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Why read…why expand your mind.  We all have questions, and we hope to find them somewhere, even by a chance read.

What if this has the answer you’ve always sought?  The solution to the conundrum that has eaten away at you for many many years.

Be good, help others, and do not consider yourself to be more than you should be.  Share with others what they don’t have and you own in abundance…this can be money or a kind word, as wealth is not always a monetary concern.

Sometimes, the right word can mean more than a fistful of diamonds.  The meaning of life has value, but the cause of your pain is personal and private…something only you can fix…perhaps the answer is in helping others without a second thought  to an overwhelming  ego that drowns you in a sea of selfishness.

Keep your life free from trouble and bite the bullet…there really is a better way, and a faith in the divine can produce  a positive nature that will carry you above life’s troubles…you shall mount up as if upon the wings of eagles.

 

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These words could be classified as opinion to some, a guide by others, or a lifesaver for the few. Many have read and tried the grandiose guarantees from magical success manuals—methods that promise to transform your life for the better. And, it takes a whole book to do so. If so bewitching and poignant, why do people forget the main premise, or overlook that punchy statement that changes everything. The one that offers a better strategy for using your knowledge. For everyone has their own education, a curriculum uniquely their own. Weak in some areas, but expert in others. Does it take a book to point that out to you? If I discovered a simple sentence to re-shape and revitalize my life, I’d memorize it…repeating it again and again, like a mantra to myself.

A single sentence of absolute wisdom, in crystal clarity, would be hard to forget—moreso, if truly wise, and entirely absolute. There are many books focusing on positive thoughts, but few ring and resound throughout a person’s mind. Ultimately, if their life can be turned around by this mystical phrase—they would shout and dance with that phrase falling from thieir lips and cavorting in their hearts. A mighty statement indeed, with the power to erase failure, croon success, and chant victory! What a miraculous string of positive words…or paragraphs. Or perhaps the whole chapter held the key!

People know when suffering depression, or feeling sad and lachrymose, it’s a good idea to get out and see the world: meet new people, talk with old friends, or do something to take your mind off whatever is troubling you. Frequently, it’s because of something nasty or mean someone said or did to discourage you. Don’t let them have any power over you. Thinking with a positive attitude is an accepted strategy for self-help. Natural endorphins can re-charge your inner batteries, stimulate certain areas in your brain, and like the Energizer Bunny, you’re be-bopping around in no time. People only have power over you if you give them permission; deny them that power, and start chasing your dreams. Don’t take anything personal…no one reads your mind, or knows the real you. Off-the-cuff comments are meaningless; like water, let them run off your back. Develop a strong back-bone, and believe in yourself. Nothing people do is because of you—it’s because of them. Never make assumptions; usually, they’re untrue, false, and cannot influence you, unless you give them power. Don’t empower them…ignore them. Only love puts you in a state of bliss; love everything, and nothing can harm you. Happiness is our lost paradise: Moses called it the Promised Land, Buddha called it Nirvana, and Jesus called it Heaven; mystics call it a new dream, or your personal realm of enlightenment. You can choose suffering, or complete happiness. To live in Heaven, or live in Hell. Pick your attitude; believe what you want, and forget what other’s want you to believe. What you truly believe makes you happy and full of joy, so don’t accept what other people think…that’s their problem, not yours.

True hope is a waking dream. Follow your dreams with confidence, in the direction you’ve selected. Live the life that fills your dreams, a life that brings happiness and inner peace. You have every right to dream heroic dreams. We grow great by dreams; notice that all great men are dreamers. Martin Luther had a dream…sadly, it’s still being fought over, but the positive power from his dream reshaped our notions of race and human equality. As wishes inspire dreams, so dreams inspire wishes. What is the difference? A wish is seen as an ethereal action with no substance, yet a dream contains a reality, but a reality that is reshaped into something good.

In dreams, we are true poets, true philanthropists, and full of love and charity; turning that into reality merely takes work, commitment, and determination. Go confidently in the direction of your dream and live the life you’ve imagined. You are the only one who holds you back. Hope is a waking dream, and your reality can be refocused, reshaped, and altered. We have so many great adages that all push us in the direction of that apple in our eye…the apple can be real, and it takes willpower and charisma. Some think they are without these qualities, but we need only believe in ourselves. If courageous enough, our dreams are great enough to change the future. They are goals to reach, milestones to pass; only through truth and effort will them exist. Stare deeply and fearless into that dream, and you will soon be dreaming dreams no mortal ever daring to imagine. There’s nothing like words to move a heart, yet confidence and faith are required to get up and start putting your wishes into reality. We must pursue the ineffable with effort, for from nothing will always come nothing…add action, and the world can be at your doorstep. It’s easy to say, but all we need is true faith and we start marching towards that wonderful horizon we see in our mind’s eye.

Whatever you’ve heard, whatever you’ve been told, there is nothing like the dream to build a new future. We grow through our dreams; what you’ve fantasized about in real life becomes alive in your dreams…everyone has the right to dream heroic thoughts. Follow your dreams, for as you dream, so shall you be. Think big, or stay home. Home is safe, but take fortune by the horns, and boldly take it where you want it to go. Unlike the endless reams of motivational sentences, this is succinct, and to the point. Hold on to your dreams; young or old, always dream, for dreams are what makes life challenging. Without challenge, we fade away, disintegrate, and cease to have a purpose. Hang on to your instincts…chase your natural intuitions and grow, for when you lose the desire to upgrade your outmoded mental software, you’re left in the dust, and sadness takes over.

Pursue your imagination, dream your dreams, as the dreamer, dreaming, dreamt. And forevermore, chart your desires, dream with all your heart, and grasp what you will. A dream is a phantasmagorical image, a picture from your soul, a vision of a future, a daydream of what you want from life. If your reverie stimulates your personal gumption and drive, focuses and orients your mind to the attainable, you search for that dream, with all your heart, all your soul, forever reaching, until you touch the untouchable. A poor man is not without a cent, but without a dream.

Go softly and surely in search of your dreams! Live the life you have imagined. Not the virtual video game version, the real McCoy. If your life is not what you’ve imagined, keep dreaming, keep track, and then walk the path to fulfill your imagination. There’s never been a more rewarding experience. Dream on. Almost sounds like a song…wait, I think it is one…sing it, and sing it with conviction and belief…only you know what you really want, so go out into that big wide world and find your little portion of heaven. Do not be afraid to put your dreams into action…once you’ve passed that hurdle, anything is possible.
thanks,
Fitz…www.saatchionline.com/Artidan, my art gallery, but lacking my newest art,
or newly out, @ artFitz – a new site in progress, as the artfitz name seems to ring…
check out http://www.createspace.com/5025327 – a book on the unknown
or my action and philosophical reality http://www.createspace.com/5080668 – finally edited and on sale.

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Marcel’s critical eye scanned the canvass. A homemade easel secured his painting at a rakish forty-five degrees. The background was spattered and roughly daubed in dusty lavender, accenting the random blue and red lines of various heights and lengths. His artistic eye probed the piece for that decisive coup d’oeil that would satisfy his artistic soul. This was how he finishing his abstract paintings. No one would notice any difference, but his artistic muse and inner Weltanschauung needed to be sated. Using a two-inch flat’s chisel edge, he added a straight line, blending the rough stroke with a fan brush. The purplish red complimented a series of similar slashes in the bottom corner. He felt an ethereal contentment that triggered a creative closure. The painting was concluded. His artistic essence was fulfilled; its form and function satisfied his strict creative principles. He would have to write another paper on form and function. He would share his unique insights with the uninformed masses that were unaware of the proper utility or art. Ravenous audiences could appreciate art with his inspired guidance. His convoluted thought process began to whir, as he scribbled a quick outline.

After capturing some brilliant insights, he got up and surveyed his work. The colorful mishmash of haphazardly placed lines atop the dappled background was agreeable. Everything seemed in proportion, and the finishing tangle of geometrically opposed lines seemed acceptable. He jotted down more notes about his methodology, adding them to a growing stack of notes on his creative processes. Writing, he believed, verbalized the artistic experience, and could teach a great deal. After he conducted his business at the bank today, he would finish the paper at once. Marcel’s apartment housed a great deal of writing, but it did not generate the paltry income his paintings received. His Magnum Opus was incomplete; when finished, it would reverberate throughout the art world and stun the ignorant critics. He was adamant that people that who enjoyed his art would agree with his opinions.

Mixing a watery black, he added his well-practiced signature. The buyer should be here with his cheque in an hour, and the quick drying acrylic would be dry in half that time. He hoped the man would show up; the money would help him pay his rent. The cramped quarters under the bar were dirty and rat-infested, but provided a base to promulgate his enlightened ideas the world desperately needed. Displaying his work near the Chicago Museum of Art, making a sale was always a financial juncture, as he was constantly on the move, being told to pack up and never come back. One day, he mused, my ideas and creativity will transform the art world.

The burdens of genius were onerous indeed. Strict bylaw governing sales without a vendor’s permit was a mere inconvenience. He could rant on about Van Gogh and the treatment of starving artist’s in general, but without a permit, the constables were limited in the leeway they could allow the poor artist. Explaining creative confluence, with the museum’s august location as its focal point, fell on deaf, bureaucratic ears. His overbearing attitude and promises to write scathing attacks upon the degeneration of society did not encourage pity.

His self-assurance predicted this misunderstanding would soon be settled. Upholding his principles and invaluable insights on the creative process would stand him in good stead when upscale galleries recognized his genius and clamored for the privilege to showcase his creative masterpieces.

His eye drifted back to his painting. The colors were soothing and peaceful. It was a creation he enjoyed. He did not want to venerate the piece. He was sufficiently detached from his useful handiwork; his creation could impress a viewer without disturbing his stubborn definition regarding the function of art. He adamantly endorsed Oscar Wilde’s view of art. Art is surface and symbol, and that it is the spectator, not life, that art really mirrors. He loathed pride and excess, believing that only humility could provide someone with an acceptable moral center. Like Wilde, he forgave a man for making a useful thing, provided he did not admire it: obversely, the only excuse for making a useful thing was to admire it intensely. All art is useless. Yes, he felt creating this piece propelled him to write a brutal attack on modern mores and aesthetic values. Like his art, they had become debauched. The world needed his advice to re-evaluate artistic values.

His significant daydreaming was interrupted by a knock on the cellar door. The buyer he thought, scrambling to the door. He had a subconscious fear that his client might change his mind. That happened to him several times. He threw open the door, and was relieved to find the well-dressed gentleman that commissioned liked one of his works, but asked if Marcel could change the background colors. He disliked customers critiquing his inspired work, but dismal circumstances taught him brilliance endures darkness before illuminate artistic appreciation. Also, money excused many mistakes. He greeted the man warmly, brush in hand, and returned to his easel.
“Come in Sir,” he said”, I have just completed your painting, and was taking in the overall influence the piece displays. It projects a warm, almost morally soothing ambiance, but that is just my impression. Come, come, have a look and tell me what you think.”
The tall stranger ducked under one of the ceilings many pipes, working around the clutter to catch the light from the room’s grimy window. He rested his chin on his hand and appeared lost in thought.
“Yes, I can see what you mean”, the man agreed, “it does have a somewhat calming affect upon you – I wouldn’t say it had a moral effect, but it does reveal a sense of ease. You used the colors I suggested beautifully. I like the way it demonstrates a warm and engaging situation that gives straight strokes a sense of vitality.”
He moved towards Marcel’s kitchen table and pulled out his chequebook.
“Indeed sir,” he continued as he filled out the cheque”, I’m so impressed with your work that I shall give you 100 dollars for the piece, not the five we agreed upon the other day.”
“Oh thank you sir”, bubbled Marcel”, that is most generous of you. I could tell you had a fine eye for artistic display. Perhaps I can interest you in some of the essays I have written on the nature of current artistic appreciation. Art, along with fine writing, are the two mediums we artists have that can shift emotions, even return a soul to its moral center. The great masters enthused viewers from bouts of bathos to the pinnacles of joy, captured by the aura their work aroused. Marcel held up a thoughtful finger, formulating the thoughts that were swirled about his cavernous mind
The stranger noticed he was preparing another long-winded speech and quickly interjected, “No, thank you, I quite agree, but that’s okay, perhaps some other time”.
Marcel looked down, his crushed soliloquy draining from some mental orifice, realizing his brilliant visions were sometimes hard to grasp in verbal form. “I’ll just shuffle off to my shipping department”, managing a grin,” and wrap up your painting”. He disappeared in a portioned area that showed the edge of a bed peeking out.
The stranger glanced around the dingy apartment, noting stacks of dusty printing paper and thick books crammed in any opening. A flood of brushes and paint surrounded the strange easel, the overflow contained in a circular area around the stand. Several finished paintings leaned against the wall. The rest of the residence was being slowly crushed by the weight of numerous alphabetized binders and precariously balanced paper towers. The wide kitchen table held a series that had some sort of order. Every inch of the place was multifunctional; the kitchen acted as paint station and canvass stretcher department. Everywhere showed the signs of writing, reading or painting. He imaging the bed was the shipping and wrapping department.

Prominently displayed on a blank wall was a three by two foot sign of black lamacoid with engraved white writing. It was a quote from somewhere, some tidbit of wisdom that Marcel obviously held dear. He quickly scanned it.

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression
of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.
This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful things mean only Beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rag of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity if opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital
When the critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.
The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
Oscar Wilde

The stranger saw the sign echoed the comments on life and art Marcel had enthusiastically explained when he first met him and bought one of his paintings. Indeed, this odd view of art and morality clearly formed Marcel’s inner core. He felt as if he had peeked into Marcel’s soul. Deliberately placed near the door, Marcel probably read this whenever he left this hovel. He looked around at the prolific stacks of essays. Long, pedantic inscriptions indicated theological and philosophical issues, with frequent references to modern morality. He noticed the source: a closet-like area embraced a rickety desk holding an ancient computer and ink jet printer. The painter would make an excellent subject for study.

He enjoyed a moment of detached anticipation; this guy was committed in more ways than one. Morality was a big part of his life. As the bubbly man returned, his now wrapped painting under his arm, an incisive gaze bored into Marcel, piercing his very essence.

“Here you are sir, Marcel exhaled, “not proportionally exact – Christmas and birthday presents were not my forte - but it is protected from the elements”.
“Thank you Marcel. I will enjoy it on many levels. I must take my leave now, I have much to accomplish by tomorrow.”
Marcel had hoped for more insightful banter, but was thrilled that the extra fifty dollars gave him more than enough for his rent. He could only hope this might become a repeat customer.
“As you wish Sir. Feel free to call on me again, or look for me around the museum sometime if you might want to make another purchase. Thank you, and I hope to see you again.”
The stranger paused as he opened Marcel’s door, and replied, “I’m sure you will see me again. I bid you good day.” The door closed, leaving Marcel with his swirling thoughts.
He did not feel like venturing out today, he had made the month’s rent, and sat down to write more on his great vision.
The stranger squinted in the bright sun, his eyes accustomed to the gloom of Marcel’s dingy basement. He walked towards his BMW chirping it as he juggled his keys and his new painting. Fitting the painting in his back seat, he removed a digital voice recorder from the glove box. “7 Oct. 2007, Marcel Dupris, psychotic schizophrenia. Believes he is a successful author and painter and collect assorted magazines that he imagines contain his writing, art critic reviews and other signs of success. Marcel is entrenched in this world of delusion and believes he will soon be given a showing at the Chicago Museum of Art. I discovered the subject selling his worthless art on the street and commissioned him for a piece. I confirmed my analysis when I picked up my “masterpiece” today. The subject is self supportive, self reliant and self deluded.

***Stranger is Dr. Victor Fiske, famous TV psychiatrist, who sees an unorthodox approach is needed to help Marcel. Perhaps hired by a rich family or friend of Marcel’s. He sets him up, then shows up at the station to explain that Marcel is his patient and is being treated for psychotic schizophrenia. The police release him into his custody and he explains that Marcel needed to be jolted out of his delusional writing and painting fantasy, that the magazines didn’t have articles by him and reviews about his art.
He will do a paper on him.

The next day broke sunny and warm. Marcel decided the grubby sunlight making its way past the built up dirt was inspiration for a new painting. Securing a new canvas to his homemade easel, he pondered the blank space for a moment then began mixing paints. After several hours, most of the background was sketched in, and Marcel had an idea for the overall painting. Noticing the time, he began to prepare himself for the trip to the bank.

Tells him what bank he uses and what time he likes to show up.

The old turn-of-the-century structure made a formidable bank.
He loved these old purposely-designed buildings; modern glass towers, in his artistic eye, were tasteless glass rectangles that projected height and size over form and function.

Tastefully chiseled in a neo-gothic style, the large granite blocks gave the building redoubtable dependency and impenetrable strength. It offered a perfect fortress to safeguard your money. Tom Surrey climbed the broad front steps, firmly stacked to support the bloated, beautifully fluted columns, thoughtfully carved in the Doric tradition. In his early art studies, he had studied classical sculpture and architecture, and appreciated the older sections of the city for its eclectic array of Victorian and other, more time consuming styles of construction. Minimalist towers of glass with no taste had replaced early aesthetics, the modern shrine of capitalism.

Tom eased into paycheck Friday’s lengthy line and leaned forward to grab a deposit slip. He had sold four paintings this week, an influx of cash that would help him barely meet the month’s rent.

A quick take on the crowd ahead of him reminded him he should have brought a book. Unlike other waiting rooms, the only reading a bank offered were glossy pamphlets advertising financial services for which he had neither need nor any money. Cashing several cheques was a lot easier when you could take your time and use the check counter. He fumbled for leverage as he used the back of his chequebook to write on. A quick head count confirmed he had not missed the lunch hour crowd. His watch read 11:45: the bank thought it was 11:58. Damn. He reset his watch. After finishing his deposit slip and signing his cheques, he fell into the watching game, guessing how long each customer would take.

He remembered the difference had something to do with the entablature at the top of the column. Some were plain, scroll-like or ornately carved. As an artist and old building enthusiast, he should study up on some of the city’s more colorful districts, the ones were he loved to go walking.

Ionic capital, column and entablature.
Doric: plain, first style.
Ionic: scrolls at the top
Corinthian: elaborate carving around top.
Gothic: elaborately carved, fancy flying buttresses etc.
Roman: arch, functional, solid.
Greek:

The soaring columns supported a stretched triangular frieze.

Chiseled granite blocks showed neo-gothic accents and regal Ionic columns.

A man that hand him a zippered leather folder joins him in line. He does not return. When John gets to be third in line, he opens the heavy folder to see if it is a gold brick or rolled change. He puts his hand on the handle of a gun. Fingerprints are now only his.
There are two letters. One to him, telling him to rob the bank, or be shot by the brown car he can see parked in front of the side door. The other letter is to be given to the teller and instructs her to lead him to the end of the counter and open the small door and lead him into the vault. He is to fill the case with the bundles of fifties on the shelf, have the staff lie on the floor, and lock the vault as he leaves, gun in hand. He is to then get into the car with the stranger.

The stranger is a robber, but a psychological nut who likes to push people to their moral limit and see if they will rob the bank or risk getting shot, or getting caught with all the evidence leading to him. The stationary is from his apartment/studio, printed on his printer, and probably has his fingerprints or other incriminating mark, and other personal trace evidence planted there by the robber.
His choice is to rob and leave with the guy, or shout out and hit the floor, in which case the robber would just drive away-it would be his word against the evidence…maybe he does that and gets thrown in jail, as the police find a plan written on his computer that shows he might not have the nerve to carry it out.
So, either he robs the bank, or gets set up and sent to jail for attempted robbery and conspiracy.
If so, he gets a letter from the guy at the end explaining why, or a visit or something.

Have it a surprise ending, like he yells about the guy in the car that is not found, but goes to jail when the police find all the evidence against him

Or, the guy calls his cell phone and tells him to do it or face the consequences…and just tells him he will go to jail, that he’s arranged everything so all he can do is go through it, get shot if he leaves, or goes to jail if he yells frame up.

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NEAT line OPENERS

Ultimately, you are what you believe. Questions hold half the answer. To question is to explore; recitation, while somewhat trustworthy, doesn’t explain the quotation. True understanding can create alternative answers, all relevant to the question, but demonstating there is more than one solution. Truth will stand on its own; impervious to alternative answers, able to withstand an examination of past convictions, producing an assurance of the moral imperative at the very core of our soul.

It can be a figurative slap in the face, to finally understand what you have become; something that you detest, something you are inherently ashamed of and something that rebukes your inner soul. These are discoveries that enhance depression, further an already burning hatred of yourself and don’t give you that necessary pat on the back you need to help you combat the world and become tough enough to withstand the ups and downs of everyday life.

To push through and become what you respect is a prerequisite for positive growth; an upbeat attitude will get you through the day and give you the foresight to plan a future you can live with. Self-respect and fortitude are essential traits to really change your personal outlook on life in general. To enjoy life, smile at the sun and have a spring in your step are the little things that help you appreciate your day; obversely, lingering doubts and a constant wariness of your environment complicates life and enjoy the present, and hopefully plan your future. Post Tramautic Stress hit when you least expect it, and can intantly ruin an otherwise plesant day.

When today’s troubles are overwhelming, when life itself is an unpleasant chore, foreseeing a happy existence is dubious, and carefully laid plans seem like uncertain attempts to accomplish a goal that is unattainable. Today needs a cause; tomorrow a future. You see your future as a continuation of past mistakes: life becomes a tumultuous merry-go-round of despondency, a state of progressively painful emotional torture that becomes horror without end, precursors of an ultimate and inevitable horrific end. To worry over tomorrow is an unwelcome burden, for today’s troubles are sufficiently troublesome in themselves. Your life generates a sense of hopelessness that never leaves – a recurring, doleful nightmare from which you never wake, so absorbing it mingles with your overall outlook and sense of reality.

Ultimately, depression and fear control your life, while happiness and joy are abstract concepts enjoyed by other people – people with families, people with jobs they love, people that have a full and happy life. I’ve become an observer, someone that can only watch a joyous crowd, while vicariously experiencing the good things in life…the things you want but have sadly passed you by.

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The pharmaceutical industry makes an exorbitant amount of money on brand name drugs. After proprietary patents run out, the rest of the drug companies can make their own generic brand of the drug, using the formulation of the original research company. The way things stand, the research company gets to market its drug at an inflated cost for up to fifteen years, recouping the research dollars, they put into the development of the drug, and then the drug becomes available in a generic version. The generic version is generally 50% cheaper than the original.
 
The Ontario government suggests some changes to this time honored and carefully controlled market. They suggest generic drugs should be available for 25% of the initial brand name drug cost. This upsets the old boy network of pharmaceutical sales – BUT would greatly help the consumer and put less of a strain on health care costs.
 
If they are going to change the system, they might as well make some more changes that seem inevitable. Drug stores complain about the amount of money they can make: they have a set rate of eight+ dollars to fill a prescription, plus the mark up they add to the price of the drug. The bottom line should be how could we reduce the amount of money a sick person has to pay to stay healthy. And drug stores should lead the way.
 
Pharmacies would never willing give up that “eight dollar dispensing” fee, but when the entire process is looked at in a modern, more productive light, certain inevitabilities are exposed. Why do we need a person to count out individual pills: this is a less sterile environment, the pills are subjected to human contaminants and any airborne contaminants in the store, plus human error when counting drugs. I’ve personally received incorrectly processed prescriptions. When you pay for 120 pills, the only way to know there are 120 pills in a hand-counted pill bottle is to count them. I sometimes divide my pills in half, and have found shortfalls over 20 pills. This becomes a real problem when you bring it under sight to a pharmacy’s attention. You’ve paid for the full dose, and they claim they’ve given you the full dose, but you only received 100 pills. It your word against theirs, and no one ever wants to admit to an error.
 
Standardization in manufacturing would end this problem, ensure the drugs are counted under sterile conditions and make sure the amount is computer checked. Certain drugs are always prescribed by doctors in standard doses: it’s a redundant system that costs the consumer too much money.
 
It makes too much sense, which is why it will be a long time before they surrender that old method of making money. Everyone talks about modernization, but it runs into roadblocks when old money making schemes are threatened with new, safer and cheaper solutions.

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Like any business, artistic value depends on promotion, style and recognition.  Unfortunately, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and new art relies on critics, galleries and “experts”, to gain popularity.  If it is beautiful to look at, it could take years before it becomes worth anything.  I’ve been told my art surpasses some of the new art styles, but I still need that “provenance” to be recognized and appreciated. This is like being “recognized” as an unknown talent, even if there is no talent there.  A picture with 3 stripes just doesn’t seem like art, but after someone promoted the artist, the painting had an $8,000.00 price tag.  Well, nothing in life is fair.  You need luck, and lots of it.  Knowing the right people helps; it applies to jobs, opportunities, glory and fame, and, of course, the chance to make a lot of money.  Check out http://www.spoiledink.com/danae

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In 1880, the philosopher Thomas Malthus made a prediction that is now affecting our society in ways he couldn’t foresee, but are eeirily similar to his general theory on population control.  When you remove war, plague and other problems, population growth will skyrocket, unless a natural disaster occurs.  Taken alone, this is an excellent argument for space colonization and exploration.  We need to re-examine what is important in life, and put the world’s fabulous wealth to work on it.

Malthus theorized that population growth would soon overwhelm the planet’s resources, then overused and depleted resources would be insufficient to supply the world; therefore, people would die off.  He calculated that technology and resources expand arithmetically, but people grow geometrically.  Geometric growth is the old double a dollar trick: if you take a dollar, then double it, double it again, and keep doubling it everyday, you would have over a million dollars within a month.  It’s a straightforward mathematical progression, and when applied to our population, it’s easy to see that there will be too many humans for this Earth to sustain if we keep increasing our population the at the current rate.  Longer life through better medicine adds to the problem.  Here’s how it applies to literature and writers. 

In the Victorian age, there were a great many readers, and every writer, if they were able to create something worth reading, would stand a good chance of being published.  Today, there are thousands of writers out of work, just because publishers are inundated with manuscripts and have the luxury of selecting only the very best.  It could be argued that some of the so called “great” writers of the past wouldn’t stand up to the numerous rejection slips every author receives before someone decides to take a chance and publish their book.  There are many other reasons the Victorian age produced so many new ideas and so many new authors, but the main reason was an empty playing field, and an audience thirsting for new and bizarre ideas.  Now the playing field is packed, the benches and stadium  crowded, along with the dressing room and the parking lot.  It’s hard to find an original idea that is truly unique, because with so many minds thinking of every permutation and every twist and turn, it is hard to come up with something fresh and original.  Some say that’s why
Hollywood does so many re-makes of old ideas.  With so many people writing free blogs, or publishing their stories for free on certain websites, it’s hard to get a publisher to pay good money for a story.  That is, if they actually get a frustrated talented author to withstand the long wait lists and offer a story that is fresh and interesting.  It really begs the question, why do we read what we read.  Will anyone ever read this?  Chances are, with the countless, unknown and possibly excellent blogs clogging the internet, no one ever will.  People read less books today.  TV and the internet changed the dynamics in ways we are still studying.

Another factor is society’s overall success and increasing level of education.  To get a half decent job, you need education.  Today, it is quite common for someone to possess B.A., Master’s Degree or PhD.  That means a greater proportion of our society can write, and write well.  With a hulking pile of unread and well written manuscripts clogging an Editor’s “in basket”, it’s quite possible that some of the well known writers of the past would not be published today.  Perhaps their story lacks sparkle, their writing style is trite and outdated, or the author couldn’t deal with the countless rejection slips that are now part of the job.  Based on this, what was published in the past might not be published today.  A loss to literature?  Not quite.  We have literature coming out our ying-yang, and a book about talking animals discussing their political situation, although clever and satirical, doesn’t sound like a real page turner.  Sorry George Orwell, but Animal Farm might not pass muster and end up in some rejected file.  Possibly.  Television, radio and the Internet are changing our society in ways that will not be fully understood until some future date.  Perhaps when sociologists have had the time to read everything and make an original conclusion.  

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