Masks - standing for justice when their aint no peace

Masks

‘standing for justice when their aint no peace’

 

Am I doing this for me, or for you? I am not too sure even myself.  But these masks we wear aint the ones of cloth or mesh you see, but the ones of hypocrisy. I don’t claim to be perfect, I know I never was, but I aint standing for this no more, Nah, I’m just done.

I aint standin’ for this justice, when their aint no peace.

We got our mommas screamin' in the streets, fathers wrapped up in black sheets, sisters cryin’ for brothers that aint comin’ home, brothers crying for sisters that got shot in their home. We told to take step back and breathe, but it's hard to breathe when you got that knee on my throat.

I aint standin’ for this justice, when their aint no peace.

We been told to get out the vote, and do, but when the choice is the lesser of two evils, we’re the ones getting’ screwed. We have to fight for our families, and we have to take old oaths made new, about brothers before blood, and swearin’ to be soldiers til we older to pay our due.

We aint standin’ for this justice, when their aint no peace.

The squared up black pixels aint fightin’ it when I’m blackin’ out, from all the pixels that aint moving, of all the death in my town. Yeah, we got power to change things, we got to take a stand, against that power, that evil puts man against man. Brother against brother, against mother, against man.

I aint standin’ for this justice, when their aint no peace.

Am I doing this for me or for you? You talk of promising peace and prosperity as long as we kiss that ring. But there aint no peace when someone gets shot. And only then, after days of screaming, do you come out. I see you in your mask, talking that talk, but when it comes down to it, the bottom line is money and power… and one of those we aint got.

I aint standin’ for this justice, when their aint no peace.

We’re done and we’re through, with all the lies you been feedin’,

We’re done with your justice.

You aint gettin’ any peace.

The Bootstrap Paradox – Dr. E. F. Mannum

If you don’t know what the “Bootstrap Paradox” is, I encourage you to look at it prior to reading this entry.

There are a myriad of items and artistic themes ranging from minimal to great importance such as the pencil, Beethoven’s Fifth, and the toilet bowl plunger, that have all become subject to this paradox since the prolific use of time machines in the late twenty-fourth century.

It began with the Society of Scientific Inquiry and Progress using the first time machine to go back and retrieve great minds of the distant past, transporting both over space and time, to inquire of them potential solutions to our modern day problems (growing lack of food supply, housing density, space exploration via the dark matter engines, etc.). What came from that what a rather interesting batch of questions.

Thomas Edison seeing the standard earbuds and holographic watch displays for communication, Jeffrey Gunderson having a sudden issue with our own plumbing after experiencing the need to “visit the lou”, seemed to us at the time, small things, inconsequential things, things that to us, at the time, were inconsequential.

At that time...

Now we have a come across the Bootstrap Paradox in our own lives and are left wondering where items originated.

I posit, that this items or artistic and creative creations do not conform to our notions of time. For these items, time does not exist to them, nor do their laws. They are eternal items and ideas, things only meant to be seen, spanning across time and space. These items do not exist on the time line, rather, the idea of a “time line” does not even apply. To attempt to apply time to them in a hypothetic of solving the paradox is useless.

The ever growing list of items that fall under the Bootstrap Paradox are ever growing, and we, as a culture, must understand that these items never NOT existed. Beethoven’s Fifth has always existed, but just needed to be seen by the right persons in the right places, in order to comply with our two dimensional time oriented brains.

With the advancement and understanding of dark matter engines, and the collective creation and manipulation of gravitational waves, and our furthered capacity to transcend space and time for discovery, our mindset must also shift to understand that time no longer applies, but rather, the discovery of ideas, of concepts, and cultivating creative minds in our future, so that when things are seen that, to us, fall under the Paradox, we can harness those opportunities, and recognize that in those moments, eternity is opening itself to us, and it is up to us to act upon those truths that transcend the laws we aspire to give them.

For the advancement of discovery, I bid you adieu –

Dr. E. F. Mannum

My give a **** system broke

Last week while attending a church service, I had the wonderful opportunity to listen to a woman give a brief sermon. She spoke of how her body was slowly killing itself, how her body was riddled with auto immune issues, and through the treatment,  contacted necrofacitis. Near death, and through medical and divine intervention,  she lived, though not without serious concern.

Her condition,  commonly known as POTS was combined arthritis made daily living difficult. Moreover,  as part of the treatment,  this woman had to have skin from her thigh grafted onto her abdomen in order to repair the skin and tissue the necrosis had eaten.

In conjunction with constant fatigue and joint pain,  she also pains similar to contractions every time she moves. Yes,  combatant labor pains.  For the men,  have someone take a 9 iron to your junk and then you might come close to understanding.

Yes,  someone always has it worse than you, situations could always go south, so forgive me if I don't give a **** about the following:

1. How you can't even with Trump
2. How you're single and life is hard
3. How your rights are being infringed upon because of some elected official
4. How you can't deal living within a liberal community
5. How the gov'mt is taking away your guns,  or taking away anything
6. Any other various grievance regardless of political persuasion
7. You don't have a safe space
8. The fact that you can't buy a bazooka
9. The fact that Trump is instituting a version of social health care.
10. Politics in general
11. Broken nails
12. Bad hair days
13. Bad days period

There is entirely too much other crap going on in the world,  others who suffer more, who would sacrifice all they have to migrate to your country,  to live under all that you agree or disagree with.

Simply put,  suck it up,  put on your big pair of under britches,  and deal with it instead of complaining how you can't even.

A reflection back, gives me a path forward

Last night, I was pondering my life, and where I was three years ago. I remembered an anxiety within me, a drive, something, some fire, some voice that told me that there was more out there. Change was coming. I could feel it in the very air I breathed. Minnesota was not where I needed to be in the long term. As great as my previous employer was and all the good I learned from them, my feet, my heart, everything within me was itching for something new.

I knew then, that there was something better, something more, something that God needed me to do. I recalled my earnest prayers with my wife at that time, asking to be ready for whatever came. The answer always seemed to be the same - wait, and be patient. Heather and I knew then, as much as we do now, that when God acts in our lives, it is with sudden haste and clarity.

Within a year, Heather's mom was diagnosed with cancer, and right then, at that moment, that very second, I knew that Washington was where I needed to be. But how to get there?  I had a significant financial obligation to my employer in regards to my scholarship that I received from them, and if I gave my two weeks, or month notice, or whatever, I would have had to pay them back  which my wife and I were not ready for.

A few months, later, my department was cut in half, and I my positioned was cancelled, the scholarship debt forgiven, and an open road to figure out how to get back to Washington. Through some miracle, we were able to get an apartment for an affordable rate, able to find work, and live closer to family.

As many of you know, last year, my Mother-in-Law passed away from that damned disease, and thanks be to God that we were as close to family as we were, to support each other through the next months and year.

Now that the storm has calmed, the anxiety within me has lessened, and I am left wondering to myself - "What next? How do I pick up the pieces and move on? What am I doing here? How can I ensure the best for my family?"

God brought us here, and here is where we plant our proverbial grain and lay down roots. We learn in Genesis that mankind is to eat bread by the sweat of our brow. The frantic energy of searching for God's will has changed, or is changing, into a focus to prepare for tomorrow and the years ahead, to build, to create, to strive for something greater and never settle for what is easy.

There will always be an emptiness from those that leave us suddenly, but we must move on. We must pick ourselves up, as broken as we are, and surround ourselves with those we love, and love them with all our heart. We must do all we can to care for those that are still with us, and prepare ourselves for whatever the future may bring. 

I survived the black plague

By the grace of God, I have survived the plague.

Yes, the plague, Yersinia Pestis, as in the black death.

When I was a little more than two years old, I somehow contracted the plague into my large intestine. There were two reactions.

The doctors wanted pictures to put into the textbooks, as it was a one a million medical discoveries. This picture could be very well have been from that day.

My mother and father were “getting my affairs in order” per the doctors instructions.

Obviously I survived.

There is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, a reason that I am alive. I could have very easily died that night and been taken back to that same God that gave me breath. God knows that I have contemplated, multiple times, with all the hell that I have lived through, all the hell I have raised, the mistakes that I have made, why I have been preserved?

I was born to fulfill a purpose. I am here today because there is a work for me to do. It could be that I am to solve some great societal ill or stop some great evil in the world in my day. It could also be that God needed someone to be a small light to the world, a small kind light to brighten the space around him.

I don’t know why yet I was preserved, but I was… and here is the important part.

If you are alive, you have purpose. God doesn’t make junk. You are not junk. You were made to do great things because you are great. 

Yellow Jacket - Pt. 3

Detective Samantha Andrews was on the scene thirty minutes after the call came in. Most of the time, the Seattle police department would be two to three hours after the initial call came in, giving her ample time to assess the crime scene prior to contamination.

Today, she was not so lucky. A body had been dumped on the southbound I-5 exit to Spokane Way. That morning, all of the local news stations were around the perimeter, getting glancing shots of the body. Ed Murray mandated that the force be present ASAP, as to put on a good show and delude any ideas that the police department was stretched thin and that the homeless problem was being well managed.

“That idiot,” Samantha thought. She got the call at 3:30, giving her enough time to put on her uniform, put her long blonde hair in a pony-tail and cap prior to heading out. It was 5:00 AM now. She was hunched over the body, taking pictures of the dried, foamy residue in the victim’s cheeks and chin. There was a white powder residue around the nostrils of the John Doe. The powder was swabbed and bagged for evidence. She assumed a cocaine overdose. Forensics would let her know otherwise.

Jammer, the coroner, was finishing up a temperature probe to determine time of death. He shook his head and then probed again. He was a short Caucasian man with inquisitive blue eyes and brown hair that beginning to thin at the crown of his head. He wore thin black rimmed glasses

“Jammer, what’s the issue?” Samantha asked as the probe broke the skin and headed towards the liver.

“The time line isn’t adding up. Of course I won’t know more until I get this back to autopsy, but we got the call at the witching hour of the morning correct?”

Sam nodded.

“Yet his core temperature is still above normal. Significantly so as a matter of fact.” He pulled the temperature probe out and showed the reading to the detective. The digital meter showed 102 Fahrenheit. “Perhaps he was put up against some burning barrel when he died, but for a core temp to remain so high, for so long would indicate an excruciating fever prior to his death. It is congruent with a drug overdose, but what drug our John Doe took here, we will have to wait and see.”

Just then, the detective’s phone rang. It was dispatch, and the news wasn’t anything she wanted to hear.

“Detective Samantha, we have multiple reports of body dumps in your area, with more coming in by the minute, the first address is-”

“Hold on. Do all the bodies appear to be death by overdose?”

“Yes Ma’am,” the dispatcher said.

“Email me the addresses, and I will get to them when I can.” She hung up the phone and looked over at Jammer.

“Homicide?” Jammer asked.

“How else could you explain multiple body drops of overdose on…” her phone beeped with the new email that came through. She scanned through the addresses, picturing them on a map in her head, “the most major interstate exits into Seattle,” she continued. “That white powder? Some new strain of cocaine you think?”

“I have seen multiple overdose cases,” Jammer started. “Heroin being the most prominent. But I have never seen temps this high, for this long. Whatever it was that he did overdose on, it isn’t something I am familiar with.”

“Let’s get these bodies back to the lab, and quickly prior to any further contamination.”

“Agreed.”

Most of the Seattle workforce was late to work with interstate exits being closed. Some called in sick, others who had the option of telecommuting did so at the first reports of a three hour commute from Everett to Seattle.

Talk show hosts either criticized or blamed the cities reaction to the homeless problem as the root cause of the dead bodies on the streets. Others stated the importance of utilizing and expanding mass transit and homeless outreach programs.

A week later, they were all but forgotten in the main stream media.

The mass spectrometer showed that the white powdery substance wasn’t cocaine or heroin exactly, but contained similar properties to them. From the particulates that they could find, the forensics lab concluded that the white powder was a new drug on the street, ten times more powerful the heroin, and seemed to be 100% more fatal. 

Clan of the Broken Banner - Part 8

Six months have passed since my incident on the ferry. My shirt still has a hole in it, but the more I think about it, the more I believe that the hole has always been in my shirt.

I place the blame of this self-doubt squarely on my therapist.

Who also placed me in an institution…

After I was adamant that someone is trying to kill me.

The pills they have me on mess with my head and my bowel movements. Some are for depression, and some are for neuro-chemical rebalancing. I am in a small room with an uncomfortable bed, too soft a pillow and scratchy blankets. I am not trusted with writing implements, plastic water cups, or even to take a shower in private. My room is also equipped with my own personal webcam, straight to the nurses’ station. I try to entertain them occasionally with one-line out bursts of Shakespeare.

As revenge for this hostile environment, I don’t shower.

I’m not sure how they expect someone to get healthy in this type of environment. If you aren’t mentally deranged coming into the third floor psyche, you will be going out. If you get out, that is.

On a plus side, I have had three episodes. One with a dog running in a road and me, as a boy, running into the road to save the dog from getting hit by a texting teenage driver. The boy’s leg was run over, but the dog was ok.

The second episode was a suicide jumper on Deception Pass Bridge in the middle of the night. The teenage boy, perhaps thirteen, was a runaway after his twin brother was hit by a car. Getting hit by cars seemed to be a theme. In it, I “self-talked” him off the bridge and hitch-hiked his way home. He was picked up by a police officer, and the episode ended.

The last episode was the night before last. Dinner was being served by a dad, or father figure, to two kids. I was one of the kids. A girl this time. The dad had put a turkey casserole on the table but had forgotten utensils. He asked his kids to wait, but a brother, older, stuck his fingers into the casserole and took a big bite. He swallowed quickly, and the food got lodged in his throat. I, as the younger sister, performed the Heimlich maneuver, sending the turkey and spit across the dining room onto the other wall.

On all three occasion, the “episode of neurotic and schizophrenic behavior” was countered with a quick shot of sedation, followed up with new pills.

[][][]

I am having a one on one discussion with my therapist, and my mind has trailed off again to the ferry ride, to my first episodes as a child, eating cereal in my parent’s kitchen. Ten years ago, this all started, and I thought it ended. 

I know someone is trying to kill me, and that these episodes are real. I am helping people (or dogs in some cases) live their lives, saving them one episode at time.

“Are you listening to me Mr. Bargrey?” The therapist is trying to get my attention again. I snap my attention to her. “Do you still believe that someone is trying to kill you? Do you believe that these dreamlike episodes you are having are real?”

I pause and smile.

“I think the drugs are working, and these therapy sessions have really helped,” I say.

“You have had three episodes in the time you have been here. And your charts say that you are refusing to shower or socialize with the other patients. Re-entering society calls for at least some formality of hygiene and etiquette. Your behavior doesn’t show that you really believe what you are saying.”

I look at the door, and the closed camera, and smile.

“Have you ever spent time, a considerable amount of time, in this place?” I ask.

“No, I can’t say that I have,” she replies.

“I would love for you to stay here, for as long as I have, without a means of artistic expression, 

crayon or pencil, no media, no stimuli whatsoever save for the white colored walls and the acoustic ceiling panels, counting every crevice and dot over and over and over again, while nurses, women and men, watch you relieve your bowels, and wash yourself to ensure that you don’t commit suicide via swirly in the toilet, or hanging by shower curtain, while listening to Joanna, the next room over, who swears that there are cats under her bead ever hour of the night… and tell me… honest to God in Heaven tell me! that you wouldn’t go a little insane.”

She pauses and jots some notes down on my chart and then puts it down. She folds her hands and 

leans closer to me.

“Mr. Bargrey, do you honestly believe your life is in mortal danger? That these episodes you are having are real.”

“I do not believe my life is danger, or that the episodes I have are real. But I would love some to keep me from dealing with this place.”

She picks up my chart and makes a few more notations.

“I will have you discharged in the morning Mr. Bargrey,” she smiles. “Try not to let the cats keep you up all night.”