. Without faith and art in the world, life seems tragically mechanical and dull.

And, even then, if there was no art and faith in the world, I doubt humankind would re-enter the natural circle of life still occupied by all of the other animals humans tend to treat as something other than fellow living creatures. Or, am I completely wrong? Could faith or some other human-fashioned concept be the driving force that makes humans separate themselves from other lifeforms? Was it an ancient oath to a god that started the whole mess of treating insects and rodents like…pests…and concerning ourselves with privacy and nudity? [I suppose that IS one result of the Garden-of-Eden story.] Would a complete eradication of faith and art return humans to the wild (and “natural order”)? Or, would that just be the final step in pleasing some evil entity who then would claim he or she won the greatest game of chess?

I imagine my life ending with my body placed in a sarcophagus; my vital organs placed in medical jars…but for experimentation or presumed trade value, not for my own preservation in the afterlife, which few will likely still believe exists. And, some day, a curious soul will find my remains or final resting place (if there’s nothing left after a funeral pyre) only to be cursed with the burning desire to be creative.

Inspiration. It’s a blessing…and a curse. [Now, imagine those final words crafted with some sort of Egyptian hieroglyphics.]

23
Dec
21

Dear Red-Haired, Fellow Rabbit, I Wish to Support You in Your Time of Grief

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Concerns and Alerts and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

****

What do you do when sympathy sparks tabloids?

I have had one strange, painful week…and probably at the worst time, during what is supposed to be a festive holiday season.  There is no holiday joy, this year.  It seems to be getting sucked out by all sorts of tragedies.

Most recently, I have had a rather strange experience with a celebrity I have adored for some time…ever since Mr. Holland’s Opus.  My sister was watching a holiday movie that featured this strikingly pale and red-haired actress; she didn’t care for the beauty’s performance.  I commented how I still adore her.  Then, the next day, terrible news for the red-haired beauty appears on public “feeds.”  Just awful.  And, after that shook me, I strangely chose to watch X-Men:  Dark Phoenix and watch a little red-haired girl lose her parents in a series of strange “accidents.”

Now, being the sort of guy I am and having these inexplicable feelings for a(nother) woman I hardly know, it feels natural to offer sympathy and/or support, any way I can.  Yet, a simple line I read about requesting space and privacy prompted me to think and write this.  Celebrities get “shat” upon so often just for helping create things to entertain or invoke thoughts in us, the “viewing public.”  The rest of the world becomes mosquitoes in the faces of these famous folks, whether we want to know or not.  Some want to get the big scoop and a buck from the “tabloids” that pay them, as if their life depended upon digging up dirt.  Others, like me, might just want to reach out and embrace those who are “caught in the headlights” and steer them toward safer ground, shelter them from emotional and mental storms that could otherwise ruin them.

But, how does one offer sympathy and support without alerting the “mosquitoes?”

In short, without naming names, you, dear red-haired beauty who has been given a bad roll of the dice at the worst time of year for tragedy, I ache with you and wish I could do more to lift your spirit and help you work through the grief that is surely coming in waves.  Let my words and thoughts be a blanket of comfort to you in this harsh time.

[It does not seem to be a good decade for rabbits (if you have any idea what that means, astrologically).  We just have to survive the sh@t storm and continue seeking higher purpose to this life.  Perhaps, dedicating ourselves to service of others will ease the pain.]

02
Jun
21

How Many Memorials Do You Need to Cover a Planet?

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Concerns and Alerts and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

*****

That is my essential question.

If you watch enough TV, you see plenty of stories about REMEMBERING, preserving memories and erecting memorials to EVERY tragedy under the sun, big or small.  Someone died?  Make me a memorial.  A ton of people died?  Make  another memorial.  Someone did something really bad somewhere and trashed the place?  Make a memorial.  WE CANNOT FORGET WHAT HORROR HAPPENED HERE…OR ANYWHERE.

What sparked this focus?  Well, let me tell you a story…a rather long story.  So, you might want to get comfortable…

I found a weathered antique that I thought must be valuable…because it’s an antique…and people made a whole “Roadshow” about finding value in such things…sometimes values in the hundreds and thousands. It turns out the item is part of a terrible time in human history, a time when my ethnicity was dragged through the mud of ridicule and stereotypical abuse. [Then again…that sort of talk is STILL happening.] It gets a low auction rating/value, according to an appraiser. But, I’m told to display the item as if it were in a museum, to never forget that horrible time in history….

[Disclaimer:  The above story is true but not about myself.  It is my perspective on something I saw on TV.]

WHAT IS WRONG WITH HUMANKIND?!?!

BURN IT! BURY IT! DESTROY IT! DON’T PUT IT IN A GLASS BOX!

You know what typically happens in the movies when people put horrible things in glass boxes or on pedestals. Some dumb archaeologist or thief decides to take it and causes a catastrophe.

I’d ask the rhetorical question. Are you nuts? But, clearly, many if not all of us are if keeping the worst of the past alive to remind us all of the horrors is considered–by anyone–a good idea. So many damn memorials to tragedies, disasters and deaths of large quantities of people. How does anyone expect to see the sunny side of life if we are surrounded by and bombarded with tragedy and horror?

Where are the memorials of the good humans have done? Is the best example of good just the religious statues of supposed gods, saints and prophets? People we, who are currently living, probably never knew or can clearly say existed, yet we pray to and believe in them; we cherish them like a kid with his favorite stuffed animal. Where are the memorials of triumph and survival? Not trophies from sporting events where lots of money is passed around by those with greater resources while the athletes risk their lives on display. Not monuments made to men in high offices who may or may not have served their country well. Some…signs of good human nature and values. I cannot even name one, right now. Is there such a thing? Are they all hogwash, now?

I have a disfigurement that may or may not be associated with my parents’ neglect. I do not preserve it as a badge of honor or something to show people when I want to tell–one more time–how I no longer respect my parents the way I did as the “good little boy” I once was trying so hard to be. The only reason I haven’t had it fixed is a combination of sheer terror at the diagnosis I was given and some twisted self-therapy notion that I hope people will accept me for my personality and not be so concerned with my tragically flawed physique. Heck. I was flawed at birth because my parents let some doctor tell them I had to be born NOW, not later. And then, that same doctor said I should have surgery on my skull to prevent brain damage…damage he caused by pulling me out in haste.

I don’t want to show of my disfigurement and recant the painful stories of my youth over and over and over again. I’m sure as heck not going to stand naked on YouTube and talk about the horrors of my past. And, if there was a better way to fix the “problem” (than what I have been told and the cost I anticipate), I’d get it done.

But, I get it. Those who want this hot mess are angry and upset and sticking it to those who caused the hardship and those who turn a blind eye to crime and other troubles.

Yet, there are probably just as many who would like to live their lives in peace who had nothing to do with the trouble and are not so well off that they are trampling the victims of the past. Just because someone is “white” doesn’t make them a supporter of slavery or racial abuse.

As much as I might like to shake a furious finger at my parents and hope others share my scorn, that attitude is not going to help me get on with my life. I’m not going to be a better person by harboring resentment and toting the painful memory. Nor am I going to feel better 20, 30 or even 50 years from now, looking at that history in a book or museum. I’m not going to see that horror and say, “Mmm. That was tragic. It’s good I preserved the memory. Now, the world can relive my pain.”

Sure; it might be good to know if you were a “fan” and wanted to know the intimates of my life. But, who can predict the existence of such historians? And, who preserves every bad thing that happened in their life so future generations can learn about it?…considering, among those generations, there will be plenty of “bad eggs” who would misuse the information. History certainly shows how people can twist a story and use it for evil. Ask anyone who is skeptical about the history of popular holidays.

I think back to my school days. I had teachers trying to cram tons of–well–useless information into my young brain when what I really needed to learn was how to function in the modern world, how to take care of myself and fit in with people both younger and older than me. Instead, I received a diploma in all sorts of historical matters that might be good to replay in a museum if I was giving a tour…but otherwise are just skewed stories on rotting paper.

I am a fairly religious guy and give adequate respect to religious texts and places of worship. But, even I can tell the Catholic/Christian Bible is not a documentary on ancient Christian people. Many of the stories are more like fables than diary entries. Yet, the Bible is one of the most talked about and preserved books in human history. WHY? [Maybe people just looove storytelling.]

Now, imagine what is happening right now or even all the stories we’ve heard about things that happened in the 1960s…a few thousand years from now…being recanted in schools and museums. Do you really think any of this will matter? What if history repeats itself? What if humans continue to be ignorant and learn nothing from the abundance of history they are provided?

People today are not learning from the history I was force-fed. They aren’t much wiser. The weapons just get more destructive and sophisticated. Heck, the planet pays every day from past use of radioactive materials and chemistry that harms the environment. No museum necessary.

WHY WASTE THE TIME AND ENERGY ON PAINFUL HISTORY?!

[In April of 1986, the Chernobyl disaster happened, and, to some extent, it’s still there, still tragic.  In June of 1987, Peter Parker married Mary Jane Watson in Shea Stadium.  Yes!  There was a live staging of this blessed moment in comic-book history!  And, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a footnote in some book or on some website about it.  [I faintly remember seeing a blip on some morning news program about the wedding, as a kid who was just starting to like comic books.]  Is there a statue of Peter and Mary Jane anywhere near that stadium?  Does anyone talk about the wedding?  Probably not as much as they will talk about countless disasters and memorials to them.  You hear more about the tragic end of Princess Diana’s life than you hear about Pete and MJ.  Sure, go ahead and criticize me for favoring fictional characters.  😛 ]

We don’t have to glorify the fools of the present, either. But, we sure don’t need to carry all the horror behind us. If you were struggling to travel across a hot desert and could only carry so much on your back, would you take the pain you and your “family” experienced or just the essentials you’d need to survive the trip?

You’re alive. You made it through. If your family and friends were impacted, I’m not saying forget they suffered. But, don’t erect a statue for every person who died. And, even if you experienced tragedy, don’t let it stop you from living a good life. Don’t shove it in the faces of others who may not properly process the information, either.

Not everyone will respect your sorrow or understand. Eventually, the planet WILL run out of surface space. Even graveyards get run over by new generations and new developments. Did anyone erect a memorial for my favorite dinosaur when the meteor hit Earth? I don’t think so. And, as far as I know, no one’s working on a park exhibit to bring “her” back to life and protect the endangered species. I’d really freak out if anyone tried; and not in a good way.

So…I’m watching this episode of that “Roadshow” and seeing a famous person talk about a collection of historical items which are not doing any good for anyone and probably should not be discussed or displayed anywhere. If you knew nothing about the pieces, you might say, “Oh. Those are unique ethnic figurines.” But, once you hear the story behind them–if you have a conscience, at all–you might wince and wish to look away.

WHY do we need to preserve every bad thing or bad incident for future generations to replay? Is all of that really going to make a good impact on “kids” so they make smarter decisions? With the way the world is sinking into an abyss of technological distractions and everything coded under the silicon sun, who are we expecting to take a look at all of this painful history and make good on it?

What good is expected from preserving these nightmares and bad days in our history? More museum ticket purchases? Yes, please, take my money and let me stare for hours at tragedy and horror. Show me more people dying, suffering and being mistreated so I never forget.

I think my days in school with ancient history about the barbaric practices was quite enough to know humans can and have been quite horrible and probably should never cross paths with life from other planets, unless those lifeforms are as bad or worse. And, if they are worse, then we are all screwed, anyway.

SCREW YOU WHO FAVOR MEMORIALS OF EVERYTHING TRAGIC AND HORRID! You want to weep? Then weep and make peace with what happened before moving on with LIFE. Otherwise, you can spend eternity carrying a boulder up a slope before it pushes you back down to start the climb, again.

It happened. But, the rest of the world doesn’t need to relive it or review it the rest of their lives. And, Heaven forbid someone tamper with the evidence so the history becomes skewed. Oh no…humans would never alter history to make it appear different in future school books. [Can you detect my sarcasm?]

Stop preserving every little piece of painful history you find and LIVE your life or be buried and rotted with your STUFF you refuse to let go. A hundred years from now, what you value or refuse to leave behind won’t matter to anyone but the few descendants born with either miraculous memory or the acursed desire to hoard your past. If you feel the need to tell stories, you don’t need models and charts. That’s school and courtroom bullshit.

But, I get it. Ultimately, “to each their own.” I just don’t want to be bombarded with the horrors of mankind the way these rampant drug ads with horrific side effects keep dominating my TV time. Just because I know mosquitoes can be deadly doesn’t mean I need to hear it every day or year. Teach me how to protect myself, truthfully, don’t just tell me how horrible they are and what I should buy to feel safer (as if). Bring back those remotely charming “mascots” of commercial history and retire those F’n toilet-paper bears, already.

I’m not Andy Rooney, but, if you’ve read everything I have to say, you’ve probably been here 60 minutes, give or take.

Who’s Andy Rooney?

I dunno. Google it, maybe?

Tick, tick, tick, tick…….

03
Jan
20

Life Is Not Short, 1-3-2020

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

***

A rather common expression these days says life is short or even too short. I strongly disagree and get upset with anyone who says this. [So, if you happen to interact with me in person or online, please refrain from using this line.]

Life is–as I prefer to say–as long as it is granted to you, as long as the Fates allow.

You get what you get and really do not have any sensible, genuine idea how to prolong it, though certain lifestyle choices DO enhance the quality of life and may offer some minor extension…but there’s no proof. Surprises never cease, and those who think they are perfectly healthy can suffer some sudden shock to the system which blows the whole outlook.

So, don’t count…anything. Don’t count the days. Don’t count the calories. Don’t count the steps or miles you run every day; what are you? A hamster? Just live and do your best to let others live; be cooperative but not a doormat. And, if you find yourself in a position to dominate, don’t revel in it; don’t stomp on the competition. You could just as quickly be under the other foot when you foolishly overstep your bounds. And, you project a terrible example to others who could easily replace you.

I’ve recently been discussing the sensitive subject of drugs with my very little nephews. Their parents have “no time” to talk about such things. But, from my childhood experience, I know how little adults (in my family, anyway) make an effort to discuss serious topics and prepare kids for what’s ahead, rather than let some PSA or school program drill a single phrase and some silly video into their heads. I can still see the cartoon donkey telling me to avoid strangers, the YUCK face warning me about hazardous drug bottles and the owl advising me not to pollute. Ya know…those were all cute and fun in their prime. But, real kids either wise up fast or go a long time before something shocks the crap out of them. Guess which one I was? The kid who got the crap shocked out of him when “reality” presented itself. B-But, the school was exceptional with its education system!…or so reputation says. Whatever. Parents and other adults need to be the education system…and not scare the kids.

Just the other day, I tuned into a TV show about social animal species which gave considerable focus to dolphins, elephants and a few types of monkeys. I became irked every time the narrator said an insect’s brain was far too small to compete with that of a dolphin. Does anyone other than me grasp the concept of size being relative, the idea that the physical size of the creature does not determine its intellect? We already should know an ant can lift an incredible amount of weight; can it not be just as possible for an ant to have more intelligence than we currently possess?

What if even the creatures with a “hive mentality” simply devote their massive brain power to that collective instead of dividing their “gifts” on all sorts of meaningless economical concerns and mindless entertainment, as humans do? Maybe our measily ten percent of brain power would grow or achieve more if we were not so…distracted and divided. It would not surprise me if, years from now, we discover plants having brains and a language we simply did not notice…and countless vegans suddenly turn ill with guilt for consuming yet another intelligent life.

[We humans, as far as I know, are the only species to become conflicted with what seems to be primal nature. We are so withdrawn from nature that we are foolishly, blindly destroying it. The “perfume” is so thick, we can’t think clearly.]

As much as it agitated me to hear the repetitive talk about the sizes of brains, I was finding myself emotionally drawn to the elephants and dolphins. In a strange way, I envied their social structures. I wanted to embrace them and say, “Let’s go have fun, together. Let’s go have a picnic at the beach.” I felt the urge to book a trip to some far off place where I could ride an elephant or swim with a dolphin, become the creature’s friend and make sure they were treated properly. [I get very unfriendly when I see an animal mistreated by “the system.” I’m not the best zoo visitor and go crazy when I see so many scientists trying to use technology on other animals, hoping to make them more like humans or give up all their secrets to the insatiable probing of humankind.]

And then…I thought about going home, leaving those animals I just befriended…and how sad it would be, not knowing what became of them or having any say in it, really. I’d be lucky to get a letter from someone who knows the creature. [It’s not like my elephant pal Boris can keep in touch, himself. And, so far, even when people nod and tell me they will keep in touch, it rarely comes true, sort of like parents who promise to take you on some trip to give you a summer worth talking about with your peers or just to shut you up so you don’t drive them bonkers all year, trying to pass off a hamburger and fries as a substitute for Disneyland and summer camp.]

You know what is short (in my life)? Time with those for whom I care and who I grow to like. Time with people who, at least, seem to truly understand and sympathize with me. It’s so rare; it’s like finding a unicorn in the forest. And, just when I think I’ve found some gem of a person, something seems to snatch them away.

It’s no wonder I have such a delusional outlook on life, in general. I’m obsessing with fantasies instead of taking what is given to me in a content manner. And, even my fantasies can’t sustain me because I still desire some tangible piece to ground my thoughts and feelings. I still want a body to hold and love, not a cartoon or mannequin.

And, though it is a common driving force to pursue a single warm body for primal needs, I know, deep down, it takes a bit more than that to achieve the grander sense of happiness; it takes a circle of friends and good relations with family. Well, I can pretty much wrap up that last one as a failure; even if I kissed the ground my family walked upon and did everything they wanted me to do, I would not be happy with them…and I am sure a few would continue to be unhappy with me, which is probably where my perfectionist vices originated. As a student, I couldn’t cope with less than a perfect grade but didn’t understand why; I just assumed others would look down upon me somehow. Less than perfect became almost sinful, forcing me to seek the means to atone.

I don’t see great or even good options for paths to take. I don’t see the multitude of good people with whom I am to surround myself nor the means to cast out the negative few. The negative outweigh the positive and, in turn, cause me to emit negativity, apparently. My anger, frustration and despair from what I see and hear is giving me a stink as it stews in my pores. If my social anxieties don’t spoil things for me, I make a fool of myself when I think I am in the right and cross a line with someone I just met. All my lessons in manners and respecting other cultures goes out the window once I open my mouth.

As a child, I was raised to dress properly and sit quietly while adults were in the room. I was a trophy child, someone the adults talked about but rarely with, other than the occasional comment about how I was performing in school or my interests, particularly art which few adults indulged in, thus they had little to say. I was complimented and encouraged to perform better and better than better. It was only when I reached my teens that my mind advanced beyond what my body was doing and became highly self-conscious. At my lowest point, I found my voice and used it to save myself from premature death. I thought speaking out was a valian effort. But, what did it get me? What has it gotten me all these years? A few more compliments about my sense of humor, a few more bits of praise for my wit…and a ton of complaints from the majority of negative spectators who find my words foolish, unpleasant and/or excessively self-righteous.

So, I say it, again. What is truly short? The time I have with those who satisfy my spirit (and body). Not life. This life of mine goes on and on, prolonged by a higher power who has some greater…or worse…plan for me. It began abnormally and continues to survive abnormally. Thus, I can never call myself “normal.” I have come close to ending it myself, but some tiny flame resides in me which continues to believe all is not lost, even if time takes its toll on the mind, body and worldly resources that seem to be so important to having this life (when they have so little to do with nature and life itself).

If you outlive someone who literally loses their mind, the ability to speak sensibly with you and recognize your face, you may be discouraged and join the chorus who sing about life being short. But, realize you are still living; your life continues with the knowledge of someone else losing their full potential for life. You still have time. Do you use it to compare lengths of lives? Or, do you simply live it and understand loss of ability and death are part of it?

Cherish what you have. Don’t quest or chase for what may be too much. Take care of good friendships and other relationships. These should not be labors but natural constructs that you merely maintain and thank the heavens for having in your life.

And, breathe.

16
Sep
19

A Fatal Choice -Which Do You Choose?-

By writingbolt 2 Comments
Categories: Concerns and Alerts and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

***

Let’s say you enter this life and have two choices of how to live.

A) You survive until you are 60 to 110 years old but are doomed to die from a plague sweeping the planet which ultimately touches nearly every person like mold on pumpkins. Your life expectancy is a blend of genetics and whatever man-made products you put into yourself which keep you going as long as you can…as well as bringing you down in the end.

B) You sign a contract or invest in the necessary equipment (sort of like paying for college and all that goes with it to get a degree) to transfer your “doomed” human identity into a machine supplied by a monopolizing company already spreading its financial cloak of dominance over the planet. However many years and however you live those years as a human being are inconsequential; as you will join the collective hive/mind of billions of other robots who bought into this “life insurance plan.”

Which would you choose?

Or, do the prospects of both make you wish you were never born?

[More on that philosophy in a near-future post.]

Just answer the question. Don’t LIKE or star this for later and forget about it or pass it on. And, if it’s not too much trouble, explain your answer/decision; what makes you choose that path?

16
Nov
18

Stan Lee What?? Died? Not So Excelsior.

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Concerns and Alerts and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

****

Just a quick note on the passing of who might be one of the biggest sources of inspiration to my childhood and adult life, not as any example of a stellar human being, because, even though I’ve seen videos about the guy and featuring the guy speaking his mind about everything from comic books to diseases you could get as a soldier (for which he had to make some kind of flyers and/or comics in his younger adult days), I didn’t feel as if I knew the real person very well.  I felt as if he was always “on” pitching and promoting something, no matter how many actors played Spider-Man in different “trilogies.”

But, as a creative and hard-working person who spawned so many characters into the Marvel and its previous form’s universe, all of which, as I understand it, is somehow in the possession of the Disney empire?  [But, I could be wrong.]  …He was somewhat rare and special, even if some of his creations were on the creepy side (and thus avoided by me).

Stan?  You will be missed but, not likely, forgotten.  I have no grand speeches or colorful tributes at this time.  In fact, I feel quite flat about your passing.  Death.  It’s inevitable.  People are coming and going like the seasons.  It just becomes more “functional” as I get older to look at it without much emotion, even if emotions erupt uncontrollably as if part of human nature.  I just wish things were different before you had to go.

I will say this…

Hopefully, you get the chance to reconnect with Kirby “up there” and make some cool images in the sky, ya know, with the clouds.  Sky artists.  Just imagine.  Now, that is “excelsior” worthy.

Oh, look.  I found some tears, after all.  I guess…it’s sobbing time.  [A lil Thing poke, there.]

I’ll cherish so many movie cameos and the old comics as long as they last.

mockbutterfingerad_stanleegivesfinger_purple2

This I made when talks of selling to Disney were happening.  And then, I laughed when he made his cameo in Ant Man and the Wasp, claiming he’s paying for his previous decisions from the 60’s (or his 60’s).

antmanandthewasp-quote-andthensome_stanleegivesfinger_purple3

Feel free to share your thoughts on the Man (Stan) and any of his creations you enjoy(ed).

 

03
Oct
18

Sue Grafton…Dead? I Am Late to Z Funeral.

By writingbolt Leave a Comment
Categories: Concerns and Alerts and Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

***

I am, by far, a lousy reader and never thought I’d give any author enough of my time to read more than three of their books.  And, if I say or ask anything that’s published on some website, obviously I haven’t sought that out and read it, either.  I’m not even doing a good job of looking over my notes from the books.  I just want to write something quick and heartfelt.  But, like Kinsey, I have habits that are hard to break and am complicated.  😀

P Is for Pitiful Reading.

But, I’ve been keeping this under a thin blanket.  I read 20 books in Sue Grafton’s alphabet mystery series, from A Is for Alibi to T Is for Trespass.

A Is for Accomplishment.

And, I would have continued reading had my life not been rocked back in 2015 by a stupid injury which sent me spiraling down a pathway into writing one of my own books about the scary medical experience (with a bit of exaggeration/imagination).

Now, I just heard the white-wine and quarter-pounder-with-cheese obsessed author passed away last December, shortly before the new year dawned.  And, she finished book Y but not Z??  THAT’S…

H Is for HORRIBLE!!

She wrote so long and so many books, shooting for 26 in a series (which I am sure–without looking is dwarfed by some of the more famous authors who seem to be so full of words they write books in their sleep and showers….practically vomiting hardcovers daily)…and she fails to complete the last book in the series.  [Did she anticipate her own death that she wrote an accompanying book about Kinsey before finishing the series?]

And, she had so many resources at her disposal.  How many cops, lawyers and insurance people worked with her on this series?  Plenty.  She had access to case files–which I am sure she borrowed a lot from for various books–and obviously did a lot of hitting the road to get all the necessary details right.  [If anything was inaccurate, how would I know, anyway?]  I wish I had a fraction of that support for and assistance with my books.

A close contact got me to read that series, as she has gotten me to read another by another deceased author who had some “friend of the family” or “super fan” take over writing stories about the characters.  [Which, after reading one book in the series, does NOT seem fit for “young adults” other than the difficulty level of the reading.]  And, I will be surprised if no one takes up the task of writing that last book to complete the series.  If no one will/does, I’d even be interested in contributing to the book.  But, I don’t want to write it solo.

I’ve got the title all picked out.  And, it’s a hoot.

Z Is for Zinfandel.

Perfection.  Right?  It’s the story of Kinsey finally thinking about cashing in her P.I. chips and settling down (though she perpetually claimed she could not be that sort of person and had to just settle for sleeping around with guys oozing machismo, like that vice cop and that “Rob” guy (based on another detective series author) who couldn’t get out of a lousy marriage).  She might just settle for retiring her present car, putting that tired old dress she kept in her car into mothballs or giving up a particular diet item/habit.  But, she will go down fighting with a big box of white wine right by her side.   It could just be a break from all the chasing, lying and violence and having Kinsey relax with her guilty pleasures, reminiscing about past cases/years.   Or, maybe an elderly Kinsey busts one more creep, proving old age didn’t slow her down enough not to bring the jerk to justice.  [Can you imagine this old white-haired lady flipping over some burglar and securing him before calling the cops, including the descendant(s) of that guy she hated contacting (whose name slips my mind).]

Come on, people!  No way that series ends one letter away from 26.  [But, knowing my luck, it’s already in the works and decided.]  Can I help anyone work on this last chapter?

At any rate, Sue?  You had me at L Is for Lawless.

[I’ve been just a tad infatuated with your Kinsey Millhone and her lady friend (at the insurance place who wore those very 80s outfits and hooked up with that shorter doctor guy)…at the same time I was bothered by some of Kinsey’s decisions.  And, yeah, the white wine thing realllllly got on my nerves.  I’m also itching to try a number of items on Rosie’s rotating menu, sample some of Henry’s baked goods and send his paranoid brother somewhere far away.]

Without further ado and any other foul habits…

S Is for Suspenseful.

U Is for Ugh!  Not another white wine fix or QP binge!

E Is for Erotic, Mildly.

G Is for Gal Pal Power!

R Is for Racing Heartbeat to the End of Each Book.

A Is for A Slow Burn.

F Is for Fierce Fighting Female.  [Not foxglove and all those digitalis cases.]

T Is for Thanks for Writing Something That Made Me Want to Take Notes.  [I really had to backtrack to find the source of the “death cap” mushrooms.]

O Is for One Sassy Little Pistol (and All of Her Guns).

N Is for No Way I Am Reading the Rest of the Series Without Z.  [But, I’ll hang onto my notes and memories as long as I can.]

« Previous Entries

Unknown's avatar

Archives

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started