Shxt Happens, Thangs Change

"You need the cooperation of your living parents
in order to hate them. You need to see the pain
in their eyes when you scream it at them like bloody
murder, and you have to listen to them scream
bloody murder back at you, then toss you and your
baggage out of their house, and reject you as their
own child. Set aside? Set aside? God give me
strength to endure such deluded pomposity."

Again, I wrote the above paragraph in an e-mail. It's seems like more and more I have to be writing for-the-other to co-me up with a topic that interests me. In the one paragraph I aimed part of it at five or six discussion group members. That can only happen when I've participated in a particular group long enough to get a sense of the various members I reach out to.  

I attempt to treat every word I utter as if it could only be projection with no other options to speak of. I don't always like owning up to what I thought was going on in the past (how could I have been such an idiot?). Consciously filtering for the intent of my projections seems to be the only way I know to find out about or rediscover the rules of conscience I adopted in the past that have become baggage due to change. I've already figured out how to withdraw the energy I invested in them originally, but only if I can understand whether or not a particular rule I adopted in the past is no longer relevant to where I'm at with myself presently. Conjuring outdated rules of conscience from their hiding places can be a tricky business. 

I've had some comments from various people who know how to contact me that my writing makes less sense than ever. Tossed word salad? So what? I'm not writing to you. If you want me to write to you directly join the Gospel of Thomas e-mail discussion group and see if you can survive there long enough to take your turn.

Actually, I don't make any more sense there than I do here, so going to all the trouble to subscribe to an e-mail discussion group might be more than you can manage. I have my own e-mail discussion group, but we don't seem to be taking any application for subscription now. Nobody cares.

I've had a lifetime habit of attempting to do what I've been told I shouldn't do, and that's just not good enough for me. I wanna KNOW why I shouldn't be doing this or that, and aye matey, thar's the rub. It's true that sometimes I find out by doing that some old wives' tale are just that, and the myth or saying or tale ain't got legs to stand on. Otherwise, not.

By that I mean to indicate that those taboos of certain events and situations and behaviors I libidinously indulged did absolutely respond with the prophesied results. Infrequently at great peril to myself and mine. That's how I came to know I had to decide to alter my behavior to protect that what was mine or obligate what was mine to another for their sake.

I mostly know my own addictions and whether there is a chance in hell I'll stop indulging them. In this regard, the answer was no. the river runs too deep, and for more than one life ti-me. I've seen too many people come and go. I only lived in the house I was born in for a few weeks afterward, or the house after that but for a few months, and then a couple of places in between before my family moved to North Carolina. We moved to eight different places in North Carolina before my father finally bought his first small farm. I was thirteen years old.

My family lived in the house that was on that small farm until I graduated from high school and joined the U.S. Navy. By the time I got out of the Navy, they had moved across town to a larger farm he bought using the small farm as collateral. I came home out of the Navy to a place I'd never seen before, but at least my parents stayed in that one house until they died, and they both died inside that same house. I guess they were as tired of moving as we were.

I married my first wife during that brief stop upon my release from the Navy, and never lived there again until I stayed there to help with my father's death, and afterward, to keep my mother from being placed in a death house.

I moved over there from here, where I had been building my own house for a couple of years previous. I stayed with my mother for over two years, and it became a desperate struggle for her sanity or mine. Her loss of memory meant that I would inevitably win, but I couldn't stay and watch it happen. Finally my siblings stepped up. I've lived here alone since then, like I did before, like nothing ever happened.

I seem pretty sure there is quite a few people, particularly in the United States, who live alone and mostly prefer it. If the others are anything like me they feel betrayed by their culture. In my case, and in any Southerner's case, their culture was betrayed by the United States of America government, who criminalized our culture by an act of law. We were disenfranchised.

At first I thought it was for the best. I accepted this fate as well as I could and did what I could to go along to get along, but I'm beginning to see the erosion of the core values that made America a place where anyone could become an American. The world took America at it's word, and came here from everywhere. We've always been a melting pot. I'm afraid the melting pot is about to boil over the sides and put the fire out.

The military-industrial complex has pulled the rug out from us, and we can't cry out that we didn't know. We liked Ike, but did we listen? I'm deeply suspicious that the country will be divided up by war lords, and/or that there may be a consensus for Fascism that can't be stopped.

I feel safer for having written my lame anti-Bush diatribes now, but Obama prances and postures just like Mussolini. Both Leos. My dotage is beginning to look much more exciting. I may not get my wish to get shot dead by a jealous husband, but a firing squad is beginning to look auspicious compared to the hell-on-earth that's 'coming.