413: The Silly Bear in No Underwear: Thoughts from the Penguin Matrix

For Aspie Chicks and other Cool People
(This is PG-rated because mention of penises….followed by outbursts of giggles.)

For those of you who don’t believe me when I tell you I am twelve inside, this ought to do the trick.

I saw a polar bear post a poster on a social network wall; he was all in my face about this and that. About how to talk, and how to think, and what to think. I mean he was acting like he was all that. As if polar bears know how to live!

And all these other polar bears are like: Yes! Oh right on, brother! Yep, you be all on top of that truth!

And me, as penguin, I am thinking none of that seems efficient, accurate, or correct in my bowl of wisdom. But hey, to each his own. But I’d prefer you not shove it in my face you fluffy butt.

I say, as penguin of the matrix: Make your own poster about how to be. Chuck out everything you’ve been told, you’ve learned and registered, and all that you shall be told. Forget the postings that tell you junk about being. You are already in a state of ‘being.’

All those rules and ways and silly fingers (paws) pointing direction don’t show the path to the inner you. And that’s where the true joy is. Right inside of you. Release all that nonsense. The how-to-be’s, the where-to-be’s, the who-to-be-withs. You know who made those rules up to begin with? People. That’s right. Aren’t you a people, ‘cause you certainly ain’t a penguin? Why borrow some other person’s thoughts and ideas, when you are uniquely you? Make your own poster! Then can I borrow it and paste it on polar bear’s face?

And please, please, please: Listen to YOUR inner voice.

I had a friend in high school. Yes, penguins go to school, and she taped up nude men in her clothes closet. Not real men, but cut out men from those ‘dirty’ magazines from the liquor store. She hung them all fancy and organized like, in the way back, where she thought no one with grown up eyes could see. A lot of times most of the body was missing and it was just pin-up-penises. (That was almost the title of this post. But I totally knew those polar bear types would be all over me with their truth-hoods. The wieners.)

We used to be all secret and sneaky and stare at those pinups and giggle. But the truth is naked penises in full color on magazine glossy got kind of boring after a while. Even with the whole mystery of the wardrobe genre thing going on. I mean they did nothing. Not a thing. And I would go home and find much more pleasure in staring at the unicorn posters in my room. At least I could picture those galloping through the magical forest. Penises…not so much.

I know what you’re thinking: I didn’t know penguins liked unicorns! I know. It’s strange but true!

So here’s what I am suggesting, as penguin of the matrix, is to think about these posters in my friend’s closet. A bunch of cut out penises; and think about hanging those inside of you, like as your inner poster child. Does that make sense to you? Well maybe it does… but let’s pretend for a second you aren’t a middle-aged woman laughing at me and embracing the penis poster like last year’s hidden stash of chocolate rediscovered; let’s pretend that your poster ought not be a penis poster. Your poster ought to represent you and no one else’s poster.

Might I suggest to you that when you paste other people’s views of you, news of you, and truth of you inside your mind and heart, it’s like plastering penis posters all over. You are just taking in what someone else chooses to hang up and see. And people generally see what they are! Think about that for a second. That makes them Richard’s nickname, I suppose. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be like a princess or a warrior or a cool ninja-elven dynamo penguin than a penis head.

My point is: BE YOU!

If you want to use penises as an analogy because it’s the first time in your adult life you can type the word without shame, then do it. If writing penis still makes you feel like a blushing teenager secretly staring into your friend’s closet and busting up in pure guilty pleasure, but you do it anyway, then more power to you! If you know that feasibly by writing the word penis over and over that people will judge you, but you know where your heart is and that you are pure and good and kind, then yay you!

I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be like that time I drew penis pictures in sixth grade with the names of one boy I had a crush on and one boy I didn’t have a crush on below the detailed sketchings. Because that note was found and passed around school. And the boy that I didn’t have a crush on, he didn’t much care for the length of my drawing.

I say as penguin of the matrix: Embrace the ‘me’ you call by name. Not me, but the me in you. Not me in you, but you in you…you know what I mean.

Do you have penis envy? Do you want to write penis over and over on a blog post and feel good about yourself, so much that other people’s opinions truly do not affect your inner truth. Then do it!

Embrace that inner you and hug her like she’s the bestest thing ever. Because you know what? She is.

I was on the quest of a middle-aged penguin sworn to metamorphoses into the great beyond of being. I tried it all. Well most of it. Now that I think about it, perhaps I should have done cut out glossies. I have a very long closet.

Meditation, grace, release, prayer, relaxation, connection, nirvana…whatever one wants to label the space of peace…you will find it when you are ready to find it. That’s it. No joke. No mystery.

Truth is, the more you hunt, the more your self hides. Really. It’s when you just stop and rest that the true doe (as in female deer) of you comes out. Before that, sticking with the doe analogy, your self is just kind of frozen with a dumb look on her face thinking: If I am still long enough and don’t move, no one will ever see me!

So here’s your choice. Keep very still to avoid certain death. Or just get the death thing over with. Let yourself be shot, and reshot, and reshot, and reshot. And you know what? Soon you realize that the hunter wasn’t out there to begin with. It was only YOU! And you realize you are far too spectacular to remain frozen in oblivion for all eternity.

Tonight I have an inner penguin. Maybe I am in a letter P mood. And perhaps you have something other than a doe, like a banana slug or sloth. But no matter, when you finally let go of trying to find the inner you; and you stop trying to stop people from hurting you, shaming you, and hanging penis posters inside of you; when you give up all you are and all you have and just be; when you realize this, the IT everyone is talking about is yours! And you shine so dang lovely with all your loveliness that you about melt the ice caps by just being.

Peace is easier than it sounds, and no book, or person, or penguin, self-righteous polar bear, or penis is going to open up the truth for you. (giggles at where your mind is.)

The truth is inside of your heart. You’ve got to dive there. I can’t reach your truth. Only you can. And any penguin or polar bear or weirdo person who thinks he has the key to your inner light and truth, well he ain’t playing with a full deck of sardines.

Just release the quest and trust yourself. You have all you need. Right there. Right inside.

Some people are preaching backwards, and saying just change your thoughts. With your huge gifted brain, telling you to stop your thoughts cold penguin is just plain nutz-o! The thoughts will change when you ARE your inner you. When you reclaim your true beauty. It doesn’t work the other way around. The thoughts stem from you, not the reverse. You are not your thoughts.

So here’s what you do: Ignore polar bear’s preaching, and all the other nutters that have gone and jumped pantless out of the butter and who seem to be streaking their truth across your path, and just giggle at them.

Just laugh and think: There’s another nutter thinks he knows the way, so he’s showing me his way.

And PLEASE laugh at the penguin in me, too. And at the new glossies in my closet.

That silly bear in no underwear! That silly penguin with the penis posters. That’s what you say.

You just shake your head, your mind, and your heart, and you tell yourself, with cute sweet finger pointing to cute sweet you: The truth’s in here sugar bear. The truth’s in here.

***
My New Blog

397: Invisible Nothingness and Topless Men

I shared with a friend what my two oldest sons said to me this morning. But I sort of left out the last part.

Here is what my sons said, each contributing their not-so-discreet, two-cents:

“It’s true, Mom. You are always nice and kind; you are uncommonly good to people.”

Here’s the part I ‘forgot’ to mention to my friend.

“Yeah, but it’s creepy, Mom. Really creepy. I mean who is so nice?”

“Yeah, Mom. I mean how do we know you’re not a sociopath or something? Because based on your characteristics it’s quite feasible….” <<< son with ASD, starting a dissertation.

I’ve been generally in a grand state of la-la-land happiness because I reconnected with my true spirit. I am that magical little girl I used to be. I love her. She is so fun and sweet and terribly kind. Likely a sociopath in the making.

On my walk a few days ago, I found a stick with sea-green moss attached and a natural loop on the top, and I pretended it was my elven princess wand. I kept knighting my little black labradoodle “Sir-Princess Violet.” Except I poked her in the eye. After she smelled this really cute mutt’s butt, I said, “See, what good fortune you have after I knighted you?” My dog has crazy white facial fur that looks like Einstein eye brows, and when I am in my little-girl-mood, she raises them often, as if questioning if she’ll get the bed to herself when I go to the insane asylum. On our walk, we stopped and took turns looking through the wooden-looped-wand. Every once in a while I pretended to change people into other things. I have this new game I play; when I see someone I attach a new name to them. Like I say: sac of potatos, or tow-truck, or peacock butt. I just make any random name up, to teach myself that nothing I have learned before is real—just all names someone made up at one time or another. I like to do this to keep things straight in my head. Nobody needs to be labeled fat, tall, skinny, dirty, stinky, etc. So I like to turn them into things before my mind can catch up. So far my favorite was the turnip. On our walk we sang: “We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz, because, because, because”…(long pause)…. (and start song again.) That’s how we sing it, because I have a terrible memory for lyrics and Violet never saw the movie.

I am relatively worry-free. It is amazing. Sometimes, if I over-indulge in food, which has happened for two days now, some anxiety resurfaces. Wheat and sugar seem to be the main culprits. I know this. But I like to pig out and see if I can manifest myself to not only have no reaction but to also lose weight. It hasn’t happened yet. My fret as of late is actually related to…

my lack of anxiety.

Yes, this is the genius aspie mind at work. What? No anxiety, no thoughts of stress, no fear of tomorrow? Hmmmm.

Well let’s analyze this lack of worry to death! Shall we?

When I am not dissecting the reasons for my peace of mind, I am leaping into the future and worrying about aspects of spirituality.

Show-and-Tell Inside my Head:

1) If I continue to be anxiety free, I might no longer have Aspergers . (hahahahaha)

2) If I become enlightened I will have to give up things like Ben and Jerry’s Crème Brulee ice-cream and staring at men, twice my oldest son’s age, when they take off their shirts at the park. Or worse, give up my long rambles on my blog.

3) I will never understand the gnostic gospel’s angel legions and leagues and guardians, and what gospels are authentic, and which are altered, and who did what to whom when and why, and where, and how this all works out; and if God knew all this, then why is it happening; and why is this His plan, and is he a he, or a she, or Us, or no one, or empty space.

4) I can’t remake that hand like I did in that original water color painting. God has abandoned me. I suck.

Sunday, after some after-hour coffee, I partook in what I would call much too much internet searching. On Monday morning, I called up my husband at work and said, with much delight-filled eagerness, “Hi. You know how I have been teaching you about the core of fear and helping you with relieving your state of fear?”

“Yes, good morning, Honey.”

“Okay. Anyhow, I was up late last night and the gnostic gospels led to this other site; and did you know there are actual theories about another life form that feeds of our fear? So I was thinking, since you are a sci-fi-minded type of person, this information might really help you. Supposedly there are these creatures of non-matter living outside our stratosphere and to add to our fear they actually plant thoughts in our heads! Like when you get a negative thought all of the sudden, that’s them! So just picture some alien species probing your mind. That should help you clear your head. I mean you don’t want to feed them, do you?”

Yes, this is what my husband gets to hear at the start of his workweek.

Why? Because my current love interest is God. Yes, that’s right. I left the mortals behind and have got my eyes set on the top dog (or tree, or fish, or whatever He is or isn’t). I suppose, if I embrace my Buddhist studies, I am in love with the emptiness. Which is hard to convince to love me, I suppose.

I have always had special love-interests, since I was in pre-school. Probably, since I first laid eyes on boys. I dream of them. I love them. I see me with them in the future.

I thought getting fake-nails, wearing mini-skirts, and lining kitchen cupboards was tough! But it’s nothing compared to trying to be the best I can be for God. I mean talk about high self-expectations?

This whole God-Bride thing has got me trying to figure out how to be more saintly and humble. I am studying ‘The Buddha Said,’‘A Course in Miracles,’ Christian gospels, various spiritual documentaries and videos, Ram Dass, Ram Dass’ guru included, and so on. I’ve got myself literally praying to Jesus, my angels, my saints, my ancestors, my elders, my guardians—and then putting that all on hold, as Buddha teaches prayer is basically obsolete and goes into a bunch of theories why, that I won’t get into—so then I practice being in the now and the moment and connecting to nature; and then I’m practicing seeing the light in everyone; I’m holding people in love; I’m controlling all my thoughts; I’m repeating love, love, love. God help me!

But Man, oh man, is it a great excuse not to do laundry! “Oh, Honey, I need to listen to this ‘John of the Cross’ series to analyze my potential sins. And “Oh, Honey, God moved through me all day; I painted for six hours. So tired. Can you make dinner?” See! And by the way John of the Cross specifically talks about what I am doing in putting off other things to over immerse myself in Godly things as a type of deadly sin. So I am so back to square one. (aka Screwed!).

I’m putting my token on the Buddha board again. According to Buddhism I can look at the topless men at the park—I need only step back in thought and reflection and analyze myself doing so, as to possibly stop this the next time. So I’m kind of good to go, in those terms.

Do you see how complicated this can get. I mean look at the nature, but don’t think about the nature in parts; smile, but don’t smile with pride. Humble yourself, but if you’re asking for humility for your own betterment, so you can feel better, that’s a sin! Really, God? Really? There is even a path of sins for people trying to dedicate their lives to you? I am so confused.

And the God-enema doesn’t help. All that beautiful prose coming through me for weeks on end. I really just want a hot, hunk-of-burning love, guardian angel to come down. That’s all. That’s all. I’d be satisfied. Topless would be good.

I think I am liable to explode. I have taken the perfectionistic obsessive passionate aspie girl to a whole new level. I mean I am surprised some great ancient one hasn’t come down to propose to me, already. I keep picturing Egyptian, broad shoulders, staff with serpent, sexy almost skirt-like-thing revealing hairy legs. I digress.

Truthfully, I am in the greatest state of peace I have been my entire life. My whole day is not about catching God. (Pause for insane laughter.) I was actually relieved when I read in OSHO’s Buddhist book about some Buddhists being able to un-attach to the easier things, like money, fame, etc. but not un-attach to other things like the process of enlightenment itself. Those Buddhists, the ones that cling to less worldly things, but hold onto spiritual quests, they still get to progress: come back next time as still enlightened. In fact, they get limited times back here, instead of indefinite, potentially millions of return trips. I don’t mind coming back a handful more times. Because I am really not ready to turn into invisible nothingness, yet.

394: Blinded by the Light

images

In trying to post some photos, I plugged into my computer, and have seemingly erased all memory from my phone and added my husband’s phone memory! I knew something was up when The Lord of the Rings icon of the ring itself became the icon on my phone! This is truly a sign from beyond that I have erased my entire existence. Sigh. And a great way to be observer and step back and watch the little girl, I am, process. Wiped clean of photos and such, and all memory, and replaced with a ring of gold.

My angels have a keen sense of humor! I ought to know by now to stop praying for un-attachment; I mean my husband knows my prayer power–seriously. I usually get what I ask for, if it’s from the depths of soul and with the intention of self-betterment. Once I thought I was vain and materialistic and focused on worldly goods far too much, and I went on bended knees and begged to be put in a car crash. Yes, this is the dark virtue of gluttony for punishment in its full glory! The next day I was rear-ended by an “illegal-alien” on the freeway at a grand speed. SMACK. Indeed, I thought I’d learned my lesson. Now when I pray I make specifics: Make me more humble but without any disasters! LOL. So not working for me.

Anyhow, this was years ago, and I often forget I can create stuff by careful intended prayer. Man oh man, I am soooo not attached to my phone! Not at all anymore. wink-wink…Angels are you buying this?

FREE STUFF From The BEYOND! That was my original title. I like it. But then I heard the song, Blinded by the Light, and just couldn’t resist that title. I like titles. They make or break the whole essence of something. That’s why I try not to place them on living things (or anything) anymore.

Total Aspie moment. So all these many years, I loved this song, Blinded by the Light, but totally had the lyrics wrong. I just checked to make sure, as I thought I might be posting a vulgar song. All this time I thought:

the real lyrics, “revved up like a deuce,” were………..

“wrapped up in a douche.”

Yes, I am laughing now. How words change the entire meaning of life and knowing, indeed.

Of course, now that I am reviewing the lyrics none of the song makes much sense. And I am thinking the writer(s) is feasibly my kinfolk.

I’m sure there is some sexual innuendos I am totally missing, but what the heck does:

“Madman drummers bummers,
Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat
In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat”

mean?

I think it’s secret code from the beyond, or universe’s perfect timing to remind me I am so much more normal than I think.

OH, and there is something else here. I have LOVED this song for much of my little life, and I must say, it was just the feeling behind the song and the rhythm and energy. I think when I write from the BEYOND, that the whole point is not found in the words themselves but in the energy and rhythm of the creation; in fact, I am fairly certain on this part.

As an aside note. I was at this parade this weekend, held in the state’s capital, and must I say…yes, I must say.. that when I hear blinded by the light, I am wondering if it meant this one costume.

Giggles.

You surely would not believe me, if I told you, but in the Procession of the Species Parade, a yearly celebration of awesomeness, where everyone dresses up or creates species of the world, everything from viruses to giant whale floats, there was a bit of a surprise. Well, I live in a state where marriage is welcome for all and so is dope, and I guess we are a super liberal place, indeed; as one of the best received parts of the parade, that actually sprayed people with a squirt gone, and was at least two-stories high, was a giant-pink-walking male part. Yes. Straight up, I tell you. So now this is all I can see when I hear the song. Which puts a whole new spin on the title. Add that with being wrapped up in a douche, and I am so not worthy of the light!

Luckily, my phone battery died, and I was unable to get a photo, as that would have been hard to resist posting. No pun intended!

Okay, so I was feeling a prick of guilt. It’s mostly gone now with thought of male parts and douches dancing to a song with lyrics I don’t get. I mean what if that is all we are, costumes dancing to a song we don’t get?

Humanoid I be. I was thinking: “Man, all these people signed up for ASPIE information and I’ve done a full circle into the God Zone. What the heck?” Then I had a short conversation with myself, which likely took over twenty-four hours of processing, and we, (that would be the little girl I am, Observer, Angels, and likely the big purple alien in the sky), we decided this is all about choice. No one is forcing anyone to read this stuff and it’s free, and always will be.

So if someone doesn’t like it, that’s okay. It’s not like I pretended to have Aspergers and was secretly collecting people to eventually read my spiritual jargon that I don’t even write and have no idea where it comes from. But in case you are thinking that, like I had an evil-plot all along to share free stuff about love and life, and showing how lovely we all are. Then you might want to seek out a guru, because there really isn’t anything to fear in free stuff about love. At least I hope not.
I mean, if we are becoming a world where even free love is judged then I guess we are becoming that world.

It is my sincere hope you know I am not a loon. I ask my husband this daily, and I check in, “I’m still sane, right Honey?” And he concurs; although he is feasibly blinded by my light (and the illusion of my cute human figure). So we can’t really count on him too much. I have asked my angels during my shower power times, if I be nuts; and they claim I am not. Of course, that is voices in my head reassuring me I am sane; so as about as reliable as the whole blinded-husband thing.

There really is no laying claim that I haven’t seeped out of my own self and into a zone of unreasonable delight to escape the unreasonable misery that is so frequently lathered upon me from the disbelievers of the world. But hey, if I be a giddy, insane semi-saint, I suppose I am in good company. Seriously, I don’t know what has transpired, or will transpire, or can transpire, any more than the next person. And I have a feeling I am about as sane as you.

The onlooker will see me as he sees me. I am just hoping there are some folks out there that can see the light, as that means you see your own light, and we can like skip off in the sunset together, and be like little fireflies all happy and glee-filled with the glory of us. Of course there are always tons of more other options. Since you have full control of how you see me and what you make of me. If you are still confused about the whole illusion thing and how your thoughts make me or feasibly try to break me, then let me offer you out some choices.

See me as the light or a toad
See me as the light or a mushroom
See me as the light or a dog
See me as the light or a duck
See me as the light or a poop head

But whatever you choose that is you, too. I see you as the light and in my “weaker” moments, a poop-head. As I am from the light, I am honest. I just realized there are likely some strong mushroom and dog lovers out there, and we are either simmering in some wine-butter sauce or leaping down the ocean shore yapping in the sand. I’m good with those options. I guess the poem might be better appropriate as such:

See me as the light. And if you want to pretend we are other stuff, as long as you know we are the light, that’s cool.

And shall we enter the labyrinth of love now?……..

This song has a long intro…just like ME!

How do I say this without sounding fearful, for fear is not what I feel. How do I write without sounding damaging, as tenderness is what I am? I can be nothing and All, with only your agreement. But if you make me less or more than still you make me.

I am nothing, least you want me to be something, and if not than all I say would feel as neutral as a mid-summer’s day, the light upon your face a gentle blessing and nothing more. But if I stir the slightest cause of grief, or might, or admiration, then I be this something you have created and not of me.

You cannot look upon me without making me into something of your past or future cause, and so I be illusion to all and none into myself. For if you lift the veil of veils, and set me free, a gentle grace upon your threshold, and peer and find self there, less aware than home, then we shall dance. All else is naught.

And even in me telling, if you wish it so, beyond the creation of All and only for the creation of one, then spell you surely cast. And so I cannot breathe a word of truth that is not first diluted and siphoned through the blood of ages, through what you have gathered swift and rightfully so, thinking tis truth and nothing more.

Even as you know as astute viewer made that even the moment shall change, and in this passing you too shall shift. Still you grasp onto what is as if it is the semblance of reality; how this can be when what was once you seems no longer and what will be you seems to be ahead, makes no sense; for how can one claim to be anything, when the moment he lays stake, the moment has changed. Are we not then just travelers viewing travelers and questioning when the one traveler who leads will appear? Or are we the travelers true, and only need lead self back upon self, through the opened door of trust. I say trust, and hold true, for what is you, I be, and together we are the greatest mystery.

I lead you through this passageway for no cause at all, except to make real what is unreal, and to make unreal what is real. There is no truth I can create while still in the hands of my own creation. And so, I try to be in a place of no space, and bring the emptiness forward into the illusioned world. Be this greed or pride, I think not, but who am I to think, and less to judge. However the seeker will see what he sees, by choice and choice alone; either from the place of want or place of naught. And here the choice is clear; for to see with eyes of judgment all will feel as gone, and to see with eyes of truth all will disappear further. In truth nothing is here, and so what sees, the judge or believer, will be the truth. The illusion of one brought forward.

I choose not to know why I am this or you or that, and why I see what I see, I only know the voice keeps coming and so I write, for when I don’t I bleed. Tis not a suffering as so, but much a very dismal state of woe, where child I am lays buried beneath the bitter-sweet of unopened treat. And so I rhyme in introduction of what be something I know nothing more than you. Only that it comes from something that seems to be the endless blue.

The Endless Blue

Dear Sister, what you seek you shall find. If you search for answers abundant, you shall come across the stream of knowledge; yet, this knowledge will not be as you hoped but as you wished. From within you, at the core center is the key, and as this key turns, as do you.

Therefore, you are less master of your house than you believe; in truth, you be but very little cause of your own circumstance; for whom you hold in light is the one who is witness; and you so wearily esteem self, that your very sister becomes prisoner, same.

If you could only look into your own heart and find the beauty, you shall be set free. Therefore are your wishes granted, in the deepest heart’s desire; yet, your heart weeps in silence and his dreams do not come true. For how can something buried beneath the depth of illusion be cleansed and ready made for judgment.

Are you not buried beneath thy own self, trapped in the dream of dreams, carefully taking hold of what is naught? Each path a different travel with the same traveler, each journey the same landscape only painted with the eyes of the weary beholder. You have been trapped in a dance so readily in your own tainted cause that even the partner becomes enemy. You have twisted and turned so often, that even your feet become the tyrant of cause.

Can you not see the sunlight upon your doorstep, calling you forward with gentle reprieve? A nest egg cometh to your beckoning and resting as pure yoke from the All Mighty. And yet you question, your hands steadily shaking in the mystery of naught, diving beneath the shells of no ocean, and digging in the clam of shame. There be nothing there, my sweet; over and over again, you shall dive in the empty waters, and return with what waters of naught can offer.

Is this not true as you examine the ways in which you move? Can you not see that each way you traveled brought you back to still the same; the moments, only moments and nothing more, that quickly bled out of you and instilled the very pain you ceased to want. Pain is here and everywhere in a place that is filled with pain. And this is as you go: one flask upon another flask of tubes of worriment and misery. These tubes you carry mean nothing and mean everything, as they have become the living virus of the world, a treatment so quick and deadly that your living body becomes living sin.

It is not as you wish it so. Never as you wish it so. For when you wish upon the masses with the mind of the feeble wanderer, still lost in her desperate silly ways, you wish upon nothing and for nothing. For imaginings birth more imaginings, and nothing beyond illusion. This is not so when you dream outside the dream; when you step outside the place of naught and in belief so grand your arms diminish, and feet as well, and are left neither in stance or flight, but released of bitter judgment of all.

Here is your key, at the start and at the end, and in the middle steadily, the same given as taken away: The one that lives in blindness, but always lives. For you be the gift barrier and the groomsman who steals the bride. It is so evident in your claiming one over the over and taking again and again, with a passion so unbearable that even the blanketed flesh is left heaving.

Can you not see that you want not what you see? Not what you want? For you are desert fool tricked into thinking you are mild lamb. And verily you are too, the storm, thinking you are the calm. What you think is not as it is. And so you remain trapped in the labyrinth of merrily thoughts, giving much hype to a cause of naught. How can the runners run a race with no start? How can the bleeding ones close upon the wound when the bandage is naught? Is there not this reaching that occurs, this potential need to complete and mend what is not broken? These endless games of needling with absent needles; whilst in the space of no space a knitted shield does no good.

I cannot express to you enough the way this pangs my heart, to see such a source as you trapped in the marionette’s case, your strings undamaged by all the wishes made, so you become the very stage, the very movement, the very encasement that keeps you puppet-shined instead of woman-lived. You are that wood carved. You are the trappings. You are the bending and rebending in a storm of no storm. How silly you think I send you treachery and troubles, when you are the only one that wishes so. For every dream you tell is more a dream turned spell. And every wish you take is less a means to make you here.

And so I stand, this voiceless one that moves through voice alone, some unfeasible force denying the laws of your world, imagined it be, and still you tremble with the uncomfortable delight, as if you be the maker and the shaker, and I be the taker. Oh, dear one, what is there I could possibly take from you that you have not already taken from self. Look at you. Look at you small, small child, in your horrible shame and pain and misery; is this not a masterful disguise you claim, when such brilliance lives within?

Dig deep, this is all I ask. Bring up what is always there, and in the staring of the light you shall find all the answers swift. For what is not spilled out is collected into infiniteness. What is not reflected as one becomes the masses. And each in the un-shrouding of the other shall discover the light of All; and here bathe in every hope every granted by the master of thy very self.

For you are the wishmaker and the wishtaker in one. Each hope lost and each wish gained. Only the wishes are not what serve you; the wishes are what serve the naught. Bleed not upon the altar of shame and remorse, live now on the freedom stand, above the noise of the place of thought, and breathe in the place of evermore. For you are nothing but this silly game turned over, the pieces tumbling down and landing in the place you create. Keep creating a space, and you shall keep falling. It makes no difference what foundation you build, for the game will keep tipping and you shall keep soaring downward into what is there you wished for.

Whether castle, or the arms of one, whether the dream of a merry-making cause, or service through the rich of heart, makes no difference. Tis all a game, and whatever you build for the fall, shall not catch you. For once landing, you will discover more the illusion still, and that shall tip and tilt, and you shall tumble again and again and again. So why build then? Why not just fall endlessly, until in the dark of space of self you see the vastness and release.

Until you stop building these surfaces you shall continue to land on the island of nowhere and no one. You, in your effort for union, shall divide and further divide.

There is no proof out there that you will find. For everything you wish you will have. Therefore if you wish for this proof you shall create this proof. Only this proof will be not from you but from the illusion. You shall stake a claim after claim of no proof thinking this is proof, because you as creator are blinding. If you seek it out, you shall find it. You shall find exactly what you have created. Only any creation of thought of singular is not real. Thusly anything stemmed from illusion seen as proof is proof of the illusion further.

Do not watch for signs, for you have created them all. If you dream of angels, they will come, if you turn them demon they will be. What you wish for you will see, but you shall have nothing still. For all is a painting within a painting, and you, with your brushes full, move about as if a new hue or shade shall change the scenery. This is again the game. And you shall tumble.

There is no place you can create inside where you be, locked behind the shadow that blocks the light of Me. All creation takes place in the outer region of thoughts, not in the dark where the light is lost. In this way there is only one way out and that is through your brother. Only through your brother, for he is you and you are he; when you can see only this and nothing more than both shall break free, and the game itself shall vanish, the foundations crumble, and the voices that haunt dismiss their own self.

For you will see the key, as clear as the new day. As it rests in your brother’s heart, the one you forgot so long ago, when the passion entered and your soul crumbled in the coming of lust and want. You are the lustful one breeding lust, and therefore blinded by your own greed. Here is where you see from, the need to feed a monster, say beast that never was and never will be. The invisible dust you are that still you feed.

***
FYI: Man Part = Penis

See angels have a great sense of humor even when they sound all high and mighty, and like know-it-alls. Now if you are a know-it-all and someone says you are a know-it-all, then what are you really?

387: Pop Goes the Angel

authentic

seattle Chorus
This is ME (the little one) so happy and in a state of pure grace, surrounded by some of the many excellent talent of the Seattle’s Men Chorus

While taking a shower, something came over me like a wave. No, not the water.

The shower seems to be one of my places of deepest intuition; a place where we all intermingle in our thoughts and knowings; a place where I am somehow singled-out as the one to share the knowings to the world. Did someone say: scapegoat?

I think somewhere, if you allow me to get all imaginary-Catholic on you for a moment, there is an angel team of spirits, and I am standing there in line for selection and not being picked for the softball team, again, and I am the last little angel. And some recruiter guy, who likely looks like a cross between Cary Grant and George Clooney, with beckoning eyes like my childhood dog, Justice, well he saunters by and seeing me in my meekness says: Do I have a job for you. Let me beam you down to earth and you can play for that team! A whole world!

I was not the brightest of angels, indeed.

Nonetheless, hearing the voice of angels, or not, I still ghastly despise the whole entire process of showering. Just seems a waste of time and requires a lot of effort. I like when I am all warm and cozy back in my clothes though, and the fact I can no longer locate the lingering stench. My dog is a built in shower-time-for-mom monitor because she begins to really like to be around me, like I am radiating with Eau de Parfum Pooch.

I am thankful for my shower moments with Spirit. Not that they are very much different from my typical minute now. Naked or not, pretty much wherever I am, I am bombarded with intense revelations. Bombarded isn’t truly how it feels. But I am having some issues regarding the whole recruitment process before I was beamed down.

If I am not an angel reject then I want a quantum-phantom-super-hero cape that is baby-sky-blue and sea-foam-green with tints of royal-purple around the edges.

I should have known I was different when in Kindergarten after it was my turn to share my favorite color, everyone squished up their face and said: Magenta? WTF…. Last part added for effect; they didn’t text back then.

When the revelations come, (aka: when the dust mites scream as they are drowning in the shower and I mistake them as angels), a little sweet girl part of me springs out and squeals in delight. She literally jumps up and down in glee. “Oh, thank you. Oh, thank you,” she says.

(I don’t jump up and down, just this invisible little-girl-me does. My earthly vehicle (body) has been a victim to the illusion of gravity. Jump = unsightly risk.)

Isn’t that grand, a semi-saint who is in touch with her human frailties! My angels are applauding… Oh no, that’s not my angels… that’s EGO. Hello, EGO. Everyone wave; that’s what he wants, but when we are super obvious about his clingy-neediness, he kind of freaks and disappears for a bit. So wave super big, like you are at a sports event and part of the crowd. Go! EGO!

Phew, that was a close one!

You totally want me for your Guru, don’t you? (Oh, crap, he’s back…)

As I was saying, I had this kind of powerful revelation in the shower. My little girl me was super happy and then panicked. The sense of urgency rushed in and I was quickly reminded by observer-of-self that urgency = fear. And so I embraced the little girl, and she whispered. Well actually who am I kidding? She is an aspie little girl, therefor she shouted her fear in great amorous jubilee! She couldn’t even sit still, for goodness sake. With her face all in a knot, and her cute cheeks all a-puffed, she fretted, “What if I can’t remember this? I wish I wasn’t in the shower… and EWwwwwww so naked, old and wrinkly!”

Okay, so she didn’t really say that last part; luckily she is blind.

Having a team in my head is quite remarkable. This team is with me when I am not in my complete state of grace. I can hear my angels, and they like to join in, whenever my ears are open. I have lids on them, I suppose, my ears, not my angels. But that is a funny, funny thought: little angels in tin canisters. I could pop them up when I needed them like Jack-in-the-Box. My angels have a grand sense of humor, but I can imagine them now debating about this one, and thinking I have perhaps crossed some imaginary line. Let me check….. dialing… dialing… (WE don’t text.)

Oh, we’re good. They are taking turns hiding in different blue tin canisters. When they pop up, it’s hysterical, like a great combination meal of spirit: A little bit of angel and a little bit of popup ghost. Boooooooooooo. Pop goes the angel.

When my little girl comes out with her urgency, and my observer holds her manifested fear, and then the angels enter, Spirit says, “There is nothing to fear, and you will remember what you will remember.” And then little girls is calmed and I am returned to a semi-state of grace.

This happens a lot. The whole cyclic process. Message of revelation downloaded, little girl excited, little girl fears, observer pops out, fear is embraced, fear speaks, Spirit enters, fear released, and presto I am back. I am like a drop in the ocean being collected for rain, then poured down on the flowers, then dribbled down a ditch, and then released into a stream, then evaporated back into the big sky; it’s kind of super cool, and super easy, and so much FASTER than it used to be. Sometimes so fast I don’t recognize it has even happened. And I don’t much care for the ditch.

This gets me back to the vision I saw, or heard, or felt, or something or another. It was simple, but if I tap into my angels they shall go on and on and on in complicated verse, as the main speaker of the lot OBVIOUSLY doesn’t realize what century we are all living in.

Suffice to say, the main message, that I could feasibly scribe two to three pages about, (angels are laughing), was…. WAIT!
Actually, I don’t want to be bothered with it; some things are best unspoken.

Secret space created away from angels. Shhhhh:
(I am going to share. But don’t tell. I am sharing now, because each and every day I am approaching a greater and greater state of peace, and I sooooo know I am not supposed to teach or preach, and just be, and let the miracles happen; so before I get to that next place in my evolution, I need to regurgitate and spill, before I get caught by the angel patrol, and they stuff me in a tin can. Whose great BIG idea was it to awaken an Aspie anyhow? Seriously… blahhhhhhh)

This is kind of what they were saying to me… but without judgment, ego, self-righteousness or accusation… theirs is always la-de-da-loviliness… which makes me feel like a miserable earthling… which is kind of my point. I already have my angels up above as the God-appointed-Holy-knowing-spread-love-beings, I don’t need humans here doing the same. It actually doesn’t bother me though, anymore. I just understand it more, as the angels poured the knowledge in my head while I was attempting to wash away the Eau de Pooch.

When someone comes from a place of preaching about being “positive” or “grateful;” you know the type; you likely have been one yourself at some time or another. Me, I was voted MOST SPIRITED in high school. I was a cheerleader. I played the Positive game… follow me to the land of la-la-la… even though deep inside I am miserable. (past me) Present me = HAPPY.

First off ( < ego-phrase), if a person is entirely Mrs. Happy Pants, free of negative thoughts and such, then she’d be a guru, and she’d know better than to spill her knowledge out and share stuff, because no one hears anyhow and it’s not her place to share.

That is why I shall never be a guru or a complete Buddhist. That is why I attach semi to my name. (Too bad I wasn’t named Truck.) I am half-baked, incomplete, almost finished, and I always will be. Because once I think I’m not, I am so back to square one. Plus who doesn’t like cookies when they are almost done, but not quite. I’m gooey! The good stuffs in the goo!

Plus I lack the ability to close my mouth. That is why there needs to be a new spiritual practice for Aspies. The Aspergerian Path to Enlightenment written by a half-backed Aspie. I elect YOU! Someone suggested The Church of Sam; I am good with that; it’s not my real name to begin with.

Oh…. Quick side story, that is entirely unrelated to the main point:

A few days ago I talked about the church gathering (smathering <<<smothered and lathered in the ickiness so I shall never go back). And during the small group time someone asked me about the pen-name Samantha Craft. Well, conveniently, as it was a church and such, I was in a state of grace; I was able to speak from a depth of great love. I explained “Craft” was a last name that belonged to a woman who was like a mother to me and who was a strong woman of faith and took me under her wing and that she had died of a brain tumor at the age of 50 and I had chosen her name to honor her and because of her spirit. (I like all the ands and I am keeping them.) Everyone, the eight or nine women sitting in a circle watching me, were very solemn and calm as I said this. And then I heard, “And what about the name Samantha?” Oh…..well then the little girl in me, she popped up and said, giddily, “From Bewitched!”

This sums up why I confuse people. This half-cooked, combo-me. That is why I shall forever be a semi-saint and never earn my wings. I am much like the angel in It’s a Wonderful Life (best movie on earth), except I haven’t found my George Bailey. I confuse people, because I have this deep prophetic spirit filled with catacombs of endless love and I have this little girl who totally wants to be a witch from a sitcom. (Who has always wanted to have a nose that wiggles and does magic.) People can’t figure out who or what I am, and can’t place me; so they try to judge me to ease their own mind of discomfort. And then I watch, just sit back and watch as their faces get all disfigured and wacko, and watch as their bodies turn away. And I smile bigger thinking: You have NO Fricken idea who you are, do you?

Before I go, I recognize I don’t think I really completed a point. Isn’t that refreshing? I mean who wants to be preached upon by a self-righteous know it all. (<< ego, the observer of self says.) I am the first to admit: I KNOW NOTHING.

If I could say something to you…oh wait my angels are back at their game of tin-can hide-and-seek; quick, listen up:

Dig up your stuff. Spread it out to the world, and in this way you are the TRUTH. You are already the LIGHT and LOVE, and really you are already the TRUTH. But most of us, according to Spirit, don’t know this, so we spend a bunch of time in the illusion thinking if we just talk the walk or walk the talk or whatever, we shall magically transform. Won’t happen. There is nothing to transform.

Keep spreading LOVE and the Light shall come. But don’t spread through preaching. (Like I am right now; unless you spend two pages first humbling yourself.) We are love. We spread love by doing absolutely nothing but being. (And we aren’t even really being either).

What happens is someone attempts to spread their “BE-Happy” thoughts (or other jargon, advice, help, fixing stuff) and then the person who is already not happy feels worse. (sad face) And the person who is already happy, doesn’t really care, because she or he is already happy, and momentarily thinks she knows it all. NEVER SHARE when you are super confident and think you know it all. Undoubtedly, you will wake up and will have made a fool of yourself! Promise. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing. I guarantee. You are a reflection of me. If you doubt your lack of knowing, just reread what you just wrote.

Ohhhh, Pop-Goes-the-Angel…. I better go. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Semi-Saint out!

seattle chrous 2

Be Authentic. Be Free. Be Who You WERE made to be! xo

"10 Ways to Love Yourself": Numbers 1 through 10: Stop making lists about how to do what you already are! ♥ xo ~ Sam the half-baked semi-saint.

* For clarification, when my angels speak it is always positive and I don’t feel anything but good. And I never really played softball in heaven.<3

380: Star Poop and the Naked Boy-Toy!

young rob

Reader Beware: This is an example of what goes on in my head. (If you are bored, scan down to the end. Where my husband made a remarkable revelation!)

I was curious about some “things” and so I asked some random questions, as I seem to have a direct line to the collective unconscious of something or another; if you are comfortable with Carl Jung, let’s go there to the expansive wave of collective thoughts—the whole hundredth monkey theory.

If you are comfortable with inner-awareness, let’s go there, into the deep spaces of my untraveled mind, the pieces I have gathered from multitude of sources, and pinned together into a cohesive, almost understandable oneness.

If you like the idea of aliens in space beaming down prophetic knowing through the crystal in my cranium, let us travel there, into the ameba of oneness, or in this case the enema of oneness.

(You know in a bad comedy how they hint to the dumb audience what they were referring to, and you are part of this assumed “dumb” audience, and you say to your partner, or buddy, or invisible ghost friend: “Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.” Well I kind of feel like a producer of a bad comedy, with me as the star, and I truly don’t want to direct you to why the word “enema” connects to the title, so I won’t. But just thought I’d pause to explain, as that is why you tuned into this channel I am supposing. Oh, and if you think I think you are a dumb audience then you are, but if you don’t think that then you’re not. It’s all a matter of perspective.)

Or how about angels and God, those are fun places to venture, as there are always four camps it seems: the believers, the objectors, the debaters, and the unattached (aka: zen, enlightened, or I don’t give a hooting fricken chicken’s butt).

I wonder why that four-camps theory doesn’t work with the whole alien theory—there doesn’t seem to be the fanatical thing attached to alien theories, (unless you’ve been beamed up, of course)—maybe because they don’t threaten man’s perception of reality. Maybe green little men are easier to comprehend than God/Creator/Life Force. “I mean look at how huge the universe is! Aliens must be somewhere,” Earl said. With me responding, “Yeah, who cares about how the universe got here! There must be aliens!”

Perhaps you are comfortable with hovering spirits or guiding ancestors, in that case these are some pretty smart relatives and ghosts I have about.

Or perhaps, you liken the appeal of genius-aspie, as you yourself are on the spectrum or married to someone with Aspergers (lucky, lucky you!); and the whole genius aspect is intriguingly-comforting in that “I am so awesome” kind of way, or in that “at least she’s got that going for her” way.

Ideally, you think this is all utter nonsense, babblings of a mad woman who has falling off her rocker and can’t get up and has no device to contact the aliens to beam her up, or voice to beckon the spirits or angels, and no means to direct the hundredth monkey to fly down for rescue. Ideally, I say, because, how you see me doesn’t much matter. You will interpret me. I have no control over that. And honestly I don’t want to control you, unless you are chocolate; then I would like to control you and digest you. And that’s where the fun is, in eating you as chocolate, and in knowing in this moment in space, that you see in me what you see in yourself. Hehehe, you are so ________.

It doesn’t matter if you think I am a nutter. But if you are having trouble deciphering who you are, please insert chocolate.

Recently, I am thinking that I become magically transformed by your perception of me. If this theory is true, as some sages claim it to be, then somewhere I exist as a thousand replicas… time travel in its purest form!

(Remember, way up there, in my first big paragraph, I mentioned I was curious about some things…well I haven’t forgotten to get to the end of that point. I am sort of time traveling in my mind from one thought to the next, but eventually I will get to the place I was originally headed. Or not.)

I spoke to a special friend today, I call second mom, because she is so fabulously sweet. She actually counts me as one of her daughters, which makes me think she seriously is deranged—which is further proof we see in others who we believe ourselves to be.

My second Mummy (for my UK readers, Mummy instead of Mommy—comedy producer doubting audience) was the victim of my verbal spillage. I HAD to tell her most of what had happened to me in the last three weeks (Verbal Vomit.) The whole time I spilled, another “better,” and much more spiritually-matured part of self, I call the observer (or sexy goddess, depending on my mood) watched with a Buddha-grin, as I was split into two distinct forces: 1) my inner guru/semi-saint and my 2) excited-aspie-persona; then someone came and sat behind the observer watching all of us: the observer, the guru, and the aspie. Sometimes they all merged into one, and other times the guru and aspie were sparring, while the observer remained cautious. And the guy behind the observer, he resembled my angels and laughed at me. When I think about how I was able to see the man behind the man behind the me, my head hurts.

(I think as the observer as a man; no stereotypical reasons I can offer. I likely have God-abandonment issues. But the person watching the observer, I think she is a woman. So ultimately the she-me is in control; until I start to think about who is beyond her. Then I need a brain-enema.)

I decided spilling my thoughts onto my sweet mummy was liken to a little girl who had just opened a bunch of presents (toys) and has a strong desire to share them ALL at one time. And thusly, quite dynamically and swiftly, in a span of two hours, I ended up burying my dear sweet one into a huge gigantic heap of toys.

In the end, she was under a massive pile of wooden toy blocks, because figuratively speaking, I had built a gigantic castle right on top of her sprawled out body. Way down low, beneath the block castle, peering up from the moat, was dear second-MUM! While I swung from the castle turrets hollering with glee: “Hello down there!” (wearing a purple princess dress). We surmised, together, that this was okay, me burying her and spilling upon her and such, as I let her keep, after some discussion, not a Stretch Armstrong doll, not a Six-Million-Dollar-Man doll, not a Donny Osmond doll, but a Rob Lowe doll, to play with and make her very own. With this she was giggly-happy, my seventy-year old second MUM… She was especially happy after I mentioned the imaginary Rob Lowe doll was completely naked! Yes! Naked. As I’d removed all of his clothes.

rob lowe

Yes, this is my life. And I kind of like it.

As my self-proclaimed second-mom and I were speaking, before I buried her completely in my new found toys, I had mentioned about a previous vision; and my special friend, very special indeed to be buried in my toys, well she said the vision I retold to her helped her a lot. The vision I had, which I shared partially a ways back, was a breaking point for my personal healing, much like my mum’s naked boy-toy.

In this past vision, I was shown a room, a vast room filled with a thousand people. There was a stage, and each person took his or her turn getting on stage and saying what he or she thought of me. Not all of them, as even with the ability I seemingly have to STOP TIME, I didn’t want to hear the lot of them. And so, through this vision, I listened through the visual representation of imagery. And in so doing, in being there in this vision, I was taught without word, but through energetic form, that each person in the room, every single one of them, had a unique individualized view of me.

I understood, instantly and with great inner depth, too complex to relate in words of any longevity, that no two people’s perspectives of me would ever be the same. That for another to perceive me as the “real” or “actual” me was an impossibility. I was further shown that in choosing what perceptions of me seemed to be the true perception of who I was, I would have to draw some sort of imaginary line of separation. I would have to choose. For instance, would I take the top twenty who spoke great of me? Or the bottom ten that spoke ill of me? The ones in the middle? The ones with mixed feelings? Or the perceptions that they had at a different moment, say next week, or next year? When they left the room and their life experiences changed, would I still want that same perception? Was I willing to define myself by ever-changing dependent variables, and more so base my sense of worth, and emotional state, even vibrational energy, on the ebb and flow of the perception of masses? On examining this room, I was able to come to the conclusion that the thought of basing my identity on so much uncertainty and constant variation, was not only exhausting, but entirely unpredictable and unreliable. In seeing this, and drawing swift recognitions, I accepted I would rather be something simple, something I could hold onto and embrace. I would rather be a light—nothing more and nothing less. And beyond that perhaps nothing, even the nothingness behind nothing. Here I was able to accept that I was all of these perceptions of the people in the room and at the same time I was none of them. I existed somewhere unattainable in between, in the infinite space between two whole numbers, the never ending decimal.

(End of powerful vision, and start of brief intermission.)

The only issue with my identity I am having now, beyond the sparring guru and aspie, and the endless observers that alternate genders, and the God-abandonment issues, and… is that as of late, I seem to morph into different personas depending what life force is perceiving me, (who I am talking to or nearby), and sometimes animals, like monkeys or my dog, or even my pet cedar tree, Fred. This can pose a huge problem; I mean what if I am in close proximity to a pole-dancer?

And finally, what my main point was, some seven pages ago, is presented below. The lingering questions I had answered by the life force of something or another, whom doesn’t care what I call it, as long as I understand the whole non-attachment thing. All of this I was mostly shown in the span of a five-minute drive home. I tried to recapture the thoughts/vision/knowing with the help of the monkeys, but we have obviously had one too many bananas. And so I offer you, what the observer of the observer of the observer, aptly titled: Star Poop. And in which I thought later, after typing this all out: The Crap that comes out of my head and stars’ butts.

*******STAR POOOP*******

My question: “Am I creating a need for others to suffer by wanting to be of service to others?”

Yes, however the truth is in the words you choose to use, not in your intention.

If your intention is to truly serve, then where is this foundation?

If the foundation is love, then the need is based on love.

Therefore, remove only the remaining attachment of the word “need” and replace with the word “open,” and you may simply restate: I am open to love.

This, “open to love,” can mean many things, including open to service, if you deem partaking in service a form of giving love.

Likewise, if you say you “need to create,” and this is from love, then you are “open to creation.” Love works in this same manner, as being open to creation, though love is the foundation of all. So when one speaks: “I am open to love,” he is thusly “open to creation,” and open to anything he deems beneficial under the umbrella of love.

If one then asks: “But what of this love?,” and in so doing recognizes readily that even love then has boundaries, for surely he thinks one cannot love while creating hatred; then he has met the point of openness in which he might ask: “Let me be open.”

In this state, a state without need, and a state without the boundaries of love, (as love is a concept created for union and not division, and love is subtracted in the sight of separation), than one is better able to comprehend the vastness of open.

For is not “one being open,” imply open to any “thing;” in one being open to anything, he is thusly the distinguisher of fear, and thereby recognizes that love can be manifested in what would previously have been deemed “hatred.” For all are our teachers.

If hatred is a teacher that pulls us out of self and closer to egoless, or our true being state, then hatred surely is love.

This is to say: Turn the other cheek, but in turn, turn the other as well: the hidden cheek of humility.

It is not enough, to choose to turn away in physical form. To turn away in spiritual form, the mirror of illusion peering outwards into the mirror of illusion, and therefore releasing the thought before thought of self, is to truly turn away. Or in other terms, to turn forward and into self, by turning out of self, this is the measure of turning the cheek: to turn the various views of self long enough to render no self. In this state you are truly open to love, and there by an empty vessel for hatred.

Here, in this state of openness, you become openness, and in turn in being open, you are being self. This is a circle, as all life is, and without circle life is not.

Next question: “Did I tell a truth that wasn’t a complete truth, and is it better to speak the whole truth?”

A truth spoken from the heart with no intention, desire, or need, except to love, is a truth.

This does not mean the truth is a complete truth to the speaker or the receiver of said truth, it means it is a truth formed of love.

In opposite measure is truths formed from the stem of fear. All truths formed from the stem of fear, particularly the darker virtues of fear, included but not limited to greed, need, and attention, are stemmed from a place of falsehood.

To truly speak in truth the words spoken must in all ways reflect the interior intention beneath the words spoken. (The inner core of the being speaking.)

Therefore it is more “ideal” to say “I hate you,” if this is the truth of the vibration beneath a word, than to harbor this belief of truth (to keep within you the belief of hating). Because here, once spoken and declared, the truth is seen and digested and vanishes. Wherein if a person was to say “I love you,” whilst angry and in an inner state of dislike or non-congruence—which is all hatred is: an inner-state of non-congruence with self (not other)—then the truth would be buried and fester like poison in the body.

So why is it safe to utter the word hatred?

It is safe to say “I hate” because truth as the will-doer (person forming words) sees fit to match his inner state (core).

Better to say, “I am in a state of fear, or unrest, or uncertainty” than “I hate.” But still to say, “I hate you,” is in superior position in ranking the out-spring (core to spoken form) of emotion, than to say, “I love you,” or “I like you,” and not mean this utterance.

Uttering any non-truth from a base/foundation of fear is a true falsehood. Here even falsehood is accompanied by truth, as truth can be found in all measure.

However, in considering another scenario in which a one, rather feverish for another, withholds his love, by uttering, “I like you,” instead of “I love you,” perhaps because the other, he believes would hesitate, fear, or erupt with the mention of “love,” or perhaps because the social perimeters do not dictate that this person would be approved, for example, if he says “love” to another already “attached” or committed to another; in this case, if the person mutters “like” but resonates below, at the core, as “love,” but he chooses to do so out of “love” (not fear), then and only then, seeing he mumbles a replacement out of a core of love, then this can foster a truth.

This is what could be deemed a partial-truth, if the truth is stemmed from a core of love, as a mother not telling her daughter she appears unsightly; in this way she holds her tongue, which is best to do in all manners of appearance. In so doing, if the motherly figure replaced this truth of perceived non-beauty (which is a falsehood in and of itself, but used as scenario nonetheless, as seemingly relevant), in this way we say, all things stemmed from love, rather a truth in completion or truth in partial, become truth in totality. In after thought most mothers view their daughters as pure beauty; a better example may be a man peering at a former love-interest.

It is often the case, accordingly, that when one witness connects the words to truth, the other connects the words to truth simultaneously, when done in love.

Therefore, all things stemmed in love are truth, all things stemmed in fear are false.

Just as falsehood is an illusion, as fear is an illusion.

And anything stemmed in illusion births illusion.

So to state that the falsehood even exists in the perimeters of discussion, states the illusion is of some substance, and contradicts our speaking; but nonetheless negates the polarity of truthfulness, as we are speaking a truth stemmed from love, though the truth not be in totality, it resonates from the core of our being, presenting itself in exact foundation of what we perceive as self or we.

Next Question: “Are lies bad?”

All lies, except lies stemmed from love, without fear, are falsehoods, and therefore illusion.

All lies stemmed not from love are stemmed from fear. All lies stemmed not from love are thusly illusion.

There is no lie that can be told that does not have an element of fear, if the believer recognizes the uttered word as lie; this indeed contradicts the previous discussion, but only in manners of extreme theological inquiry. In truth, if lie is spoken to protect, serve, lift, support, without intention to manipulate, trick, deceive, or benefit, then this lie can be manifested as truth, if the receiver accepts the true inner core of the speaker that radiates love.

In this way lies are an illusion, but stemmed from the core of radiating love, and therefor transformed into living truth, some lies are perceived as truth. This is the only way lies transform—from love. It is the only way anything transforms: from love.

In considering the immediate question, “Are lies bad,” then it is important to distinguish the concept of “bad.” For no bad exists unless wished into existence for higher purpose, not by receiver, or wisher, but by collective; in this way no singular is responsible for bad, as no singular can be responsible for bad, as anyone labeled “bad” is a product of the collective environment of “we,” stemmed from either the majority of love or the majority of hate.

That is what “to love thy neighbor” means; for if you do not love your neighbor from an inner core of love, then what do you create, what do you stem, what do you feed the environment, to this created one?

If not love, there is either absence of love or the illusion of hatred. Others drown, if others would be, in the illusion of hatred, a toxic poison that breathes at the necessity of false illusion, to prove time and time again, through all veins of reason and travel that yes, indeed, in the illusion of hatred there is suffering.

Thusly, the liar and the lie are the same, both illusion formed and stemmed from the majority of fear, with love blocked out and extinguished, waiting in the shadows for the illusion to vanish.

For even illusion exists in thought and form, though not fluently recognized in planes of existence.

Therefore where you are, you have taken down a way of perceiving that doesn’t readily belong to you, and never has. Your perception of lies is neither here nor there, as it cannot survive here.

******

In another plane, perhaps depicted as the thought of distant stars, or say ye angels bright, then this concept of hatred exists, but only as collected thoughts from what could be said exists below.

Therefore when you embrace hatred, you in essence take in the wasteland of your own thoughts; once given to the stars for depletion, but stolen back for false comfort, for only false comfort arises from stealing falsehoods.

In this way hatred can be seen as the pollution of one world leaking into the other and being stolen back for sake of stealing, when the real culprit is the illusion of fear, unseen and untouched in the depth of the core.

Displace the illusion of fear from core, analyze and hold the fear, digest and demolish the fear, and eliminate fear at a soul-level, say earthly-level, and there exists no need for a wasteland of hatred, and then there “be” nothing of overflow waste to steal from.

Think this when you hate: You are stealing the waste of stars.

All the brightness, the nutrients, and “goodness” have been passed through the bowels of the stars, and you are receiving the manure.

Thusly, anger exists as an illusion, but in star-form as a teacher, for what can grow from manure but the finest of gardens.

In this way there is no judgment in anger, or hatred, as anything stemmed from fear, or the collectors of fear, is illusion, and beyond illusion, nothing is judged in totality or in separation: all is as is and unfolding as decided before the unfolding of time.

In this way do not judge your neighbor, rather turn the cheek and take in the waste they have collected for fertilizer for your very growing.

Feel this manure as illusion and nothing more, but gather the existence of the dimmed stardust and take this into you for your greater good.

In this way when you wish upon a star, wish for the waste of the star before the light. As you are already the light.
You are already love, and the waste itself, the nurturer of the soul in solid-star form, will un-yield you to this beauty, collecting the images of self in the other, as the anger stemmed from illusion of fear, as the illusion of self stemmed from love.

In conclusion of the complexities of this answering, we say, indeed YOU are a truth stemmed from a lie, but the lie that vibrates from the core of love, for your protection, for your safety, for your guaranteed security—for to stare into the beauty of us, and what you be, would to be again the star, only exploded with rapture.

In this way, count on your own star-sister and star-brother to be your nurturers, either in love or in the illusion of hatred. For either way they turn you into the light of you and teach you of your fullness. Take readily the hatred, until the illusion of hatred is turned into love, and the stars (we be) no longer need to filter and digest what was never you to begin with.

*********

“I keep thinking to myself, how do you do that? I mean who’s got that much shit to say?” ~ My husband, after I recited this post.

359: Call Me Crazy….an Aspie Rant

Call me crazy (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence.), but I have a hard time reading a book or article about how to best associate with (e.g,. marry, date) people with Aspergers, when the authors writing the material don’t have Aspergers. I don’t know exactly how to describe this irkish-sensation…

however the scenario of a typical (non-aspie) “professional” announcing to the world how to help someone with Aspergers seems akin to an alien beaming down from a purple planet and telling me how to be more human.

Yes, I purposely did a spin on my example, as in most people’s eyes the “professional” would be the human and the aspie would be the purple-planet alien. (One-eyed-one-horned-flying-purple-people-eater entering mind.) But indeed, that is precisely my point; so much is written about how to help the person afflicted with Aspergers or how to get along with the person with Aspergers, but what about the articles and books that explain to the person with Aspergers how to get along with the non-aspie people?

Why is it that I, and my fellow non-aliens, are continually dissected in our ways, set apart, and then sorted by our inherent flaws, so the others can learn to live with us? I mean is this being done for other people with “special needs,” too. Or is it just us Aspies that need to come attached with a handbook?

If we changed the scenario, just a tiny bit, and turned this into cultural differences; I don’t know let’s say an entire book written by a Caucasian person about what it is like to be African American and how to adapt behaviors and implement strategies to get along with the African American, do you think maybe there might be an issue? Hmmmm.

Or how about if a Doctor of….let’s see…. How about someone who studies squids! Let’s call him Squidman. Well Squidman all of the sudden finds out there is a bunch of money to be made in writing a book about Redwood Trees (as they recently became 2% of the population of all trees!), and so seeing he has a doctorate degree in squids and all, he sets about to study up a bit on the mighty redwood. And soon Dr. Squidman becomes the leading expert on redwoods! Cha-ching, Cha-ching, and out he births book two. Redwoods of the Deep Sea.

Is this making sense, yet? I guess being aspie myself and all, I am just a bit weary when yet another book or freelance article comes out about Aspergers and not much attention is paid to the source, the credentials, and/or the personhood of the person writing the book. I’m certain this happens in all subject areas that suddenly become a hot topic and therefore a hot commodity, but when the subject is about an actual neurological condition with actual people who have the condition and are struggling to make sense of the condition, and the whole sharks-coming-out-to-feed transpires, the experience is just somewhat that much more frightening and sad.

I am a bit over sensitive I suppose (must be my lack of empathy or inability to process emotions the typical way) about trusting any “experts” in general, as they belong to the same clam (clan…sorry Dr. Squidman did the editing) who couldn’t figure out for the last twenty-years that I even had Aspergers and who couldn’t figure out my son had it either.

If I read one more time about how a person with Aspergers can’t read non-verbal cues, I am going to scream, have a huge aspie meltdown and run out the door naked! Because you know people with Aspergers do that. Every full moon they run out the door naked and yell at the Trees. They do, really (Squidman, 2013).

After fifteen years of being married to me, my husband is a leading expert of what it is like being married to a woman with Aspergers. With his help and my brains (and his brains, too; he is pretty smart), we could tell you how the whole marriage to an Aspie person works. And there ain’t no little book or one page article that will do the trick! It’s tons of work, tons of compromise, and tons of love; just like any successful marriage. There isn’t any secret trick or secret way to make it better or to make it easier.

I don’t need to come with a handbook that explains to my mate how to deal with me. He needs to come with one. He’s a man! All men need to come with one, and a woman should write it.

Every person with Aspergers is different and uniquely unique. We can’t be clustered into one type of person with a few easy steps to make life easier to get along with us. HELLO! I am a person. I am not a type. I am not Aspergers. And I am not a male with Aspergers, either. There is a difference, you know!

Of course I respect people trying to truly help other people; but it’s all the profiteering off of the new trend “Aspergers” that’s got me a bit concerned. All of the sudden everyone is claiming to be an expert, when the “experts” don’t even know what Aspergers is yet, what causes it, or how to classify it. I mean there are articles claiming brain imagining can now detect Aspergers. It can? Last time I checked it couldn’t.

People are so hungry for knowledge, which is a great thing, but it’s a time to be cautious too and to take notice of the wolves and deceit. People will regurgitate facts to push a book. People will copy works to make a dime.

People will do what they have always done: exploit a people to make a profit.

And that’s what’s so ironic; here are all these NT (neurotypical people) rushing out to claim fame through trickery, lying, stealing, or at the minimum claiming they actually understand a complex neurological disorder they have never experienced, while it is the people with the character traits of honesty, sincerity, no game-playing, and loyalty whom are being dissected and analyzed and spread out for display.

Seems to me I need a book about how to deal with the profiteering thieves!

I am by no means saying everyone who writes about Aspergers ought to have Aspergers. Some of the leading experts have done brilliant work and assisted thousands of families; but I am saying be careful of what you read and what truths you believe out there. There are many clichés being recycled, many which are not true and don’t apply to the female with Aspergers experience.

I am not a child. I am highly intelligent. And my husband doesn’t need someone else telling him how we can better get along. I am right here. Ask me! I know.

And since I mentioned it. Here’s my quick article on being married to a man. I have been married for fifteen years to one, so this makes me an expert! Also, I have a Masters Degree in Squidology.

1) He will watch sports a lot. Take time before the games to express your needs. He may seem self-absorbed and fixated during the actual game, but don’t take it personally. He may get overly emotional, sometimes shouting obscenities or displaying nervous ticks. Give him a timer and let him know after an hour it is important for you to receive his undivided attention. Suggest five minutes to start and slowly increase the time. Then in return let him express a need you can fulfill. You can use a timer for that, too.

2) Toilets might be an issue. Keep the lid down when you can. But if the toilet is continually left up by the man then give him gentle reminders. When he does remember to shut the lid consider leaving a sticky note with a smiling face. If he still doesn’t remember, give him a break, he has short term bathroom memory condition. This will affect the toilet paper roll being refilled and he may forget how long he has been sitting on the toilet. Be patient. His brain is different from yours and obviously he needs time away. Ignore the smells; they eventually dissipate.

3) As a man gains weight his snoring will increase. Also, he might be prone to binge eating and drinking, especially during social functions. This is a natural response to being around other people of his gender. Keep a bag of ice in the fridge, so he is prepared for unexpected guests. Invest in earplugs. He can’t help the snoring. And with all the fast food establishments, he isn’t to blame for the gain in weight. Hold tight. Reflect the behavior you want to see. Eat healthy in front of him and cuddle him when he snores. If all else fails take breaks on the couch and let him stretch out in bed. Remember his body is different than yours.

4) Socializing can present problems. Try to recognize his behavior does not reflect you as a person. Sit down and have a talk in a safe and calming environment. Provide him with notecards about appropriate conversation in front of your friends. Roll play scenarios and give him examples of how to build you up and compliment you in front of guests. If he already does this, you are ahead of the game. Show him what is appropriate to wear. But don’t throw out that old shirt no matter how ugly it appears; this represents a connection to the past and provides a sense of security. Now that he is married he may seem miserable, but be reassured he is not. You are.

(This is a stereotypical generalization of a gender. Kind of like a stereotypical generalization of a group of individuals who have the same neurological condition.)

354: Drunken Hostess with the Mostess

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A few weeks ago I hosted a party and I was entirely wasted before the guests arrived.

This marks the second potluck in WA my husband and I have hosted since moving here, almost three years ago. The event was a big deal to me, and I loaded my grocery cart to the max to insure plenty of booze and munchies.

The last time I threw a party for my neighbors, which was also the first time, I was politely informed by my good friend’s husband that there wasn’t enough alcohol. He then left and brought back four bottles from his house. This time I was prepared. I bought the hugest bottles of Rum and Tequila I could find, and several bottles of wine. I am not a big drinker. No, sir! Never have been and doubt I ever will be. In fact, before the year 2012 I probably averaged between two and three glasses a year!

Since finding out I am aspie, the intake may have increased a wee bit.

My reasons for not drinking are multi-faceted; like everything else in my life, nothing I do is simple. I focus a lot of conscious thought and unconscious thought on the “right path;” even though I recently have come to terms with the fact there is no fricken right path and it’s all a big game, I still have that old “right path” mentality, much like a gag reflex.

Not following the right path, makes me want to gag and come up for air. Not doing the “right” thing feels like a recent ordeal I underwent at the orthodontist’s office, in which I was being fitted for a new retainer device. (The diagnostic x-ray revealed that I have unusually large sinus cavities; no big deal or of special interest. But I mention it just in case you are collecting random data about me.) At the orthodontist the lady worker gently shoved a metal contraption filled with cold grainy-cementy goop atop the roof of my mouth to take impressions for my new retainers. As she delicately shoved the banana flavored pink goop into my mouth she said, “Remember breathe slowly through your nose.” While my mouth airways were obstructed, I kept saying to myself: “You aren’t going to die. You aren’t going to die. You aren’t going to die.”

That’s how I feel if I don’t follow the right path, or rules, or guidelines. (A right I am very much aware doesn’t exist, but I have to find and try to adapt to nonetheless.) I feel like I am being gagged, out of breath, and will die. Makes no logical sense. I know this. But my brain has “follow the rules” tattooed around its frontal lobe. I am still working on the removal process of this tattoo; it’s slow going.

For me, the day of the party, the right path meant: Temperance. A word I had latched onto and deciphered and longed to apply in my life. Temperance meant no indulgences and no drinking alcohol. The party would be the perfect stage to practice my temperance and do the “right” thing. At least according to the recent “rules” I was applying.

The gods laughed at me.

For by the time the first guests arrived I had downed three glasses of port wine. But trust me, I had good reason!

In the end it turned out fine, except for the time the one guest mentioned how her memory is bad and then she laughed in jest saying, “It’s because I’m a genius.” Totally joking she was. And then I, being so very much beyond tipsy, blurted out: “The funny thing is, I am a gifted-genius, a professional just recently verified this.” And then, after slapping my knee, and elaborating about my big brain and Aspieness, I went into a full confession about how I was trying to release ego and be filled with humility. I ended this, I think, with telling my neighbor, a woman I barely see anymore, “You know you want take walks with me now; a gifted, published genius I be.” I’d thrown in the whole publishing story in there somewhere, I suppose.

As I have mentioned before, I don’t drink much. I am an extreme light weight. A half-glass of pear-cider at the local pub and I am saying to my husband in a very loud voice, “That guy is checking out my butt.” I try to curb my alcohol intake, not so much for the constant records that play when I am drinking: Destroying liver, destroying liver, destroying liver and/or you’ll become an alcoholic. But because I become a dang fool. I really do. I lose all inhibition and feel like I am freeeeee. One of my (drunk) relatives once got onto my aunt’s electric wheel chair and flew up the freeway onramp to take a ride on the freeway. And I think that’s me. I think when I drink I take a ride on the free-way! WEeeeeeee.

So I don’t drink much.

But that evening, an hour before the guests arrived, as I was putting the freshly made salsa into a pitcher, I began to burn. At first I didn’t notice. I just kept rinsing my hands under water, thinking the burn would pass. But, no! The burn did not pass. It grew increasingly worse, like my hands were in the snow without gloves and the frostbite was setting in; it was a deep, unreachable burn, penetrating and erupting from the inside of every finger, and the guests were to arrive in less than an hour.

My husband was not home, and I was in a pure panic.

I rationalized and reasoned, and then concluded the culprit was the Serrano peppers! I had used my bare hands to not only cut the Serrano hot peppers for the salsa, but when my food processor stopped working (as all electronics like to malfunction around me) I had dipped my hands in the freshly ground peppers to scoop out the remains and transfer the mixture to the blender.

Oh, my gosh! I had soaked my hands in hot pepper oil!

I quickly went to the internet for help. Google God to the rescue. I soon found other people who had been as dim-witted as me. The remarks were reassuring. There were some helpful tips to end the horrific pain.

Eventually I tried everything listed as remedies: butter, milk, yogurt, sugar scrub with olive oil, etc. But nothing decreased the pain. I thought for certain my flesh was going to peel off. I was going to have fleshless fingers! And still the pain intensified. At this point, my feet broke out in hives from the stress. Yes, with the guests arriving in less than a half-hour, I had burning flesh hands and hived up feet. Glorious!

When my husband came home with some cortisone cream the local pharmacist said would stop the pain, I shook my head nooooo. My husband insisted, and I gave in. Soon I was screaming at a high pitch and downing wine as fast as I could. The cream had only served to intensify the burn. Dumb pharmacist.

My husband at this point is saying, “You are like Lucy from I Love Lucy, you know?”

That didn’t help.

At last I found the answer in one of the comments online: “Called ER (emergency room); there is nothing they can do. The pain will last four to six hours.”

Really? No one could say that from the start.

What should have come up on the top of the comment section was: You are so screwed!

And that’s how it began, how I began slurping the port wine. The pain-relievers I took did nothing.

The wine really didn’t decrease the pain much either, but by the time the first patrons arrived, I didn’t really care. And eventually the margarita helped to ease the ordeal to a hilarious event.

As our first friends arrived, I confessed, “I am already drunk. Let me tell you a story….”

And towards the start of the party, to another couple I said, “I am not rinsing my hands under cold water every minute because of OCD, just so you know, let me tell you a story…”

And by the end of the night, three hours of hand rinsing later, shortly after my gifted-genius, I am zen and ego-less spill, I said, “And you know what the best part about being drunk before any of you arrived is and especially about being in so much pain?!” I paused, dipping my hands further in a bowl of cold water. “I really honestly don’t care what you think of me.”

And that was that.

(another funny story)

344: Proof I am Alien… and Other Theories

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Alien Rod
In the x-ray image of me, there is a rod the aliens inserted; it starts in my brain and jets down to my mouth (see front tooth area for proof); it is my communication device where I glimpse elements of the future and am able to deem what avenues to take to protect myself and society. I receive messages at three in the morning in the form of complex and unearthly prose, telepathically received with beautiful images and divine sensation of wholeness and completion. The aliens look like angels and drive spaceships resembling the sun and/or the clouds. They are not scary. The rod doesn’t hurt, but makes for a cool zombie-like image. By examining this photo, note the size of my eye sockets and ears. I am alien for certain. I even have the alien-shape-face-thing going on. And yes, this is really me!

Audacious Spirit
Before I was shot down to earth by the spiritual beings, whom guard the hall of records in another realm, I met before a board of angel guides; they had agreed to help me in this life. I jumped up and down and was so excited about my list of goals I wanted to accomplish here on earth. Being headstrong and determined, I did not heed the warnings of the master experts, the ones with a thousand more lifetimes under their belts than me. I am one of those ambitious youngsters who thinks she is all that—the type the elders laugh at so loud the skies of heaven thunder. Of course, I was clueless to my hubris and audacity, and thought myself brilliant. I recited a long list. Essentially I wanted to learn all the life lessons possible in 88 years. At half-life I would metamorphosis and all my prophetic and empathic senses would kick in. I wanted to see in all ways: to know through all senses, e.g., feeling, experiencing, hearing, smelling, and seeing. I originally insisted on the sense of taste too, to know things through taste, but the angels demanded I throw at least one thing out. I wanted to experience extreme agony, displacement, heartache, rejection, abandonment, physical pain, and on and on. Just bring it on, was my attitude. I had no clue how long earth lives were, as I had never been a human before. I was a dolphin. Now I am stuck down here with this master plan, and I can’t change it. I dream of water all the time, and get uncanny cravings for fish. The good news is half of my life is over.

Dropped Down

I come from a planet where chocolate is the staple nutrient for life forms and no one eats animals or animal products. Actually no one eats anything beyond air, energy, and chocolate. There are twice as many trees. And the trees talk and sing. They are the only ones that talk. The rest of us speak telepathically, so there is no need to shift through the multiple variables of words to express the multiple variables of thought. Thought just arises in images and picture form and through emotion. Beings are conscious about their intentions; and there is little fear, as nothing is hidden. Nothing can be hidden. Faces change based on experience and emotion, and one’s energy. There is nothing that is stagnant. We see the energy of the world spinning, and multiple worlds within everything. Beings have soulmates, intense soul connections, kinship, and a knowing of peace and serenity. I was dropped down here on earth by accident. And it sucks.

The Woman’s Wisdom
I was a sage in my past life, something akin to a Buddha, but not quite. I was considered enlightened by all who encountered me and all whom heard my name; but then, this scrawny two-faced hermit lady, who lived in the deep caves of some forgotten unmentionable place, she came to me, and she cursed me with her wisdom.
She said: “You are a man in form in this lifetime. You are not truly enlightened in the complete sense, unless you come back to this realm as a woman, and as a woman in form you live through the following: the extreme emotional and physical confusion of hormonal cycling (for peak experience, live in the years beyond 2000, where the environmental toxins that mimic female hormones are abundant; PMS is a blast), the pain of giving birth, (and most of the complications that can arise while pregnant, including the agony of inducement), the challenges of marrying and living with a man, (as a woman you will see the male gender in an entirely new light), raising children, (and lets add children who never nap, don’t sleep through the night, have chronic health conditions in early child years, fight for the first ten years… non-stop), the experience of Aspergers, (your son and you will have this, but you will not recognize it in yourself until half of your life is over; that’s okay because with this condition you’ll have the capacity to fixate and obsess so much that you’ll figure yourself out in no time), the pressures society places on women to look beautiful, (you can rock that whole half-front tooth that turns dead thing), the cattiness of women turning against you and stabbing you in the back, the pain as a result of predators seeking you out, a chronic pain condition that has no explanation and no cure, and that people originally target as an imagined female condition. Hmmmm. (She smiled her toothless smile and raised a boney crocked finger.) And let’s add that whole mother-in-law dynamic bit. Of course female or not, you can still be endowed with all the gifts from this world: prophecy, precognition, seeing, sensing, knowing, feeling, empathy, revelations, energetic healing, etc. You can take all you need with you that you’ve gained from this life of a man, but I am telling you now, it shall not be enough! Do all this and come back to me at the end of the lifetime, and then you will be ready to teach me.” I concurred and naively agreed. After my nod, she quickly inserted, “And, just for fun, let’s give you voluptuous curves which you are entirely uncomfortable with, and the mind of a prudish, but lustful nun!” And with that, I was born.

Photo on 3-21-13 at 9.41 AM #2

339: A Sample of a Fictional Story

This is a fictional piece I played with about four years ago. I am about one hundred pages into the story. I am thinking about picking up where I left off. I shall see. It will certainly be fun to visit the pages again, as I cannot remember most of what I wrote. A little treat for me, to see what happens! I find it interesting that the main character, based after me, is so Aspie! Before I knew I had Aspergers… Here is a little excerpt. They make me laugh, these ladies. Indeed they do.
Joy and Love,
Sam

Veronica Cosh and the House of Mirrors
by Samantha Craft, all rights reserved

Chapter One:

Veronica’s cheeks blushed crimson, the blood hastening full-force to her face, as she balanced upside down.

Her adobe house, thirty-eight blocks up from Monterey’s Fisherman’s Wharf, was currently occupied by three of Veronica’s dearest friends. None of the ladies had missed their annual gathering in fifteen years, except once, when Jane had suddenly eloped and was excused on account of her European honeymoon; and there had been the time Freda was recovering from a hysterectomy.

Even then, after Freda’s surgery, the ladies had all rallied around Freda’s hospital bed. So no one really counted year nine as a miss. Irene hadn’t skipped one of their July gatherings, and she was always the first to notify everyone in the room of that very fact.

Veronica lingered upside down. She huffed as her legs shifted to the left taking on a sideways foxtrot of their own. At the opposite side of Veronica’s sunroom, bubbly Freda, with her thick hair and thick knees, knelt down on the floor with a stopwatch, as fair-skinned Jane leaned in near Freda, clinch-fisted and cheering. “Knees, don’t fail me now,” Freda whispered to herself. Irene, towering over the ladies, stood stoically on the outskirts of Veronica’s silhouette, snorting.

“In my next life I’m going to be an astronaut!” Veronica huffed. She was quite certain she’d kick her dear friend Irene in her bony little knee if she got within reach. Veronica couldn’t remember the last time she’d been upside down. The sensation was powerful. All the unfamiliar spoke loudly to her, the first being the absolute painful hardness of the wood floor. She’d hoped her husband’s sweatshirt propped beneath her would keep her head clean. For a few seconds her thoughts were lost in the idea of germs, of dust bunnies, of small broken leaves drug in from the backyard by her dog, of the wanting need to get up and mop.

Freda’s voice broke out. “Only thirty more seconds! You can do it!” Her fastidious eyes were glued to the stop-watch, her body hunched over like a quarterback. “Handstand Queen! Don’t give up!”

Jane cheered, sitting up so that the freckles on her knees expanded like ink blots on paper towels.

Nearing the end, Veronica’s patience waned. “This isn’t fair,” she pouted.

Irene stepped forward a bit. Still not close enough for a kick in the shin. “You asked for it!” Irene mocked.

Veronica contemplated what Irene would look like with her eyeballs plucked out of their sockets, and on that pleasant thought, lost her balance and smacked the right side of her leg hard against the nearby wicker table. The sudden impact set of a chain reaction: the table shook, the crystal lamp vibrated, and the light from the lamp became a wobbling gutter upon the robin-blue wall. Veronica quickly pulled her legs back up, remaining upside down, and balanced them against the wall. For the moment she despised Irene as much as she despised her free-flowing boobs that had ventured free from their abundant cuppings; and thusly she allowed herself without hesitation or analysis to swear aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!” The words oozed out violently like the puss from a stubborn, over-pressed cyst. And with the release, Veronica’s entire being felt at ease.

Irene watched from afar. She tossed back her dark hair, ran her hands through the glossy streaks, and playfully flung her hands in the air. “What’s this? The mighty queen swears?” she teased coyly. “You do know you are shaking like Ruben had that hyper-thyroid condition.” Irene was a Gemini through-and-through. This was a truth Veronica reckoned with as her legs toppled, repeatedly slapping against the wall and tipping forward before they met their final destination on the cold damp floor. “Crap,” sighed Veronica, feeling the blood leave her face and retreat with gravity back to the rest of her body. “Crap.”

“About ten seconds short of a minute,” Irene announced with a satisfied grin. “Stop. Enough,” Veronica said with her bottom flat on the floor and her legs splayed out. Seditious is all she could think. Seditious Fuck. But she wouldn’t speak of this. Not the F word—at least not in an audible voice. Veronica sighed, a deep hungry sigh. Her appetite set on revenge. Her almost-sober friends moved about in the aged sunroom, some of their feet trailing silly-string and dampened blue streamers.

“Failure becomes you,” Irene offered, glancing about in search of nodding heads. “Remember your motto: You are perfectly perfect in your imperfection.” Veronica pressed down the tangles of her hair and stood up to quickly survey the crystal lamp. She straightened her shoulders, and then carried herself to the other side of the room, finding refuge in the blue-checkered wicker chair.

Freda, still kneeling, turned toward Veronica. “At least you don’t have these rabble-rousing breasts.” She propped up her boobs, grabbing them through her floral-dress and offering out a Jello-like jiggle. “Set free, these here babies give homage to my belly button. I tell you, it’s the scariest thing looking into the mirror and seeing my Grammie’s overstretched taffy boobies dangling there.” Freda cleared her throat and let go of her boobs with a flop. “What I wouldn’t give for a little supple perk.” She stood up straighter, sticking out her chest, giving a slight chuckle as she fishtailed to the corner to retrieve yet another pinch of chocolate fudge brownie, before settling back into an over-stuffed chair. Freda lived for pinches. She would be the first to admit that she collected her life’s bounty in delicate, timed out measured amounts. That is to say, to a point. And once that point was reached, watch out. The way Freda figured, she was still a good thirty minutes before a bounty of brownies was to be had.

Jane clasped her hands over her face in embarrassment over Freda’s boob remarks, and then stretched out slowly curly her slender body onto the floor, the whole right side of her body taking in the coolness. She imagined she was an agile cat lounging after a satisfied chase. She imagined a ball filled with catnip, the yellow plastic type that her childhood kitten would bat with his six-toed paws. As she slipped into her mind, thinking on what was and what had been, there was this welcoming silence, the type only alcohol or the occasional anxiety pill could bring.

Irene stepped over some crumpled wrapping paper and pet Veronica on the head—the mark of the alpha dog claiming her superiority. Veronica smiled knowingly to herself and brushed Irene’s large hand off of her. She knew enough to ignore Irene. Veronica had moved beyond the need to supersede, take control or correct. She understood Irene’s motivation. A reflection of sorts, Irene was: a shadow-side of Veronica that held the parts and pieces Veronica longed to show the world but didn’t quite know how to assemble and display. Veronica was thankful for their friendship, friends since seventh grade, a thread of acceptance and trust moved through their relationship with the fluidity of an unobstructed stream. One friend had always been enough for Veronica, one honest and true friend, who didn’t lie, didn’t cheat, steal or hurt. Seems her life always stemmed out and rooted around the one. And that one in the highly vulnerable years of middle school and high school had been Irene.

“Well, at least your complexion has never looked better,” Irene blurted out with confidence, before touching down onto the lumpy wicker-framed couch. She surveyed the room, first staring down at Jane, then across to Freda, and lastly to her near right at Veronica. The time had come. There wasn’t any doubt. Irene cleared her voice to rouse the room. She licked her lips, tasting the remnants of onion dip. “My dear friends,” Irene announced, taking Veronica by the hand, and raising their arms together. “Let me hear the words!”

On hearing Irene’s voice, Jane pulled herself up, using the side of the glass coffee table as anchorage. Standing, she gave a quick stretch and smile, before moving closer to where Freda sat. Jane found her place on the ottoman where Freda was resting her feet, and once there attempted to erase the brown mascara stained within the creases beneath her eyes.

Freda screamed on cue. “Put your lips together and blow, Baby! Blow, blow, blow.” Freda repeated the words again, kicking her stocking-covered legs up and down like a toddler splashing in a shallow pool of water. Jane tried her best to balance the wobbling ottoman, while shaking her head at Freda and letting loose a flitter of giggles.

Veronica shared a wide smile with Irene. “I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Blue Eyes,” she queried.

“Oh, scrumptious Mr. Blue eyes,” Freda quickly interjected with a Southern drawl. She fanned her chubby face. “What eye-candy!”
Veronica raised a narrow-necked glass filled with deep red wine. “To divine Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Irene, meanwhile, kneeled down in front of Freda and pulled out a small wrapped gift she’d hidden under the ottoman, and holding the present high in the air she cheered, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes.”

“That’s a definite winner, or should I say wiener?” Freda laughed.

All the ladies lifted their drinking glasses and toasted, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes!”