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Cooking isn’t a luxury…it’s a survival skill. Ask Daddy if he drinks because of stress at work, or if he needs to be drunk in order to swallow all the frozen junk Mommy keeps serving, as she even burns water if trying to make tea.  All he asked for last week was potatoes, but that was just too much for Mommy…all that peeling and cutting, then deciding on what temperature they need to cook properly…it’s all so confusing, and Mommy always works hard with the milkman, the pool-boy and the plumber.  It’s so good of Mommy to have the plumber come by when he’s not home, even when there’s nothing really wrong with the pipes…Mommy always thinking of Daddy, and how he wouldn’t want to see the mess the plumber often leaves.  Mommy even tries to wash the sheets after he’s been here, but that’s so much work, and Mommy also has the mailman to take care of now…she’s just so good to all the men that drop by.  And always so thoughtful and inspired…just last week, she tried to make a cake that had Drano in it…little Johnny thought is was for all the cake crumbs that are discarded when Mommy bakes…this way they wouldn’t block up the sink, so maybe the plumber wouldn’t need to drop in three times a week.  I know Mommy is really trying to learn cooking…she was in the kitchen all day on Monday, but what she made killed Pillows, our family cat, so cooking must be awfully hard to master…especially with all those chemical bottles with the funny letters and sunken numbers on them.

Besides happy families that don’t go insane from weird recipes and bizarre combination of elements, some families can become emotionally upset with each other, and the traditional family gathering around the dining table becomes a thing of the past.  Each will only entrust their lives and taste buds to whatever they find they can tolerate or afford.  While dinner in a can can become a desperate standby, starting meals from scratch are the only way to create something that can smell delicious and fill the plate with something recognizable and even edible.  That involves following recipes or knowing how to combine spices and food properly…often the hallmark of a good family that stays together for life.

If you can’t buy healthy food items to combine in a tasty meal, you rely on junk food, fast food, or canned food. If you think frozen meals are gourmet, you’re in trouble. If you can’t take broccoli, peppers, onions, garlic and meat, cook in a tasty broth and serve over rice, you are in trouble. Those are healthy foods, and make a tasty meal, if prepared properly; it saves money, provides protein and vitamins, and can feed multiple guests. The ability to upgrade raw ingredients into palatable preparations helped our cave dwelling ancestors survive on Woolly Mammoth meat, eat enough to remain healthy during Roman times, cobble together what is available in the Middle Ages, and cook something substantive, plentiful, and useful during the new world migration. Now we survive on massive chains of grocery stores and upscale delicatessens, and that takes money plus smart shopping for healthy ingredients, good sales and what blends well together to make a tasty meal Daddy eats when he comes home…it helps him sit and enjoy his drinks before dinner, and dinner can often mean a happy Daddy, or one that wants to beat the living shit out of Mommy, and finish his entire bottle of rye…then get his gun and let the entire family know what a bad day Daddy had. Poor Daddy, just sick and tired of lazy Mommy and all those frozen pizzas and yucky meatloaf.  And he found out about how nice Mommy was to all the men who often came to 101 Drop Panty Lane.

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The incredible case of blind historians and a past cover up

It’s a curious situation, but modern historians, in our technologically great “Age of Aquarius” and quickly evolving scientific understanding, all seem to be stuck in the past, regurgitating and defending old theories and historical time lines.  It’s even been noted that artifacts and evidence that point to unknown events and even lost civilizations are ignored and often hidden away if possible, just so the old and accepted view of our historical past can remain.  No alien interventions, no super races and no lost civilizations of incredible technology and scientific awareness…yet, discoveries and inexplicable ruins often suggest these explanations should be considered.  It’s like the stodgy Victorian elite, standing by a fire, foot on the hearth, smoking a pipe and sipping brandy, all full of self-importance and amazed at their great theories on ancient civilizations have passed on that mindset to every academic in archeology, Egyptology, anthropology and historiography.  The arrogance of Lord Kelvin even asserted that “all has been revealed,” believing the intellectual powers of the time had figured out all there was to learn about the world, and it was only necessary to consolidate and fine tune their pet theories.  Like rutted animals grinding grain, they were tethered to their own hubris and blinded by their egotistical intellects.  Nothing more to discover would deny Dark Energy, Quantum Physics, Gobekli Tepe, computers and advanced technology, including the airplane and the automobile; space flight, astronomy and countless areas humanity is beginning to explore were unknown to them, yet they were so smug in their greatness they thought they knew it all…sadly, this seems to be the case in modern times, and historians are loath to admit the history books need to be rewritten, and old theories thrown on the trash heap of progress.

Books like “Forbidden History” by Michael Cremo and dozens of others cry out against what seems to be a conspiracy to keep the age of civilized and recorded history to under 10,000 B.C., despite obvious evidence that humanity has been on this planet for perhaps 300 million years.  As Earth is 4.3 Billion years old, has been habitable for a billion or more years, it makes perfect sense that unknown societies thrived, had advanced science and weaponry, and destroyed themselves.  Mars is showing evidence of early occupation and a history that is yet to be revealed, which opens the door to almost any new interpretation of how humanity evolved and came to be, and allows the possibility that we were colonized by wayward spacefarers, or had alien visitors that either introduced life on Earth, or advanced us to Homo Sapiens Sapiens, and now technological man.  There was no missing link found between our Neanderthal ancestors, and the primitive humanoids we have found across the planet we no more than dead end evolutionary trends, and were ignored and forgotten at the time; if we are the product of alien DNA mixed with whatever humanoid DNA they selected, our entire species could use a new name, but that sort of reasoning flies in the face of religion, which we refuse to believe could have been a creation of our ancestors to control the people and make the priesthood rich.

Look at the power struggle between the Catholic Church and the Kingdoms of the Middle Ages…all that mattered was money and power.  Spiritual purity was ignored, extravagance was trumpeted, and the poor were again trampled upon.  Thomas Aquinas suggested taking vows of poverty, an act that threw the greedy Pope into an apoplectic fit.  While God watched, man used Him to further his own ends, and enact unspeakable crimes in his name.  There is so much proof, written evidence and other sources that suggest this is more like the truth, the entire elite of our modern world become ostriches and put their heads in the sand.  Shame.

The writer and culprit…what do you see? Am I real or am I Memorex?  My birth certificate says female…that should answer all questions…right?  NOT.  Stay tuned for unbelievable adventures in a small chunk of Canada time forgot…a long way from Vancouver, my home.

small me

https://www.thriftbooks.com/a/dana-fitzgerald/2234680/  Some of my previous novels…my art gallery is http://www.saatchiart.com/artidan and I’m also a jazz/rock drummer and computer tech.  A B.A., a Diploma/computers, M.C.S.E. and A+ certification…too complex for the eastern life?

It seemed like an easy feat; stock car with food/cooler, add air mattress, sleeping bag/blankets and half a dozen pillows, then leave Vancouver, follow the TransCanada, and end up across the country, in Saint John.  What could happen?  For most, that’s an easy question…for me, I start counting on my fingers, but the disasters add up so fast I’m soon using toes and finally an abacus.  I seem to be a magnet for trouble, so my working title of “method writer,” like method acting, becomes too helpful for discovering new material for a book…the incidents I live through are beyond fiction, but they are merely everyday occurrences for me.

The road trip was fraught with unusual events, odd stories and even nightmarish events that seem straight out of a Stephen King novel.  While doing a little off-highway exploring, I saw an interesting old barn, with a collection of new cars parked so they weren’t visible from the gravel road it was on.  I parked well away from the barn, left my new SUV running, and hopped out to see if there was an owner lurking somewhere.  The doors were slightly ajar, and when I peeked in, the walls were decorated with every sharp-bladed instrument you can image: axes, hatchets, knives, scythes, machetes, weed whackers and power cutters like chain saws and bolt cutters.

After noticing many had reddish stains that reminded me of blood, my calls were answered by an unbelievably cliched character that should have been in the movies…the creep factor he had was off the scale.  I asked him how living out in the middle of nowhere affected his view of reality, and the answer I got was couched in innuendoes, shady comments and almost guilty confessions that he didn’t obey the laws for he was operating on his own.  I asked about all the new cars he had, and was surprised by his answer.  People seemed to leave them there…and he was willing to sell any vehicle for $5,000 cash.  I noticed some BMW’s and a new Mercedes SUV that were only a year old; each car was fully equipped and worth at least $45,000 or more.  I remember thinking where were the cops when you wanted them, but answered his generous offer by saying I was travelling across Canada, and I already had a nice vehicle.  I saw his piggish, greedy little eyes take in my new Santa Fe, then refocus on me…a long, utterly creepy stare.  He mentioned the obvious; “Are you travelling by yourself?”

I’m usually frank and open with most people, but when I saw the gleam in his eyes, and imagined the possible fate of all the owners of those cars, I said I’d just dropped off my companion at the river, and needed to go pick him up again.  I also added he was a cop and needed to do his Kung Fu exercises everyday, as he was a MMA champion.  I said this while backing up towards my car, extremely glad I left it running.  The pig-faced man reacted to my slow escape by moving towards me, which caused me to turn and almost run to my car, yelling over my shoulder how nice it was to meet a real Canadian.  Since he looked like some crazy character out of Texas chain-saw massacre, the real Canadian comment was pure sarcasm, but I didn’t hang around to make sure he got the inference.  When I was in the car starting to reverse with him at least 30 feet away, he saw the futility of trying to get near me, and stopped.  I slowed and got a better look.  With a pear-shaped body and a bullet shaped head, he was definitely an odd one.

Back in Vancouver, we’d just had the Picton trial…the pig farmer who lured unsuspecting girls to his farm by giving them too many free drugs, then raping and killing them.  The body count when I left was up to 34, and they still had a huge farm to sift through, so the evil that lurks in men’s hearts was definitely on my mind, and this psychotic looking piece of trash had evil hovering over his head and oozing out of every pore.  At that point, I was sure the reddish stains on all those cutting tools wasn’t rust…blood was spraying everywhere in my mind’s eye.  My quick and witty tongue, once I was safely ensconced in my driver’s seat with all the doors locked had to respond.  I opened the passenger window, and yelled out “I’ll be back for a few of the cars…I remember licence plates easily, and several seem to belong to people I know.  My agents will drop by…the RCMP…just stay by the barn so they can easily find you.”  After that comment, he tried running full out to my car, which was quickly speeding away in reverse…a backing up talent I discovered when the transmission went in the shit-box Malibu I got for my birthday one year.  It only had reverse, so I drove it home that way; from school at York University in the far north of Toronto, down near the CNE…between Parksville and High Park, a good 30 mile trip.  I managed 65 M.P.H., and held the wheel rock steady.  The funniest part was stopping at red lights; I faced the car behind me, had to look over the back seats to drive, and got to see the absolutely baffled look on the faces of driver’s that couldn’t believe what they were seeing.  As I say, it doesn’t matter where you find your talents, just be glad something happened that let you find them.  I zipped along his gravel driveway at 45, leaving him confused and wondering if the police would soon show up and shatter his little murder world.  Just passing by, a common phrase by then, all I could do was phone local 911, give the address, and offer some enhanced visual evidence that would make the local cops excited enough to come and give the place a good looking over…I figured new cars at fantastic discounts was evidence enough that the shady side of death was everywhere, but hoped it stopped at his property line.  I didn’t know the name of the nearest town, and since I slept in the car, listen to more music than news, my lack of communication made the encounter another mystery that ended in a manner that I can only discern with my writer’s imagination…anywhere from blatant serial killer, lethal car thief or an unfilmed visit to the twilight zone.  A visit I was lucky enough to escape.

When I mention the many tales I experienced in my cross country trip, I can only add perspective; I was just entering Saskatchewan, and already had two different but unsettling adventures behind me.  One at a seemingly out-of-business gas station just before I made it over the continental divide mountains, still in B.C., and stumbling on a drug house in Alberta, where if they discovered you had money on you, killing you with a hot-shot overdose seemed like business as usual.  A few hastily scrapped over lumps in the back yard had too much resemblance to the 6′ X 3′ rectangular mounds we all associate with fresh graves.  I know, this is almost too crazy and too frequent to have happened during my one trip across this great nation…then again, you have no idea how many such incidents pop up in my life, as if I am a spiritual magnet for the aftermath of destruction, evil or highly illegal.  If this could happen to someone, I would be that person; merely explaining what I’ve had happen in one year would make you scratch your head, and finally say, “Well, anything is possible.”  Ironically, I end up with too many stories to write, and I never have to use my imagination, for life is indeed much stranger than fiction.

Next: End of the road, start of the Red Neck bewilderment.  I had people walking up to me and asking what I was…the androgynous gender didn’t cut it in the Maritimes, where men were men, and the women were either extremely overweight, on the far side of ugly or in a very small percentage that looked good.  I encountered dozens of women? that I truly thought were men…and when I went back to my female persona, I blended in and was accepted as female so much that certain jealous and psychotic nuts at the cheap rooming house I found thought it was their mission in life to follow me around and tell anyone I spoke with that I was not what I appeared to be.  Several people told me about this, as they knew I was a woman (hey, if the shoe fits….), and thought I should know.  Anyway, this great quest to expose the transsexual didn’t seem to be that clear cut; no one in Saint John had ever seen a real TS, much less one that looked more female than their females.  Gossip in this small town spreads easily, so my fame grew quickly; needless to say, my bad luck happened, I lost my driver’s license for 3 months, and gave everyone a good look at me while taking the bus and just walking around.  By this time there were about 3 champions of the moral majority or whatever they thought they were doing, and I even overheard conversations about me.  One couple argued that I wasn’t the person in question, I merely had the same hair color and style…it didn’t seem to matter that I was walking right behind them and could overhear.  I also discovered they probably weren’t at fault…the I.Q. levels around here are often double digit, and a high level would be somewhere near 115.

When you have to point out that a certain woman might not be a woman, it gets tougher when whoever is trying to see who their friend is pointing to sees you, but keeps looking as they see you as too female to be the person in question.  Whatever the case, it is a nasty feeling when idle gossip is taken as literal truth, and skid row alcoholics are able to cause problems just by saying something other’s hear about but long to see.  Now I have my car back, so I avoid the areas where the useless go to stand around and kill time…I know what I did wrong, and when I start over somewhere, I will not make the same errors.  Do not tell anyone, for they are desperate for juicy gossip here; plus, I showed up as what I thought was my male side, and told all the people who had to ask what I was that I was male.  Ergo, when I started wearing dresses, wore make up and did my hair, the hot looking female that emerged was too controversial for their fragile male egos.  They would look, like what they saw, but then wonder when they consider what is turning them on could have once been male…this is a backward society, stuck in old morality and part of the hard core bible belt that considers a male to female transsexual as an abomination against all that is sexually normal.

Yeah, that whole mix gave me lots of stories…toss in my standard ability to raise hell and cause accidents, and the result is an almost daily source of misadventures that are hard to believe, even when they are labelled fiction.  If you happen to mention they are true, the incidents seem beyond what is possible, so the fiction label seems to be the only way to write a believable story.

Wait until I start telling what really happened…it will amaze you; only in Saint John could this level of insanity happen, and the idiocy involved be real and almost expected.

A small slice of the truth…

 

INMATES –Good story

Chapter one: All work and no play Start of a new book on ironic situations

Like many popular and entertaining stories, a vicarious peek at two anonymous lives is further proof that life is indeed stranger than fiction.  Life’s twilight zone of reality conspired with fate; testing a newly-wed couple’s avowal of love, events twisted their matrimonial expedition into a test of devoted loyalty shredded by legal wolves, psychological band-aids and ambiguous advice from friends and family.  Standard reactions, trite remarks and the drastic ways of the world played with truth and justice.  Ultimately, only personal intuition and the benefit of the doubt can provide the emotional faith we need to maintain honest relationships slanted by life’s more unexpected events.

 

Toronto, East End.

Zach Forrest was happy; over the last year, he’d studied hard to earn five full credits towards his four-year Honors degree.  Receiving his third year’s high marks in June, he noticed he still needed two credits from a turbulent second year that almost ended his academic dream.  Planning ahead, he chose to work part-time and take two summer school courses to fix his second year blunder; school was over with two weeks left in August—earning a 4.25 GPA.  The credits fulfilled gave him a Bachelor’s degree; one more year of full-time study earned him an Honor’s B.A. in English, with a minor in communications technology.

There was definitely a spring in his step as he walked up the driveway to his parent’s large two-story house in popular suburbia.  With the A+ transcripts from summer school, he could show his father he’d now outperformed his successful PhD cousin, a well-financed product of the elite Upper Canada College and the University of Toronto.  His father’s brother Brad consistently bragged about his marriage to the daughter of a large printing company’s millionaire owner.  ‘Barb Hunt, now Barb Forrest, was a well-heeled product of exclusive Women’s colleges and private schools, and instantly became the darling daughter of Grandma Forrest, a strong and elegant lady who had pursued a life of wealth her entire life.  Grandma declined babysitting help for them, but jumped to look after his cousin.  Along with family approval, his older cousin enjoyed the finest education a family could find.  Tom received but also gave; after the prestigious Upper Canada College, he distinguished himself with U of T’s football team, and helped kids on canoe trips…carving out a successful path into the top echelon’s of Ontario’s Education Board.  He served on the Board of Education for Toronto, working his way to the top-principle for Ontario’s High School system.  Success and power gave him the tools he needed to enact significant changes to the School Board; his loving and caring nature made him a man newspapers loved to profile, while his genuine passion for education made him Zach’s well-respected mentor who showed honest respect for his academic achievements, something he humbly noted surpassed his own G.P.A.  They shared many evenings of literary discussion at Grandmother’s cottage, a beautiful slice of the wilderness purchased by Tom.  Zach respected his cousin for the principles and goals he considered more valuable than money…ensuring all children had a proper childhood, and received an ample education.

Ironically, Zach had grown up around a lot of rich family and friends; he’d heard many stories about people with money, and was familiar with odd behavior by rich relatives.  His mom’s father’s brother was quite the character, and Zach’s favorite uncle.  Around 6 or 7, his family would visit them in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania.  Uncle Joe had a house on a cliff that overlooked the Beaver River, a railroad line at the bottom.  Zach stayed in a bedroom that faced the river, and he would always associate these family visits with endless trains on the river track.  The trains were so long he’d fall asleep to the sound of trains, and wake up to the sound of a train.  Uncle Joe would insist that these trains were often over ten miles in length, an adult answer that little Zach accepted as truth.  During the day, Zach’s frequent source of amusement was placing pennies on the track and having the train squash them like a pat of butter.  When older, he understood Uncle Joe was the biggest kidder in the family.  It was a busy track, and common for two or three trains to pass nightly.  When Uncle Joe finally passed away, he donated five houses and all his worldly goods to his church…a cousin who owned an antique store took a van down and loaded it with anything he could find, insisting there wasn’t “much of anything” in the large house we always stayed at.  Right…I heard he took a big moving van to collect furniture.

Uncle Joe always treated us to McDonald’s burgers and fries; like a magnanimous king, Uncle Joe would say, “Order as many as you want.”  To a kid, this sounded like a dream.  The idea of generosity endured until he began to understand the value of money.  This was the sixties, and a McDonald’s hamburger was .15 cents, .20 for a cheeseburger.  We would stuff ourselves for under a dollar.

What was really great was the assorted stores, especially the comic book store…they had everything.  He’d take the five or ten dollar windfall he’d saved up and merrily visit different stores that didn’t exist in Canada.  Making money was an early talent for Zack.  In Toronto, a sneaky way to make money was to buy a bunch of McIntosh apples, polish them like jewels, then place them in a tissue decorated fruit basket with a paper-wrapped money can.  Wearing his cub scout uniform, he’d use his bike to go to a distant neighborhood, knock on doors, and say he was collecting for UNICEF, a special collection because the Scout’s apple day was usually a few months away.  He earned more money than Christmas or his birthday.  Zach always felt cheated on his birthday…a fluke of fate decreed that his brother was born on the same day, three years ahead of him.  That meant only one large birthday party.  A friend of his had five siblings, and he’d brag about getting birthday cake all year round, and smaller gifts from relatives that felt guilty only giving to the birthday boy or girl.

That trick was quickly overshadowed: when he got a paper route, he learned how to earn steady cash.  If short on papers, he could just take as many papers as he needed from open honesty boxes.  His route was mainly in the subdivision he lived in, with 7 customers across a main street.  After a few collection days, he began to tell his supervisor some of the distant customers cancelled their subscription, something that happened quite often.  He still delivered and collected, taking the extra papers from the distribution boxes, keeping all the money he collected every two weeks…like a steady paycheck.  Fifteen bucks every two weeks was a gold mine for a kid.  A regular financier with a bank account, he quickly earned over $100 dollars, and became the local shyster…loans up to ten dollars, a dollar a week interest.  If he thought they were dodging him, he’d give a big guy two bucks to scare the hell out of them.  They paid.  When his account started to rise, keeping hundreds in the bank was a problem; maintaining an explainable balance, he hid the rest.  Kids didn’t usually have a few hundred in cash…a good reason to keep it safely stashed.  As he got older, selling pot was a good income, but he had real jobs to explain cash, get a car, and float several bank accounts to spread his wealth.

As he got older, the trips to visit Uncle Joe became financially lucrative.  He loved comics, and felt collections were important and should be well looked after.  America had a lot more comic books than Canada, and he knew which could fetch much higher prices than Canada.  As time passed, that impeccable collection of comics was money in the bank; he always wanted to keep several first editions, and to collect the first twenty comics of every popular figure.  When prices rose, he sold his collection of popular and hard to find first editions. His number #1-20 series of Batman, Superman, The Hulk and many more produced a huge windfall; his pristine copy of Adventure Comic’s #13 brought in $25,000, a more battered version went for $8,000.  Fortunately, he sold them in 1997, well after he was divorced

Toronto, 1987  The wife problems were growing.

Visiting his parent’s place, Zach could tell no one was home.  He fished the spare key from under the cushion of the rear chair…a hiding spot he’d always warned his parents was an open invitation to anyone with half a brain to search for a key…opened the basement door and returned the key.  Stepping into the house, he noticed the door from the kitchen that led to the basement stairs was closed, something his mother would never do unless she was in a hurry.  A memory from high school popped into his mind to make him laugh.  He’d come home late one night and tried to sneak downstairs to his basement room.  All of a sudden, his mother popped out from behind the door and thrust a freshly lit match in his face.  He blew it out while laughing.  Confused and amused at the inane behavior, he had more laughs when he discovered the rationale behind his mother’s thinking.  She’d read some drug pamphlet that said you could tell if someone was high on LSD by looking at their pupils.  The whole folly was her great plan to see his pupils and discover whether he was taking acid.  When slightly back in control, he told his mother he was drunk, and that anyone out on a dark night would have enlarged pupils because eyes become enlarged to let in as much light as they could.  Before heading downstairs to fall into bed, he told his mom the best way to find out if he was on acid was to simply ask him…at seventeen, he didn’t care what his mother knew, and the absurdity of her behavior was something he wanted to put an end to…if she’d do something that stupid to find out about his drug use, she was becoming dangerous.  Two years later, the continued insanity of his home forced him into his first apartment, a much easier life than living in a borderline nut house.  Four years after that, he was married and living in his wife’s aunt’s house…she was in a nursing home, but didn’t want her house sold until she passed away.  Zach saw it as another act of stupidity; they could have bought the house for $60,000 when they first moved in…eight years later, it sold for $170,000…the main reason for their separation and eventual divorce.

With the parents away, Zach helped himself to lunch.  Opening a cupboard to get a glass, he noticed several new prescription bottles.  Out of habit, he checked the labels and contents.  Bingo…one had ten milligram Valiums.  He popped some and put another ten in his pocket…the script was two months old and never touched…his parents weren’t the drug-taking type.  After lunch, he cleaned up and headed back to their High Park home.  By the time the bus came, the pills had started to kick in, and Zach felt great…he finished the work for a basic B.A. with an A average, and he had two weeks of summer left before he started his final year in September.  The merry bunch of pills in his stomach were now mixing with his bloodstream and sending party signals to his brain; he got off the streetcar three blocks from home and grabbed a bottle of vodka.  By the time he arrived home, his normal walking abilities were somewhat scrambled; not quite a full stagger, but definitely a little too much to the left, matched by a few errant steps to the right.  He was feeling the Valiums, and he felt somewhat blasted…too blasted to realize that mixing booze with the Valiums would soon put him outside the realm of normal behavior.

After four drinks, his wife arrived.  Now in a playful mood, he thought this would be a good time to play a few jokes.  Unfortunately, he’d watched the Shining last night, and it ran through his head…Jack Nicholson’s portrayal of the deranged caretaker seemed like an easy act to imitate, and good for a few laughs.

While she was in the kitchen, Zach began repeating the news of his recent academic success, and added the lines all work and no play make jack a dull boy.  Something about the performance must have worked, as she soon ran upstairs.  Still thinking this was all a rousing good joke, he grabbed the large chef’s knife and began using it to help him crawl up the stairs, all the time repeating the Jack’s a good boy phrase and “Johnny’s here.”  When he reached the top, Susan darted by and headed out the door.  This reaction proved the joke was successful, and Zach returned to the kitchen for another drink…and a couple more Valiums.  Apart from a major struggle with gravity, the booze and pill combination seemed to give a good buzz.  Zach took the drink into the living room and gratefully secured himself in a solid chair and began to channel surf on the TV.

They had a duplex, and Zach heard a loud knock on his neighbor’s door and decided to have a peak.  Two policemen were there, talking to his neighbor.  This seemed like an interesting situation, so he opened the door and joined the conversation.  Once he started to talk, he realized his mistake: they were there to speak with him.  The overly protective and snotty British neighbors two houses down had insisted on calling the police over his impersonation of Jack Nicholson…explaining it away as a joke didn’t work out too well.  The police confiscated their expensive chef’s knife as evidence, and he was soon on his way to jail.  So much for the two-week vacation he was making plans for…until this got by the court system, his future was jail.

Although no physical contact was made, he was charged with domestic abuse; remanded until his preliminary court date, he was shipped off to the West Detention Center, a new jail he’d never experienced, with new rules of conduct he’d have to learn the hard way.

After a quick court appearance for bail, the instant denial meant he had to wait until the preliminary hearing, two weeks away…two weeks for a practical joke that went awry.  Instead of enjoying the last two weeks of sunny August at the cottage, he was in jail.  Zach knew the strict response was due to those overly uptight English neighbors.  The jail time came from his previous convictions, but not one of those convictions included any violent behavior.  For domestic abuse cases, all subjects were separated, and jail certainly made it a deliberate situation.  Two weeks wasn’t a long time, but any time in jail can sometimes produce complications that make every day a test of endurance, and a fight for survival.  Since this was the West End, he was heading into home ground for a far worse enemy…Bo.

Bo was the younger brother of his friend Stevie.  Stevie was a pal from his Drugstore Cowboy days, and a master at forging scripts who rarely got caught.  He was so exceptional, when he was caught by a convoluted comedy of errors, a dedicated Crown Attorney convinced a Judge that catching Stevie for a fake script was unlikely; he argued they should consider the hundreds of prescriptions they didn’t catch, and to sentence him accordingly.  After showing samples of real and fake scripts, the Crown showed the fake script from Stevie; even the inexperienced Judge could tell it looked more like the real scripts he’d seen, and accepted the Crown’s argument that hundreds of Stevie’s scripts were probably filed all over Toronto, and that his pen-work could be considered a dangerous tool that contributed to the raging problem of illegal pharmaceutical drugs all across Toronto.  Stevie got a deuce less for one prescription; the usual penalty was 30 days up to 6 months.

When Stevie got out he went back to passing his perfect looking scripts: what made his so special was the flamboyant and flowing signature he added…so perfect, they looked like the signer had years of signing his name behind him, hence the swirling loops and stylistic perfection that made them look so real.  While cashing one with my friend Wolf in tow, the pharmacist was probably spooked by Wolf’s six inch knife scar across his chin and tried to get the doctor on the phone.  It was after six o’clock, so there was no way to get the doctor to verify the script.  Wolf got so incensed he walked behind the counter, pushed the cowering pharmacist out of the way, and grabbed a bottle of Percodans and a jug of Novahistex D.H., then ran out of the store.  Stevie encouraged him by yelling “way to go Wolf,” a comment that would be repeated later to help identify Wolf in a court of law.  Wolf had grabbed exactly what they wanted: Wolf liked his Percodans, and Stevie liked his juice.  It was pitch dark out in November, and they headed down into a ravine behind the store and began to imbibe.  Wolf could easily count how many pills he was taking, but sipping narcotic cough syrup from a large 80-ounce bottle was impossible to get right.  The only way to measure would be by filling the large cap, but most of us would just eye-ball the level in the bottle and aim for four ounces.  The Hydrocodone content in the juice made four ounces a good and steady high, while twice that would have you staggering around…when you got up to around ten, you’re reaching that deadly overdose quantity.  Whatever happened to Stevie will never be known, but from Wolf’s story, they got separated, and when Wolf finally found him, he was laying face down in the pond…quite dead.  We all assumed Stevie took too much, couldn’t walk straight because he was nodding out on his feet, and happened to fall face down in the water and fell asleep.  Either way, everyone blamed Wolf for his death, as people thought he should have kept an eye on him; that’s the stone cold sober, light of day outlook, but reality added enough screw ups to make it just another regrettable drug overdose.  Stevie probably guzzled enough to send him near the edge, and I’m sure Wolf gobbled enough Percodan to put him in the same shape.  I once ate 23 Percodans in the back of a cop car to avoid possession charges, so I know what that many Perc’s can do to your normal five senses.  The fact that they were so stoned they got separated made me cut Wolf a little slack, but since I know the difference between a near overdose on both drugs, I think Wolf should have paid more attention to Stevie, as he was no doubt a stumbling, half-asleep, partially mobile wreck that was trying to shake of a near overdose.  They should have hid the drugs, written down the location, and took a cab to the nearest hospital.  Overdosing is an occupational hazard for all Drugstore Cowboys, but when one of us gets taken, we all analyze what went wrong, and if you had a partner there, the ultimate responsibility is on their shoulders…unless, of course, they’re in a hospital emergency ward or intensive care for an extended coma.  Everyone blamed Wolf…and since he was one of my best friends, Stevie’s brother Bo didn’t like me too much, and also tacked on a black-out consequence for which I was totally innocent.  He blamed me for getting pinched on some job he did months before…back when Stevie was still alive to drive him around and dump him on whatever babysitters he could find.

 

Bo wasn’t the best person to get high with; he either took too much or couldn’t handle what he did take.  That made him a mumbling, staggering burn-out that you couldn’t talk to that also had a tendency to break anything that was remotely fragile.  You basically had to keep a constant eye on him unless he passed out.  He also had a problem talking, if you could call incoherent mumbling communication.  It was this tendency to talk that got him busted for the hospital job that earned him 18-months in Cement City…the not so nice, over ninety-five year old Provincial Reformatory in Guelph, Ontario.  It was an old-fashioned jail with bars everywhere, poured cement walls and hallways, a self-contained linen factory that made all the socks and blankets for Ontario jails, various shops, a massive laundry for the three to four hundred inmates, plus an industrial sized kitchen that used over thirty inmates to peel, cook and wash dishes.

Guelph was a working jail, not like the more modern Brampton OCI, or Ontario Correctional Institute; OCI was considered a treatment center, with five different units that specialized in assorted psychological problems…drugs mostly, but they took in some real crazies.  Gratuitous violence would land you in the hole pending an immediate transfer…usually to Cement City.  Unit three was for both long-term offenders and child molesters…no one wanted to get stuck there, but some actually cool dudes were unlucky enough to live with the only jail-house life form lower than rats…diddlers and rapists.  The no violence restriction made them feel safe, and since they considered these guys bona fide nut cases, they took them in from all over the province unless they were also in for murder or extreme violence.

 

On my first and only significant jail term, OCI was used as a classification center; I was transferred there from the Don jail and for me, it looked like a hotel.  Good food, freedom to move around, and bullet-proof glass instead of bars.  They didn’t issue jail clothes, but gave you hand-me-down street clothes that were often the worst colors or designs I’d ever seen; with a lot of psychiatrists moving around, they tried to make it more like a hospital than a jail: carpeted hallways, enclosed areas with benches, and recreation facilities like a music room, gym, weight room, art class, automotive shop and other things that gave you a chance to do something productive with your time.  There were strict rules against fighting and other common offenses, but it had a certain ambiance that didn’t feel like jail; I wanted in.  Visits were in a nicely furnished visiting room with couches and tables, and dark enough to get in some serious action if you were lucky enough to have a girlfriend.  Fortunately, I had a weekly visit from whomever I’d been seeing on the outside, and quickly learned visits with no glass separating you was a perfect set up for smuggling in dope.  Near the end of the visit, we’d get into some hot and heavy embraces; I put whatever package down my pants with extra-sticky tape, and head into the search room with a huge boner…sometimes so excited I was dribbling that pre-sex discharge of semen, a large wet mark visible on the khaki colored pants I usually wore, an obvious male reaction the male guards patting you down avoided like a plague.  I had some packages so large, there was still a lump after little Willie deflated from lack of stimuli.

 

It was also an unwritten rule that after a visit with your girlfriend, you’d be allowed to visit the washroom as soon as you returned to your unit, just so you could relieve the pent-up arousal with your hand.  My girlfriend would wear outfits that gave you a boner just looking at her…hey, we were in jail, remember?  The smuggled drugs won me many good friends…and all of them abided by my rules to keep it cool and never take enough to start staggering.  I’d seen a guy do that in Mimico; after a 3-day pass, he brought in a package I only got to see, and not to sample.  I laughed when we went to dinner; rules were strict, and you had to sit beside the guy in front of you and so on.  Strom got so stoned he got up and started walking around the tables to talk to whoever he felt like…a definite no-no.  In under two minutes he was hauled off to the cooler, and that nifty little package he was proudly showing off got flushed by the guards and earned him 3 weeks of solitaire on restricted diet…the awful meatloaf sandwich that wasn’t even meat.

 

Anyway, my first impressions of OCI aside, I didn’t get to stay, I earned Cement City.  I’d been in the Don for five months, and the doctors there gave me 10 mg. of Valium every four hours and 100 mg. of Seconal at night.  When I saw the doctor at OCI, I was in full-blown benzo withdrawal, and I asked if I could get my valiums or even just a taper down dose.  They considered that request for drugs a sign that I didn’t want to give up drugs, so I wasn’t suitable for OCI.  Ironically, my benzo withdrawals were so bad I was shaking and had a B.P. of 180 over 120; I pleaded my cause for a legitimate case of withdrawals that were so bad it could be considered cruel and unusual punishment to make me go through them without any help whatsoever.  After five days, I was shaking so bad I had a melt-down in the normal looking cafeteria and got hauled off to the institution’s hospital.  My vitals were all over the chart, but they still didn’t associate my condition with the fifty milligrams of valium I’d been taking while in the Don.  Their doctor had left for the day,  so they sent me to the local hospital; out of the pure blue sky I encountered a considerate and humane doctor.  I told her my story about the high dose of Valium I’d been on for over 4-months, and she was speechless when I told her the jail refused to give me anything.  She came up with some believable anxiety/neurological condition, started me on a week-long taper down program, and kept me in Brampton General for a week.  No restraints, almost unlimited visits and half-decent food was a God-send; after seven days I returned to the jail, and she discharged me with a two 5-mg. per day prescription.  Because she was a real street doctor, they followed her instructions, and I was finally allowed to cut down to a manageable dose when it ran out.  Needless to say, this didn’t help my case to prove I deserved to serve my time in their treatment program.  I applied for later consideration, and finally got to serve the last 3-months of my sentence there…a place much closer for my visitors to reach.  After 2-months at Guelph, OCI was like getting out of real jail and getting a bed in some low-class hotel…then again, anything was better than Cement City.

 

Guelph was where Bo did his entire 18-month sentence, so whoever he tried to blame his bust on was someone Bo really wanted revenge on.  Ironically, that sentence turned Bo from a dead beat, mentally deranged kid into a hardened criminal; time in the weight room increased his size, and the lack of drugs finally allowed him to speak coherently.  He actually made friends while he was in there…friends he no doubt entertained with his great theory on how he got busted.

 

Someone talked.  Cops don’t just show up at your door a few months after the fact unless they found something that connected you, or someone gave them a name.  Unfortunately, Bo talked to just about everyone about his big score on the hospital, and any one of those people could have turned him in.  He scored a large supply of strong, injectible opiates like morphine, Leritine, Dilaudid, and Demerol: for some reason, he liked the Demerol, something I usually turn my nose on.  Maybe a week after his score, my late friend Stevie stopped at my place and asked if I’d look after him for a few hours; I got paid with a few hits of Leritine, so I thought how hard can it be…after an hour, I wished I’d held out for a better payment.  A couple of friends dropped by, along with some guys I didn’t know; always one to babble, Bo starts telling them all about his big score, the only thing he had to talk about.  Later on, when Bo was counting off the suspects who could have named names, he didn’t consider the people he told at my place, and focused on the people he knew.  After Stevie’s death, I think he wanted to believe Wolf gave him up, but truth be told, he looked up to Wolf, and knew he’d never rat on anyone.  I think the same thing worked for me, but after his jail sentence toughened him up, he began to remember the people he knew he told, but totally forgot he told anyone who’d listen exactly what he did.  I also recall someone I know that got pinched and then got bail, an outcome I knew was fishy as he’d already earn two fail to appears, and if you have that on your record, you never get bail.  Was he the rat?  Possibly, but I know almost a dozen people who fit, so I doubt anyone will ever really know…it’s not something people usually share or brag about.

Knowing all this and knowing Bo spent a lot of time in the West, I had my wife to worry about, and the possibility Bo had spread my name around like it was mud.  Like some unexpected bolt of lightening, what saved me was also something that almost earned me a severe beating.  I hung up the one inmate phone on the unit while the biggest, toughest and naturally lethal guy on the range was talking to his girlfriend.  In my defense, phones on the units were a new feature since I’d last been in jail, and I didn’t know the etiquette or phone rules.  I saw the receiver dangling off the hook, watched it for five minutes, and when no one seemed to be using it, I tried calling the only person who could get me out…my wife.

It was a short call.  I returned to the game of cards I was in and considered my options.  I didn’t get a chance.  All of a sudden, this totally ripped, tattoo-covered mountain of a man instantly silenced the whole range by asking “Who hung up the phone?”

Well, I’m always someone that owns up to my actions.  I timidly stuck up my hand, and quietly confessed.  I did the right thing and walked over…just in case he wanted to end my feeble existence.  He was mad.  Turning around, talking to himself, he kept repeating “You don’t hang up the receiver if it’s off the hook.”  I was expected a vicious shot in the head at any moment, but meekly explain I hadn’t been in for a while and phones were new to me, and I didn’t know he was using it…I pleaded for my life by admitting my stupidity.  He asked how long I’d been out and how long I’d previously done…when he asked about my history, I had a faint glimmer of hope that I might live through this.  I told him how long I’d served, told him the frigging, low-life Parole board turned me down (something I was sure he could relate to), and how I’d managed to avoid the cops for two years.  My life had stopped flashing before my eyes, as I saw he wasn’t some dumb pile of muscle, and was perhaps putting on a show to make sure everyone on the range knew he was the Alpha male…dispute at your own risk.  He was still turning in circles, but I wasn’t seeing a punch come flying out as he pivoted.  Then he asked me what I was in for: that’s when I hoped he had problems with women, as I wasn’t about to lie about anything.  I said domestic dispute, but nothing happened, I didn’t touch her, and my wife only called the cops because two dick-head neighbors told her what to do.  A few seconds passed, and then he broke out laughing.  He finally mentioned what a bunch of bitches they can turn out to be, then grasped my should in a bear-like grip and said, “Don’t worry about it…just don’t hang up the phone if the receiver is dangling…it usually means someone’s gone for a piss or something and they’ll be right back.  I assured him I would never do something like that again.  That was my first meeting with Karl.

 

The next time I spoke with Karl, he’d just come back from a visit and I just happened to be standing by the barred door.  He saw me, and said, “So you know Wayne?”  I was too speechless to think of who he was talking about, but desperately wanting to please him I agreed.  I later learned he was my good buddy Wayne Daly’s uncle Karl…the family bank robber and Federal inmate.  After that, I got invited into Karl’s kingdom.  He was going back and forth to court a lot, and he got me put in his cell, to “Watch his stuff.”  Every week, if you had money, inmates were allowed to make purchase orders: real cigarettes, cigars, soap, nice shampoo, baby powder, pop and chip…mostly anything that you could get in a variety store except anything that could be a weapon.  They did allow fingernail clippers.  When people knew they were getting out on bail, they gave all their stuff to Karl before they went to court.  That act of homage created a massive collection of just about anything you could use to make jail a more civilized experience.  Making friends with Karl was a fluke, and my fear of running into any of Bo’s friends disappeared, as no one messed with anyone Karl knew, especially his cell mate.  I got a visit from Wayne a week later as he was already there to see Karl, and asked if I’d met him.  I told him the story and listened as he filled me in on his uncle Karl and some of the stuff he got involved with…he didn’t need guns to scare people, but he liked pulling them out during a robbery, a hobby that landed him in the big house several times.

Life on the range was a breeze after I met Karl.  The wife and I had made up on the phone, and she apologized for putting me in jail, and blamed it on those meddling English neighbors.  They were the ones who called the cops, she was just sitting in their living room with a beer.  My court date arrived, the Crown withdrew the charges and mentioned a reconciliation, and the cops gave us back the chef knife.  I was soon back home, popping less Valiums, and enjoying a Screwdriver with a moderate amount of alcohol.  I gave up the Jack Nicholson impressions.

School started, I bought my books, and got ready to finish my fourth year.  About a month into school, a friend of mine showed up with the contents of a pharmacy he’d just robbed.  Well, it’s always been hard for me to say no to certain drugs, and he had all the ones I knew and loved.  After two weeks, I was semi-strung out, mostly craving the buzz I knew so well.  Incredibly, my future would again change, turning into a secret hell that not too many people could imagine.  I’d return to jail, and have a face to face meeting with Bo.

Worlds Apart

Few great men are willing to admit what many have suspected for years.  Humanity has mistakenly created a broken system.  A system that becomes more locked in place as time progresses, for the massive, collective bureaucracy across the globe is firmly entrenched; we are too far along for radical new systems of rule, but we can perhaps build a colony that focuses on the needs of the individual.  It is unlikely a new society can form inside the old, making radical departures from human goals…such change will probably take years and space colonies to try new ideas.  Many agree there are things that need to change, yet that change is controlled by the special interest groups that control our modern world.  Some operate in secret, most just operate.  It’s basically fun to poke around with new ideas that often clash with human history or even reality

We say we value freedom, yet all are slaves to mortgages, banks and dead end jobs.  Many are creative, but sadly denied a chance to show their talent.  Some long for the wilderness, but the act of living there turns into a police chase for trespassing. People strive to be unique…to show their own style, but the very clothes they’re forced to buy makes that statement for them.  Many love to study the stars but must do so without the expensive technology we drool over and worship like gods.  People long for true love, but end up spending fortunes on lawyers in divorce settlements.  We yearn for truth, but are told a bedtime story…the many brave people who pushed against this are still missing.  The entire population is lied to, manipulated, told what to do, and the great majority likes that…it makes life easier for them to understand.  We all want to understand life, yet are firmly denied the tools to research, to study, or to explore.  We are told where we can go, but many believe that Acceptance or approval by the powers that be is needed to perform any significant action, behavior or ritual.  Society is addicted to technology when they should be embracing what we once knew in the past…a secret few know, many seek, but the answers have turned to dust.  Trust the rocks of time…they move for no man, but speak to all mankind. This is a universal message to life….free the soul, inherit eternal bliss.  Sadly, this message is too mixed up in pop-ups, sliders and mindless tweets.

This might not be some research paper on behavior abnormalities, but it’s a look at life with new eyes that takes into account what we dream about, and what mankind is truly capable of achieving.  Imagine if we quickly mastered spaceflight and were able to commercialize vessels and ships that could reach other galaxies, other worlds.  What if we created little UFO like discs that operate like the UFO phenomenon we hear about all the time.  Two-man ships with one hell of a propulsion system…isn’t that what they are saying?  If tiny two-man ships explore our world, they would have to be ultimately quick, have access to a wormhole, or be based on some forward operating colony that’s fairly close.  Perhaps those towers on Venus indicate life below the surface…just like the other rumors about building complexes on other moons and even our own moon.  Seems like the questions are close by, but we need to get off the planet to see the truth; the last time humanity tried, it took the massive Saturn Five rocket to blast a tin can into space.  We need something a little more advanced than a tin-can…one of those classic saucers with the bubble-top would do nicely.  If they really have small, two-person ships that are about 12-14 feet in diameter, they’ve got to have a main base near-by…doesn’t seem possible to travel everywhere in such a small vehicle, but if the technology is there, it could work.  Traveling vast distances might not be as hard as we imagine…there might be tricks to jump where you want to go, or propulsion systems that have limitless drives.  If you exceed light, which is a given in this imagining, the whole physics of energy, mass and speed might be some mixed up ball of forces that merely needs a governing force to focus it where it needs to go.

If we could turn our spaceships like we do cars, our entire world would change.  It could happen within ten years, if the right incentives were there; but, would the power brokers that rule our lives allow the common man to buy a spacecraft and start exploring the universe.

*

Currently, our only true freedom of choice is which brand of chicken soup to buy.  Strolling through mega-malls packed with commercial trinkets for our amusements must be compared with any alternative lifestyle…we’ve created a monster, and that beast won’t be changed overnight, but some sort of change must occur…before boredom and lack of challenge sinks our entire ship.  It seems once the needs of the many were provided by men, we immediately began our hierarchical system of human grading.  We have a system where we must acquire enough money to buy what is needed in life, told what those needs are by massive brand power and advertising, and then provided to us by relentless industry and our stifling systems of government and education; are we living our true destiny?  Humanity has created a cookie cutter system that enslaves people before they are ready to decide what they want from life, or what life has to offer.

Our system dictates that people live in little boxes next to other little boxes, and claims the right to live in that little box makes you a slave that must work 45 years to pay for that life, then wants you to pay for rooms in retirement homes until you’re ready to die.  We have a system that denies us the liberty to do what we want unless we have enough money to stay away from that system…the chance to wander where we want.  Whatever we want to do has been already considered by great minds in our society, and those minds place limits on how far we can go…what we can try,…things that are too dangerous…substances that must be denied and made illegal…and the most telling of all, what we are allowed to believe.  Many individual civil rights began in someone’s mind, but ended up in a courtroom before they were granted the privileged to voice those beliefs.  Has our great civilization descended into constant litigation to regain the freedoms that belonged to every human being before the march of progress turned everything into one sophisticated system that basically boils down legal arguments?  Technology is having an great impact on an industrial system that is fed by people who no longer remember the simple things that were erased and considered unproductive to our modern world.  The terrible 1984 vision of a dystopian system that watches everyone struggle for the soothing and simplicity of a time when we as free as the birds.  That nightmare has already been surpassed by an even greater system, and there was no one to stop it or change the direction of society into more meaningful and spiritual pursuits.  Then again, we’ve lived like this for thousands of years, and unless technology opens new doors to explore, we’re still stuck with the human problems that seem to be our lot in life.

Unfortunately, that is how we are born and raised, and we have little choice in the matter.  We don’t have alternative lives for the very nature of humanity’s progress seems linked with a communal system of hierarchical destiny; we’re born into wealth or poverty, and the gaps are growing daily.

People have reasoned out how a different world would work…a world of brotherhood and unity, trust and sharing.  Unlocking power from the natural world, propulsion, power, and infinite possibility would be the norm, discovery and reverence would become our faith.  Always mistrusting others would end, and a new sense of being would begin.  Together as a united species, humans could finally go where no one has gone, and we would go in peace.  We would be welcomed as brothers, not feared as savages.  If you’ve ever felt like there was more to life than what we see and hear, you’ve sensed the truth…a fact that permeates the past, the present and the future, as they can be one.  This great unknown in life will remain unknown until society coalesces and sheds its coats of greed, selfish isolation, and world view of war.

 

If this system didn’t incarcerate people into lives of predetermined careers or apprenticeships of slavery, an open system without mandatory rules and regulations would arise.  Great minds argued long ago that man needed guidance…a government of rules and laws that instructed him on what he could or could not do, for any open society would result in anarchy.  Some said there would be a great war of all against all; people would steal from each other without laws to obey and policemen to enforce them.  These are all great arguments for a structured system that tames the wild beast, but what happens when you finally have an educated society longing for freedom.  Individuals can be self-taught after a basic education when young; Wikipedia spits out the answer to any question, so why fill our minds with facts and data deemed important by some other great mind.

Allow a natural education to begin…knowledge of the world.  Like-minded souls find each other…magnets and iron.  The Maya and Inca possessed great understanding of the world, the hidden power hidden beneath their feet, and secrets for escaping gravity…how this happened is now unkempt and overgrown.  Perhaps there was a universal knowledge of the past, abilities of the extra, paranormal mind; ESP can control many things, if you know how, or are guided into an awareness of the truth that remains in all.  Mechanical systems with no moving parts are powerful devices that channel and contain; with no wear and tear, they can operate endlessly.  Unless the power is understood, is remains magic; certain people have evolved, their natural abilities enhanced, and they are tired of restrictive rules that are stifling the human race.

 

It’s time to open the door and get some fresh air…time to open the curtains and see the sunshine.

 

As the old and wise Solomon noted, life is vanity and striving after wind.

Vaults of Perception

We are all products of our own minds, yet we collectively participate in our private existence; in one way or another, humans all live similar lives, as we all live in an identical world.  Many contributors to certain lifestyles all “eat, drink, and be merry,” enjoying whatever personal traits allow them to embrace and enjoy, live and let live.

 

Endlessly orbiting, a world of dynamically engaging beauty, Earth is one of the preferred destinations in our galaxy.  A consideration of imagination, this is the outlook humanity takes to the cosmic view-port; without a full understanding of who or what could be nearby, our civilization adopts the arrogance of annotation, providing the history and screenplay for a short evolution of ten thousand years, barely enough time to learn to write, yet we claim a privilege we assume is ours because we are too short sighted to see beyond our atmosphere and peer into the true animation of the universe.

 

Our planet teems with life, yet we assume that life stops beyond planet Earth and doesn’t fill the entire cosmos with life.  Understanding the underpinnings of reality appears to miss the mark when our entire population is involved; over ninety percent of humans think the world is Coca-cola and Campbell’s soup; their outlook is hampered by an introspection that focuses on what’s personal and private…stifling the enlightenment that other’s see as the basis for serenity and wisdom.  The life of understanding and enlightenment involves a deep understand of the building blocks of existence, and how the thought processes of the initiated function and find what is important; an emotional love of all life is the prescription for cosmic consciousness, a fact that sadly only touches a small percentage of human beings.  The predictions of the pundits agree that a radical reduction in our population is necessary, and that the human existence will only flourish if contained by a one-world government…a system of life that is adopted by everyone on our planet, and a system that could be universal.  Ironically, until such awareness is achieved, that wisdom is only imagination and conjecture.  We need the science and technology to examine and understand how life, matter, biology and the elemental nature of our world fits into the grand design of creation.

 

Until our species has the ability to answer these questions we will remain in the dark about the light that animates the rest of the universe.  If we continue using systems that enslave the many to enrich the few, nothing great will be accomplished.  If humanity devotes all its mental prowess towards how to gain monetary and commercial wealth, it will never break the mould and achieve higher consciousness.  Until the tarnish that blots out awareness is eradicated, the doors of our perception will remain shut, and even the light that escapes the framework is a void we cannot detect nor sense.

 

 

Death of FEAR

Many life forms face extinction, and are often relocated to save the species; it doesn’t matter what they are or where they are taken…they only need a safe haven.  Earth’s oceans have saved alien life, as these unique life forms find the conditions they need to thrive, and the intelligent race that dominates the planet doesn’t know WHAT hides in its oceans.

Rescuing dwindling populations of any life form is a noble task; with many distant planets supporting ocean life, our abundant waters have saved many alien species from certain annihilation; once transferred from their homes, they find exactly what they need to live…oxygenated water, heat from deep ocean vents, seclusion, absence of predators, plus various food supplies–from bacteria to animal, Earth’s sea vibrate with life.  The extreme range of unknown and strange creatures in our fecund seas is so vast, it takes humans a long time to discover new creatures, and science sees that discovery as a new and unknown life form, and never an alien life.  Humans always employ Occam’s razor, making every explanation the most simplistic and easily explained.  Connecting a bizarre extremophile or unusual creature with dozens of Unidentified Submerged Object reports, (U.S.O.s), is a leap of logic frowned upon by humanity’s empirically based scientists.  Always taught that the easiest answer is likely the truth, people we rely on for advanced explanations have become blinded by this tendency to seek the obvious and ignore the extraordinary.  Accordingly, unusual lights/objects in our skies are dismissed as swamp gas, the planet Venus, and other, more down to Earth interpretations of the aerial phenomenons we call UFO sightings.

In some cases, it seems like the U.S. Air Force goes above and beyond to rationally supply reasons for incredible sightings in our skies that most open-minded people recognize HAVE to be intelligently controlled space craft from an unknown location; whether that craft originates from a nearby base or some distant galaxy if unimportant.  What matters is that many of these sightings can only be caused by a mechanical object that was constructed with superior materials and knowledge…a capability which relies on physics we know nothing about.  Yes, we really are that stupid.

Anyway, species that could be erased from existence unless given protection…might end up on Earth…advanced visitors could drop in and monitor the transplant, never be detected by the supposedly “superior” race on the planet, and easily match conditions on other worlds.  It’s also possible

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