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2006/8/1 Potira's Tears So Salo continued on his way through the jungle, heading due north just as the tamarin had told him. He wasn’t sure as if he was heading in the right direction or not since everything around looked the same. Salo was scared he wouldn’t make it back to Sao Paulo by midnight and he would miss his Chickanro celebration. He had to hurry if he was going to make it on time, so he began to run. He hadn’t been running long when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a little stream. He was very thirsty so he started walking towards it. As he got closer, Salo realized it was not a little stream; it was a wide river! He was very excited and leaned down to get a giant gulp of water. Just as he was about to put his hands in, he saw a great, big snake at the bottom of the river. Salo had read about these snakes in school; it was a very dangerous Brazilian rainbow boa. Salo was just about to run away when he noticed the snake seemed to be smiling at him. The snake swam up to the surface of the water, stuck his head out and said, “What do you need?! Go on! Get out of here!”  “Sorry…uh…I’m sorry,” Salo replied. “I was just going to get a drink, I’m very sorry, I will go now.” “Just get a drink, eh?” the snake asked. “Well, as long as that is all you are here for, hurry up and then get outta here.” “Why else would I be here?” Salo questioned. “Have you never heard the legend of Potira’s tears?” the snake asked. “No, no I haven’t.” “Well, let me tell you a story…” began the boa. “Actually,” said Salo, “I am in a hurry. I have to get to Sao Paulo and back to my village before midnight.” “Hmm…” said the snake. “If you listen to my story I will give you a shortcut that will save you much time. “Okay, it’s a deal,” said Salo. “Well, quite a number of years back, there was a village called Goias located here. There was a beautiful young woman named Potira, to whom the God Tupa had granted the beauty of flowers. There was also a young man, Itagiba, who was blessed with strength and bravery. The two fell deeply in love and lived peacefully for a few months. One fateful day, Goias got invaded and Itagiba, along with many other warriors, had to leave for battle. Potira was sad, of course, but she did not cry many hours like the other wives of warriors. In fact she never cried, and did not know why, for she deeply missed Itagiba. Every afternoon, she would come and sit on the shores of this river and listen for any signs of a boat coming down that would signify the return of her husband. Yet every afternoon, she sat in silence. One day, however, the silence was broken by the singing of Araponga announcing that Itagiba had died in combat and would not be coming home. As soon has she heard the news, Potira cried for the first time ever. For the rest of her life, Potira sat by this river and cried without ever speaking again. Legend has it that God Tupa was so touched by her suffering that he turned Potira’s tears into diamonds so the memory of the love would last forever.” “Wow,” said Salo. “Is that true?” “Well, son, I’ve been searching this river for three years now and haven’t found any yet. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t here somewhere. Now get on outta here and leave me alone.” “Wait, what about that shortcut?” “Ahh yes. See that clump of vines and figs over there by the stones?” “Yes.” “Well, they don’t look like much, but if you clear those out of the way, and head straight through, you should be in Sao Paulo before you know it.” “Thanks.” “No problem.” Image Info: Crying woman statue. Website: Brazilian Rainbow Boa Weblink: http://www.vpi.com/5VPIBreeders/BrazilianRainbowBoa/BrazilianRainbowBoa.htm
Bibliography: "Potira's Tears" 2006/5/12 SADDAM THE ARTIST BOOK WRITER.... NOW I REALLY SEE ORANGESaddam novel to hit Japan shelves
By Deborah Cameron, Tokyo
May 13, 2006 Saddam: new book a 'morale' booster. AdvertisementAdvertisement A HISTORICAL novel by Saddam Hussein is to be published in Japan next week. The book, Devil's Dance, never before released, has been translated from Arabic to Japanese. Tokuma Shoten Publishing Co, a respectable publishing house with ties to the Oscar-winning animation studio of Hayao Miyazaki, has been involved with negotiations about the book since early last year. The former Iraqi president's novel is about a tribe living on the Euphrates River 1500 years ago, according to a publishing company spokesman, and central to its plot is a victorious war of resistance after an invasion by another tribe. "I think the former president expected a loss (to the US-led coalition forces) and was writing this novel as a message aimed at raising morale among Iraqi people," the book's translator, Itsuko Hirata, told the Kyodo news agency. The former Iraqi leader, now on trial in Baghdad for war crimes, is said to be a prolific note-taker in the court and has written other novels including Zabeiba and the King and Get Out, Damned One, a tract banned last year in Jordan. Reportedly finished by Saddam on the eve of the US-led invasion in 2003, it is the story of an Arab warrior who vanquishes a foreign intruder. The translator of Devil's Dance is a freelance journalist with a passion for Iraq and who, apart from reporting on it, is involved in a charity that provides medical supplies and volunteers to hospitals in the war-affected country. It is believed that Ms Hirata received the manuscript for the novel via Saddam's defence team. It had been kept safe since the invasion by his daughter. 2006/5/8 Talking about Welcome to AnneRice.Com!
I have read all the books of Anne's She has a new books surprisingly about Jesus I hope the library has a copy.....I plan to read it also.....
I enjoy the way her words flow and her ideas are so profound and mind stretching.
Just visit to hear the lovely music is so calming is a live recording. Enjoy.................................................... ( this comes from strollerguys space... he is a great upcoming writer visit his space for a great read!) Welcome to AnneRice.Com! 2006/4/22 Talking about Carl Jung - "inner space" was his life work. This psychological insights and spiritual wisdom is what I like to read....
Moon , came by asking for information about the Big Bang Theory and references to Kabalah for those go to: http://www.Kheper.net/essays/Tikkun_and_Big_Bang_Theory.html or http://www.kheper.net/topics/Kabbalah/LurianicKabbalah.htm http://www.Kheper.net/essays/Tikkun_and_Big_Bang_Theory.html And for a really interesting time read MOON's Space SHE IS AWESOME! Carl Jung - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia 2006/3/18 EVERYTHING ASKED FROM YOUTH, BUT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW, BLISS ON YOU!LIVING IN A BLOGGING WORLD, i AM TRYING TO KEEP MY BOOK UP TOP SO YOU CAN SEE WHAT IAM DOING, BUT STILL I BLOG ... IT IS NOT AS EASY AS I THOUGH... I tried to blog the entire first chapter but it is not doing it... for the complete first chapter please go the the section BOOKS LISTED HERE ON MY SPACE... SCROLL DOWN A FEW HALF COPIED BLOGS OF THIS SAME CHAPTER UNTIL YOU GET TO THE ORIGIANAL WHICH I HOPE YOU TAKE THE TIME TO READ AND GIVE ME REVIEWS AND COMMENTS. LOL EVERYTHING ASKED FROM YOUTH, BUT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW, BLISS ON YOU! 2006/3/17 Talking about EVERYTHING ASKED FROM YOUTH, BUT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW, BLISS ON YOU!
chapter one with intro EVERYTHING ASKED FROM YOUTH, BUT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW, BLISS ON YOU! 2006/3/16 EVERYTHING ASKED FROM YOUTH, BUT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW, BLISS ON YOU! CHAPTER TWOA DETAILED RESEARCH-AND A TRIP TO THE SHRINK
His door was forboding, and I crept up to it as if to enter a prison cell.
What was I going to say? Would he have the answers? If he did not would I go to the Golden Gate Bridge and take a flying leap?
I went to the puplic library today for several hours earlier to orientate
myself to the many charator roles I could portray, to this scholar of wisdom. Play the victom, or psycho? I learned alot today, here is a serious look into my problem. In essay form, hope you can follow along.
Definition:
A form of exposition (an explanatory treatise) to define is to explain.
Meaning of definition to recognize and understand a single enity from
any other enity. To distinguish = definition.
To define Myself~phobia, is to find some means of isolating Myself~
phobia from all other things, especially from those things that
superficially resemble it. Hmmm.
Myself~phobia refers to a combination of features possessed by no
other thing. But to find this combination of distinguishing features
is not always easy. (Like da!)
There are many ways to define many complicated questions of
psychology and philosophy and logic. These questions are concealed
in the intellectual operation of this word Myself~phobia.
In one sense, the term Myself~phobia is merely a sybol, a combination
of sounds made by the vocal apparatus, a certain combination of
letters that stand for this sound.
In an other sense Myself~phobia signifies the physical object,
the face I see in my mirror (as I pinch myselfs) or a stubbed toe. Or
the unphysical feeling inside my mind. The thoughts and emotions
caused by Myself~phobia. It's easy to say the word, but I am dealing
with the THING!
I am trying to give you my Reader, as best I can accurate and
factual information about what a Myself~phobia attack is. In some
particular frame of reference. A definition of the enity. I am concerned
with the analysis of the THING. With it's fractured parts, it's nature,
function and purpose.
I want you my Reader to understand the real definition of Myself~phobia, the THING, and not the latter nominal definition the
simple vocal word, concisting of the letters M-Y-S-E-L-F-P-H-O-B-I-A.
But what I really feel.
This book is my contribution as an original, creative thinker. A
pioneer in my reasearch subject of Myself~phobia. I want you the
Reader to think deeper than just the nominal definition of the term
Myself~phobia and let my stranger than fiction story, teach and to
forwarn you. Beware! Of the dreaded curse, Myself~phobia can get ya!
Is not it a wonderful and mind-boggling world!?#* One of man's
greatest achievements, is our ability to use words. With words we
are able to think clearly about things, to devise new concepts and
to gain increasing mastery over our world. Words let me touch you.
Reader, passing the "WORD" is therefore among the most important
of our intellectual activities! I am proud to write this story! Sort of
like the relief of passing gas, or passing the buck, maybe passing in the
fast lane.
I like my talking freely to myselfs and you, it seems to help express.
I am concerned with deepness. I do not want this book to be
haphazard. I want energy and thought put into it. My advise to myselves
is not to try and push it, too hurriedly. Let the reasons unfold.
So I'll delve deeper, it's there. Like the spiraling Golden Mean.
X:Y = Y: X+Y. Having the quantity of value intermediate between
the values of other quantities.
SEARCH FOR IDENTITY
Essentially what is an identity. If you look down a crowded street
you see all types of identities scurring about. You can classify them
into four classes.
National Types- the typical Irishman, Englishman, Pole, or Jew.
The Occupational Type- the typical cowboy, housewife, hooker, disc-
jockey, and the bum.
The Social Type- the typical women's liber, conservative republican,
bachelor, the perfect hostess (with the mostest) and lastly...
The Personality Single-Trait Personified- the nervous-man, the happy-
go-lucky, the worry-wart, the GIRL WITH THE MYSELF~PHOBIA!
God no! Is that my identity? To have an identiless, identity??? Actually those are not true identities at all. But only the single
characteristic abstracted from an observation called a single trait
personified.
Whenever I assume a false identity, or false charactor, I single out
a single characteristic I have observed in others ,during my search
for true identity.
To creat the many dimensions to my false identity roles, I find
nationality, occupational, social roles, and direct personalities easiest
to assume and mimic.
My charactors can acquire more than one trait and become more like
an idividual. I am great at impressionistics. I can round my charactors
out. I can see my charactors as mysterious, a bundle of contradictions.
Or, I may see beneath the variety of my charactor's traits to a pattern
that reveals truth about human behavior and values, awesome don't you think!
Did you ever think how people react differently to different personalities.
To a sloppily dressed geek tomboy carrying a fishing pole, or to a
cheerful smiling young girl. I find a character's appearance, clothing,
and possessions are clues to identities.
So I use props. Yes, props could be a whole chapter unto it's self (I got boxes full of miscellanous stuff).
I study peoples surroundings and enviroments, for these too are
extensions of identities.
In my vast studies of observing other peoples, in search of my own
true identity, I try to view the individual in a wider perspective.
Observing their relationship to society. What they like and dislike, what
goals they are seeking, what they value most.
I even watch them in conflict with others, and how others relate and
react to them. What others say about them... In short even the impact
of that individuals true identity upon the Earth! The course of history! I try to get the whole complex picture. In a snapshot.
I am interested in identities in their motivations, their eccentricities,
in the fascinating variety and complexity that make up the human comedy.
For that reason any individual no matter how great or how obscure is a
pleasure and envy for me to methologically observe.
Every move they make, every breath they take, I will be watching ...
I can reach out and touch an identity, but when I touch my own skin
it feels like Myself~phobia. Who am I? What am I? Why am I? and
where the hell is my identity? And Brain goes into a tizzy.
Another side of me (selfs) feels people who explore the human
identity are dealing not with science but with ART! Observation,
hunch, insight, there is a nagging sense in my gut of something being
out of whack, wrong inside, and to these people who zig-zag off the
socially accepted course (like myselfs) we are offered little support by
society.
Gossip sets us apart as strangers, because we challenge conventional
wisdom and threaten the rest of the flock. Spending life in a
transient state. Skipping from one limited personal encounter to another.
IDEALS- What are ideals?
Speaking of the past as nostalgia, safe today , but it doesn't stay that way. Not the same as then, and I thought then was forever. I find myselfs in a total mental blitz. Turning for the help of a shrink, I am rebellious, listless, jumpy, seized by sudden and riotous swings of moods. Cramped by anxiety, I cannot sleep or work.
Neighbors whisper that I am suffering from a mysterious malady and
I hold on to inflexible ideals. Gripped with a negative view of myselfs
and in the throngs of hostility to my family. A drop-out from my job and
school, a perfect nobody! If I do not find myself soon...(BOOM!)
Wondering, I sit in the straight backed chair,(if a gradual progressive identity formation comes only for Harvard men?) as I have an appointment with a Harvard shrink in the next room. Will he say let me be your Guru, and let me explain andexpand your conseption...
Back to you my Reader. The four normal positions during the identity
formation process is...The Moratorium Group- not yet made a
commitment or invested much of themselves in other people.
About their own values they are still very vague. Delaying commitments
while actively struggling to find the right ones. They are in a crisis state.
The Identity-Foreclosed Group-have made commitments without
crisis, they passively accept identity molds their parents cut-out for them.
They respond to authoritrians, a locked-in group.
The Identity-Diffused Group- like the moratoruim group, but unable
to rebel against their authority figures always feel like misfits, immobolized
by feelings of inferiority or alienation. Not driven to do much about it,
they shrink from the task of defining what they want or how they feel.
Identity-Achieved Group- has been in crisis and come throught it.
Woohoo! They have developed a sustained personal stance with regard
to sense of purpose and view of the world. A crisis appears to be necessary before identity can be fully achieved...
"LIZZY BLISS!" the shrink from Harvard bellows at me,"You are in a crisis period."
"But doctor what about my Brain, it talks to me..."
"Come back next Tuesday, I want to see you once a week..."
"Hehehe" Snickers my Brain,"Message from a mystic, seek an idea
to believe in, find a hero to copy, and rule out what you don't want
to do with your life." Oh! My god, my Brains trying the shrink me out!
Ok, I am back at home and I got a notebook and pen for taking notes.
I brought back from the public library loads of books to try and help myselfs...
A CAUSE GREATER THAN
The 1950's were the silent generation, ideas of qualifing for the real
world were seeking togatherness at home. Drinking and hot-rodding as
the chosen experiments for inheriting privileges of adulthood. These were the "Rebels without a cause".
The 1960's, Kennedy said,"Follow me in a cause greater than yourself."
This was the egalitarianism era = equanimity and equality or Peace and
Freedom Movement. This ideology raised the expectations of every
social class, race and person. The heightened idealism of a young
generation raised the world a degree seldom before paralled in the world.
They wanted work to be meaningful, institution to be changable, liberation
to be achieved and life to have new heightened experiance. But the War
in Vietnam dragged on. Monies dried-up. Causes dissipated, leaders
all died or lied. The War ended in relief and exhaustion.
The 1970's , NO MORE UTOPIAS, reduced hopes, but still a sense of
optimism. Current ideology mix of personal survivalism, revivalism and
cynicism. Their beliefs are in education and or gaining of skills.
THE INFANTILE CHARLATAN
The door to adulthood for a girl female identity is the Cinderella Dream,
the "COMPLETE ME". Young ladies taught it's marriage that will complete them. Their own inner timidity allows this way of thinking, they want to believe that a man will complete them and keep them safe. Marriage
brings a foreclosure of identity. The commitment of life to being a wife
is made before the individual herself is allowed to struggle with and
select from the possible life choices. Ladies who never had an identity
crisis, never quite grew-up. The assumption is they can piggyback
development by attaching themselves to a stronger one, Tarsan the ape man.
SELF-DECEPTION
Is the modus operandi. If we did not believe in the omni-potent force
of our intelligence, convinced we can will ourself into being whatever
kind of person we wish to be,it wouldn't make sense to try. We have
illusions (Hell yes!) believing we are independent and competent enough
to master the external tasks. Illusions maybe essential to infuse our
first commitments with excitement and intensity and to sustain us in
those commitments long enough to gain us some experience in living.
Hmmm....
LOGIC
Can not penetrate the loneliness of having no identity. Robert W. White
wrote, "When one cannot bear to be a white sheep, it is preferable to be
a black sheep than no sheep at all." (Baa-baa have you any wool?)
FEED-BACK FROM THE HARVARD SHRINK
It's Tuesday and I am back here at the Shrink's office. "Lizzy you are
evading your own painful developemental task. You have aquired the
phobia inorder to shift authority taking place internally." He takes a puff of his pipe,"It is merely an external transfer of control. Portraying yourself
as a rebellion of the Brain, it is really a forfeit of yourself in the vain hope
that something else will direct you to real life and absolute truth!" Then he paused for effect, stern look on his face."You are definately identiless
and in a period of transition. I find you very charismatic , and volatile,
you conciter yourself an exotic, or ruthless revolutionary. Searching to
"Know-thy-self", wrestling with the problems of security, acceptance,
control, jeolousy, rivalry. You are tender loving, competitive , cruel.
These all form parts integral to our distinctive charactor."
"Doctor, I feel I am on the threshold..."
"I would like to take you home with me, but I am a man of principal."
What the hell! I am thinking.
"Lizzy I advise you to get involved in a group. To give emotional feed
back.." a glance at his watch advised me my time was up.
NOTE TO YOU READER:
I just reread these thoughts and realize that the plot of this book has
not been developed enough to gell. I need to toy with the ideas here
alittle more. In my head I see me writing the story two ways, and they
are very different. One is on a phycilogical point of view, and the other
a comedy for entertainment.
I see two stories here. I am trying to combine, into one. I don't
feel they go togather...but they do?! Plot, plot, plot...
Why am I telling this story to you Reader (Imaginary persons)?
You see, says me(s), the reason I have unfolded my lifes whole crazy
story to you is so I can make a mark in this vast society of ours. Pass
the WORD around, true Bliss is spreading the WORD. So tell all your
friends to read this book before Myself~phobia gets them! Thank you for
your divided mental attention, and Bliss on you. It's been a grand slam
experiance this far!
An artist told me this once,"Take all that negative energy and take all
that power, and use it. Turn it into possitive." (Jose Felicianno really said this to me)
End of Chapter Two... what is next?
EVERYTHING ASKED FROM YOUTH, BUT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW, BLISS ON YOU!"Everything asked from youth, but you didn't want to know,
bliss on you!" By Rainbow Swartz
This is an abstract, off-the-wall farse. To amuse yourself when you are
terribly hard up, or turned down. All about a young girl's high
energy aura. A teeny-bopper girl named Lizzy. Lizzy is prone to
confussion, about whom she is and what the tic-and -toc she should
do with herself. In this world, and undefined aureole plateo called
LIFE. Lizzy acquires a phobia and becomes paranoid to the MAX!
Not liking herself too much and being a deeply promiscuous sort,
she begins to search the world over for "TRUE IDENTITY". She
is accompanied by her nagging arch enemy, her own brain.
The brain is her phobia and constant alert companion during
this soul searching pilgrimage.
Essentially Lizzy is telling about her off- the -wall thoughts, relating
to precarious past and present experiances. Delving into the
fanthom-depths of her young conscience. She is trying to convey
and express a youth crisis that occurs to us all at the fine ripe
age when we come face -to- face with the mortal reality of
real life. We are no longer a child. We have blossomed into a
maturing adult. Lizzy reveals depths of our own mazes, that
we creat. Questions we all at sometime ask, they are asked
by this sarcastic bubble-headed lass.
The sustenance and unrefined techniques of this writing style, will
be ruff in this barbaric fiction. Because I simply have never
written before. This first attempt to write shall certainly give an
all -out-effort at a rambuncious attempt at "IN" creativity and
flaring style.
Doesn't everyone wish to write a novel? A book with a strong
beat? Rhythm and flow, like a motion in writing. With actual
tantilating sensation like feeling music. Ah! When you believe
enough and insist on describing the world as a vision, dealing
with the salt and wine of life, you are working with thunder!
lightening! a tornado! Because life is real action, real
happening and a dam joke! With a dash of magic?!#~
Intro by Rainbow Swartz
CHAPTER ONE ; I HAVE A PHOBIA
These days everyone and everything is terribly busy. Out-to-lunch, the world has turned into a giant hyper yo-yo! A hective growing mass of
total confussion, a souffle' of inept. All the crowded freeways, computerized department stores, and time cards. Plus, alcoholics anominous is keeping all the world, and his sibering wife, sucking a
pacifier.
So take it easy, relax. Take a deep sigh of relief, now another.
Stretch your body, scratch or pick your nose. Prepare yourself, I am
going to tell you a story.
"Prehaps you are one of the ill-fated fools, unlucky person, unfortunates
to be inflicted with the worst case of rheumatism, gout, shingles, milk-leg
sores, face aque, swelled breasts, yuck piles, ring-worms, quimsy, and a heavy case of the unforgetaable big croup...then you may be just forsaken
enough to have spare time to pick-up this quite absurd so-called story
and read this far? Well, keep reading I always say you have to know
the bad to know the good."
"Living in the diversified depths of this planet earth, in a vast tangled web of metropolism, lives a short plump, buck-toothed, wide-eyed, pimple-blemished, fair-haired, scatter-brained youth. With delusions of
egalitarianism, idealism, and longer legs. Named Lizzy Bliss, born on an
autumn morning across the street from a park named Fairyland, that is
located in Oakland, California. Her mother always said she hardly had
time to walk in the hospital door, she came out like a thud. Now the youthfultender age of puberty vs. adulthood, fifteen going on sixteen. (This is not another Gidget story!)"
"For the sake of a deeper understanding and closer communication, I
need to relate to you, out there. so I will just refer to you as "READER".
Said with a twinkle in my cat-green emerald eyes,"Today you find
this plumb goose exercising my all-American right to freedom of
speech, and of day-dreamer's paradise. Yes, indeed, I am loafing
away my afternoon her in my sticky sweaty devan, on this muggy smog
ridden summer afternoon. Late into August, breathing soot air in
Santa Clara Valley, "Valley of the Hearts Delight", or the Silicon Valley.
While gazing peculiarly out from this hective mass wonderland world,
and I ask myself frankly,"WHY?" Silence, I hear no reply. Figured so.
I continue to look-up pondering all sorts of wild unorthodox thoughts.
Buck-teeth showing threw the big grin on my lips, my tan is shimmering
quite nicely in the California's sun haze, proudly I think to myself.
Innocent moonface child asks,"Personally do you believe in dropping the bomb first? I will let you (my monochrome reader) in on my very, very
private secret. Just like on T.V.'s WHATS MY LINE,(a horn blows in my minds-eye announcing ta-da!) I have a phobia." I pause to get my bearings, on how to explain this to you. "This phobia has been my shadow or dark cloud ever since I turned three years old. Other people joke and refer to them and their shadow, but not good ole me. I relate
to Lizzy Bliss, shadow and the cursed brain! NO JOKE! Folks it
causes me great stomache spasms!!
I just don't know what to do with me! OH, I 'm sure this odd confession must be terribly difficult for you my lucid reader to comprehend. Especially since I have absolutely zelch-belch professional writing abilities.
Only perserverance and ten fingers, guiding me along these blaring
white pages. You are the reader and I am but the humble writhering
writer, there is nothing substantial for me to grasp on too. At least you can hold on to this book! But as far as I know you could of already
demolished and tore me up! Or , are perhaps burning me at the
stake, this absolute very instance.
This is an eternal moment! Forever ENGRAVED in my notorious soul. So, dig your heels in and take the bull by the horns, and I'll keep the sacrid writers faith. Whatever that is? Degravation is deeply felt.
"Vital data, that just might help focus some insight into my mind.
Give you a more vivid picture. Help you to grasp the embarrassment to
my deranged and burdensome problem." I am writing vigorously
and with total candor. Revealing my essence. Tingling twinges of
conscience, sparatically run up and down my french-fried back.
"The Brain and I work on the simple principles of down and out
confusssion. Not to be carelessly confused with Confusious as in
Buddha. But, confusion as related to disorderly, mixed-up, and a
precise fifteen billion piece jig-saw puzzle. Jigs up! To deal with this
moon-faced-lass on a astral plane, you face an impulsive, negitive,
teeny-bopper on a speeding merry-go-roung. Catch me if you can!"
"If you only knew the maddening hours and days I have spent
exuperantly trying to reason with myself. Trying pathetically to
convince ME to get it togather, to put this voluptious human-train
in motion. To get this steam engine moving, and to pull the
loud earthshaking whistle! But, so far my Brain is playing it safe
it's hiding in the caboose!", sipping from a red striped straw, and
gurgling in my chery cool-aid I hee-hum.
"In actuality we are searching, pursuing the Golden Fleece... True Identity. But I am beginning to think identity is but another fluke, black-hole, fairytale, leaky fountain of youth." Thinking I should get to the nut of
the problem, "It's a phobia...bet you can't guess what kind? MYSELF, myself!"
Laying here on my sticky wicky devan, in preparation for my
dreaded daily ATTACK OF MY-SELF PHOBIA. I can certainly feel it
creeping nearer. Let me be perfectly frank with you, my hueless clueless reader, let me lay it all on the line. Spell it out in type written words,
the truth so help me God! Junipher mint-tulip! I.A.M.P.A.R.A.N.O.I.D.
of myself! No matter how far or where I run, I 'm always there!"
"This probilby sounds far-fetched and mostly peculiar, or at least a
a little odd, but if you knew me you would certainly understand." I say with a flustrated look pressed on my face. Brow is wrinkled, eyes
wide and twitching. A fierce sigh, trembles on my quivering lips.
"It's my BRAIN! It's out of it's ever-absent mind! Let me explain this
strange phenomenon extraordinar' more clearly. Whenever I get
an attack, which is so infuriating, my booby-brain starts thinking...
Who am I?... Like a virus out of control, the chinx flu. Then it
thunders outragous thoughts flashed wildly at me...What should I do?
I am bored! ... What's my purpose! ...and after awhile the Brain begins
throbbing and pulsating with a headache. Oh! Screaming out brash
abusive insults! Like ,YOU STINK! YOU"RE A NOBODY! A LOSER!
A BIG FAT SHORT LEGGED CRYBABY! The repetition is mind- boggling. Until finally exasperated on the edge of total exaustion,
I swallow a handful of white asprins, gulp down liquid and drench
it out! Like putting out a fire."
"Why couldn't I be normal and just have a nasty case of indigestion
like everyone else? OH! Thorn-thistle!", wiping the sweat from this
strained brow, I turn over to french-fry my stomach side, and to
reorganize my blurry thoughts. " Caotic, is my middle name. Once
in awhile my flustrated Brain will go on a wild rampage infuriated
throwing a wild fit for days-no-end-in-sight. The Brain has a terrible
temper. One time I was spending a joyful time listening to Janis Joplin
greatest hits on the headphones of my record player. Brain was mad, because I would not pay attention and listen to it's outragous ravings. Brain willed me to pick up that sweet music box and toss it! Right out the bedroom window! Down to the cement pavement below. Never to be heard from again. Once the Brain makes up it's mind (my mind) there's no stopping it. Poor record player! I know you must think I am insane,
perhaps I am."
Stopping to stretch this pencil worn hand and adjust my prespiring
carcuss that is sticking firmly to this devan. Thinking the temperature
must be near 102 degrees. "Are you the reader following this flakery
plot? I wonder. For many pain throttling adventurous years,
me and brain have been on earnest conquest. What have we to show?
Flat zero. No identity, I am beginning to feel like just another
Don Quiotex smoe, double smoe!" seriously now ," Lately I have been
contemplating assuming a false identity, again. What a jail house
riot! It is not all that simple. You can find yourself in some pretty
awkward situations. Plus even alot of horrendous troubles. For example,
and explanation sake, let me give you a for-instance. I remember
vividly last year... a time I intoxicatedly forgot who I was suppose to
be at a crowded friends party.
Picture this sad escapade, there I was with Brain, at some cold social gathering stuck for words. Brain stuck for insults, all because we had no inspiration. No "natural" inspiration, that having a true precious identity would of given us.
There we were trapped in the throngs of this O-beast social clutching party. Slowly we are edging our way backwards out of the heckeling crowd. With only the fortitude of our alcoholic beverages giving us any
courage. Backing up, up, up and hoping knowbody with their smug
little identities looked our way. Because frankly we did not know how, or which way to look them back in the eyes. Heavens to Betsy! Shit faced!"
"If indeed identity is something bestowed when you are first conceived
then someone miss-bestowed me! And said, "BLISS ON YOU! Sweetheart."
In my vacarious opinion an identity should be knowing who the hell
you are. Just what you need, which direction to cross the street of life.
Knowing how to make responcible mature decisions for yourself. I can
almost taste the pure virture and pious dignity the complete sense of
peace, I imagine an identitiy must give the more fortunate bastards!"
"I've always been a pro at assuming multitudes of fake identities. What
a frolic to lose yourself in the role you are playing. The momentary
pleasure of being someone, or think you are. It always has felt so
safe to pretend. The momentary security of feeling whole. But, it
always is a fantasy, and the illusions soon fade away into the sunset.
I was always terribly influenced by televison, movies, even radio.
So much so that knowone would sit and watch any vampire or
horror shows with me and Brain. For they would fear who I might
turn into, Frankenstines Bride? Creature from the dark lagoon?
A true pro at whipping the identities out, one-right-after-another!
Trying them on hap-hazardly for size and feel. Sadly never finding
the right one... my own identity! Alas!"
End of Chapter One.... more to come when my hands can write...
this is crimping me fingers! 2006/2/23 The Internet Classics Archive: 441 searchable works of classical literature
You can download these famous books and read The Internet Classics Archive: 441 searchable works of classical literature 2006/2/18 Jack London's Birthplace, Burned and now is only a historical markerthe son of the wolf the god of his fathers children of the frost the cruise of the dazzler a daughter of the snows the people of the abyss the faith of men the sea-wolf war of the classes the game tales of the fish patrol moon faces & other stories white fang before adam love of life & other stories the road the iron heel martin eden lost face revolution & other essays burning day light the cruise of the snarksouth sea tales the house of pride a son of the sun smoke bellew call of the wildthe night-born the abysmal brute john barleycornthe valley of the moon the strenght of the strongthe mutiny of the elsinore the scarlet plague the star roverthe little lady of the big housejack london the writer
Jack London:Jack London's Birthplace(Jack London Ranch Album) 2006/1/8 Welcome to AnneRice I have read all of her books
Quote what can i say Anne Rice is an unusual writer. I was entranced for a few years of reading her. I checked out tickets to her show Lestat and is too much money, for me. I almost would go to play, but I think spending money on more wise thing. I could help someone in Pakistan instead..... Welcome to AnneRice.Com! |
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