My feelings about politics is always the same. I don't want to condone what they do, so I learn to put up with what happens and don't complain about it. It is either that they do something, which affects us, or they don't do something, and it affects us.
Quickly, I must make a point here. The wars in the Middle East are not illegal because of why we are there. They are illegal because they are unfunded. Anything that is unfunded is illegal. Unions in the civilian world can collective bargain, but government workers should just be happy with what they get. If the money isn't there and they lose something, then they have to live with it, just like all the people in the real world that lost their jobs.
How can we forget that it was us, here in the United States, that fostered the crisis over what we consider Wall Street did. Wall Street, in other words, sold not only to us, but they sold to the World Market. Though everyone who bought into this scheme is at fault, we started it, and it is still resonating in the Global Reality. It is not just Wall Street that has perpetrated this, it is all those who got talked into this American Dream scenerio. It is also those people who knew they couldn't afford it, and did it anyway, and all those who for one reason or another forgot that if it looks too good to be true, it probably isn't.
What my greater notion is, is that you get what you pay for. My wife and I lived by the rules, lived within our means and did what we thought was best for us and the community we are part of. We shared what we have with those around us, and kept our family ties so we could celebrate the things we all cherish, whether it be holidays or birthdays or anniversaries.
My feelings here are and I am living with the consequences of the choices that people either who voted for them, or those that got themselves elected with whatever strategy they used to get there. I watch as my retirement plans dwindle, and the cost of living keeps going higher, because those who are in business just past the buck onto the consumer, while we suffer the outcome of their choices.
I wish I could calm the fears of anyone who is on a fixed income, and those who don't have jobs, but the truth is, if Occupy Wall Street doesn't have an affect, then we are in for some dark days ahead. No one on TV is going to do anything but preach to their own choir. So just please, whatever you do, just enjoy what you have, and trust that the Universe will wake up and set things straight, as it usually does. The system is working whether you admit to it or not, and as I heard when I was a child, change takes time. What a bunch of hogwash. As soon as the thought occurs, the matter is set in motion, and your world changes perspective, and it will come as an individual salvation. Change occurs one person at a time, and those who don't make the call, the Fat Lady Sings for Them, and no one seems to Cry for Argentina.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Owning the Three Act Stageplay of Your Life
As is in any symbolic gesture, such as life, one can act out anything they so desire, and put it out into the world, letting it manifest from the inside out, and consciously it shares the life and times of anyone in the form of a three act play. There is a contention here, by me, and not by all of you, there, that lives contain three acts, and for most of us, it is definitely an Off Broadway production, having been written by each individual Playwright.
Now in keeping with that symbolic gesture idea of scripting your own production, I plead my case, for most people, in whatever dramatic way they choose, life plays itself out in three distinct one act performances. Those of childhood, where you are part of a nuclear family, no matter the size or intentions contained in those eulogies, those of the vagabond years, where you find goals, try to understand the perimeters of your external world, and then, a choice between the continuation of self, and one of sharing the soul with another vagabond, as in a lifelong companion.
In my case, I chose, and I am claiming the territory here, where others claim the territory there, to have the sequences in my life being part of that nuclear family life in the first act of my stageplay, by being part of a military family, which every few years demanded that we pack our bags, and become a subplot in an ongoing first act. From time to time, you had to confront another topographical emotional framework, inundated with new characters, cultures and architectural landscapes.
After that ambitious choice for the first act, of a three act play, I chose to spend my vagabond years, expanding my perimeters, by studying, not in a classroom, or with any inherent goal in mind, different ways in which to grasp that family motto that the " Child " family ran up the flagpole one evening, around a campfire and some toasted Marshmallows, of "Imitate Rather Than Envy". It became not so perfectly clear where these smoke and mirror wisps would land me, but the concepts were as " Close to the Edge " as I desired to go.
Though I am now, in all it's glory and expansiveness, in that third act, and it will take me into somewhat of a "Swan Song", of caressing the boundaries of that elusive show stopper called "Matrimony", which unlike rehearsals I was afforded for the first two one act stage plays, there are no set perimeters and no directors barking out nuances of light, action, camera or "Roll Em", it is up to the two individual actors on stage to develop the plot as they trudge themselves thru both of their third of three one act plays. This inherent social protocol terrior, where two individual tunes become a harmony over the due course of time, disregarding the space so defined in the beginning and middle of this harbinger of infatuated neural activity becomes one of the most difficult, demanding, and often, if you will, most rewarding one act portion of the stageplay of anyone's life.
This soliloquy of the three act play of life has then been brought to you by that colloquial euphemism as it was "In the Beginning ", as it " Is Now", and so shall it " Ever Be", world without "End"...on with the your show, this is " IT ".
Now in keeping with that symbolic gesture idea of scripting your own production, I plead my case, for most people, in whatever dramatic way they choose, life plays itself out in three distinct one act performances. Those of childhood, where you are part of a nuclear family, no matter the size or intentions contained in those eulogies, those of the vagabond years, where you find goals, try to understand the perimeters of your external world, and then, a choice between the continuation of self, and one of sharing the soul with another vagabond, as in a lifelong companion.
In my case, I chose, and I am claiming the territory here, where others claim the territory there, to have the sequences in my life being part of that nuclear family life in the first act of my stageplay, by being part of a military family, which every few years demanded that we pack our bags, and become a subplot in an ongoing first act. From time to time, you had to confront another topographical emotional framework, inundated with new characters, cultures and architectural landscapes.
After that ambitious choice for the first act, of a three act play, I chose to spend my vagabond years, expanding my perimeters, by studying, not in a classroom, or with any inherent goal in mind, different ways in which to grasp that family motto that the " Child " family ran up the flagpole one evening, around a campfire and some toasted Marshmallows, of "Imitate Rather Than Envy". It became not so perfectly clear where these smoke and mirror wisps would land me, but the concepts were as " Close to the Edge " as I desired to go.
Though I am now, in all it's glory and expansiveness, in that third act, and it will take me into somewhat of a "Swan Song", of caressing the boundaries of that elusive show stopper called "Matrimony", which unlike rehearsals I was afforded for the first two one act stage plays, there are no set perimeters and no directors barking out nuances of light, action, camera or "Roll Em", it is up to the two individual actors on stage to develop the plot as they trudge themselves thru both of their third of three one act plays. This inherent social protocol terrior, where two individual tunes become a harmony over the due course of time, disregarding the space so defined in the beginning and middle of this harbinger of infatuated neural activity becomes one of the most difficult, demanding, and often, if you will, most rewarding one act portion of the stageplay of anyone's life.
This soliloquy of the three act play of life has then been brought to you by that colloquial euphemism as it was "In the Beginning ", as it " Is Now", and so shall it " Ever Be", world without "End"...on with the your show, this is " IT ".
Friday, November 11, 2011
Leftover Nunaced Noodles in the Take-Out Box of Life
Now throughout the strings that dangle from my rather obtuse life, I contend like any Quantum Yo-Yo champion that at the tender age of 3, I was aware of alternate realities that surrounded my presence of being here in what is mostly interpreted as physical reality. Though when I had that rude awakening of a few of the perspective cognitive thoughts that rattled by brain in the womb, from those pesky images in the neural pathways of spiritual guides, prompting me to remember their conversations, it was by and large a singularity that would dog me in later preoccupations with the present.
It is they would say, an individual responsibility when choosing to take on the unrecognizable philosophical highroads, to gather what wits you had at any given moment and be aware that the initial contact wouldn't necessarily show up as instantaneous feedback. Rather, they suggested, it might take years to make the connections on one or all of the linear projections that you would throw out into the Universe, at any given moment. So that old standby quote that patience being a virtue or that change takes time, could alternately become a question of space inside those neural pathways.
In my case, when I wasn't trying too hard to throw the first stone while living in that glass home of my brain, those provocative conversations in the womb, or as constant barrages, until I suddenly awoke at three, it was misinterpreted as though I was intellectually challenged and the solution at the time for this malady I was exhibiting was to send me to a phonics regime. It was then that I realized that keeping to myself was not a good thing, and that after I had been thru this phonic boot camp that I would abide by any social obligation or protocol to speak in no uncertain terms, what was considered complete sentences, rather than acting out my premonitions like some begotten charades interpretation.
Alas, though I was now accepting some of my chosen responsibilities as a teacher, a guide or so "Help Me Jesus", a healer, it was obvious that those around me might of wished that they had waited until I had let my own cat out of the bag, seeing as how my predilection to converse at any given moment, was now, in only in it's infancy, driving them up the proverbial wall.
I would take the opportunity at that point, to hone my embellishment skills so as to later help me in giving solace away in allegorical tales, from either my own personal experience with the outside world, or take something I had heard, and turn it into my own smatterings of understanding of the external world, so as to bear witness to these thoughts of alternate realities, or processes of thinking inside the take out box of lives.
It is they would say, an individual responsibility when choosing to take on the unrecognizable philosophical highroads, to gather what wits you had at any given moment and be aware that the initial contact wouldn't necessarily show up as instantaneous feedback. Rather, they suggested, it might take years to make the connections on one or all of the linear projections that you would throw out into the Universe, at any given moment. So that old standby quote that patience being a virtue or that change takes time, could alternately become a question of space inside those neural pathways.
In my case, when I wasn't trying too hard to throw the first stone while living in that glass home of my brain, those provocative conversations in the womb, or as constant barrages, until I suddenly awoke at three, it was misinterpreted as though I was intellectually challenged and the solution at the time for this malady I was exhibiting was to send me to a phonics regime. It was then that I realized that keeping to myself was not a good thing, and that after I had been thru this phonic boot camp that I would abide by any social obligation or protocol to speak in no uncertain terms, what was considered complete sentences, rather than acting out my premonitions like some begotten charades interpretation.
Alas, though I was now accepting some of my chosen responsibilities as a teacher, a guide or so "Help Me Jesus", a healer, it was obvious that those around me might of wished that they had waited until I had let my own cat out of the bag, seeing as how my predilection to converse at any given moment, was now, in only in it's infancy, driving them up the proverbial wall.
I would take the opportunity at that point, to hone my embellishment skills so as to later help me in giving solace away in allegorical tales, from either my own personal experience with the outside world, or take something I had heard, and turn it into my own smatterings of understanding of the external world, so as to bear witness to these thoughts of alternate realities, or processes of thinking inside the take out box of lives.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
The Trails that Mother Gives you, do do something after All
As the wisps of spiritual smoke billowed to the ceilings in my wishful thinking, one bore the tire tracks that earlier travels with the mystics imbibed in the shadows of the dusty trails my Mother had traversed, would of left if my Mother had just come to giving Me the medicine a tad bit earlier.
Why do we often find that though the lights were on the whole time, but for some reason or another, the doors were not open to those lives,and those lives, laughingly, were not at home. Shortly, as timelines go, or the strings to infinity dangled from my own ceilings, I was confronted with some of the biblical scribes that my Mother had left dangling amid the protocols of the meridians on life's highways and byways, leaving them instead to gather on their own, for most people, pervasive and unused moss laden paths.
Rather, as I was to find out, after her passing, that at 17 or 18, she was to take a fate filled voyage thru the rebirths of her multiple selves. She first took a train ride from Baltimore, Maryland, across Purple Mountains Majesties and Amber Waves of Grain, until she found the Pacific Ocean beckoning her to continue her quest.
From here, she found herself, as part of the freight,on a ship bound for Japan to initiate her survival modes with her new found Spouse. My Father, it seems, had not broken her Dreams, and she unlike Jack and Jill, would not fall down that slippery hill.
When, upon arrival, she found that my Father had been reassigned and she would have to talk a Five Star General into letting her go where no Woman had gone before, and was promptly shipped to China, where her and my Father would spend time, like his earlier assignment in Post World War II Japan, doing reparations and imbibing the cultural adaptations necessary for reconciliation purposes.
When those lines of communications had been telegraphed across the countrysides of China, and my Father was informed his next orders were to return to the shores of Japan to accomplish the same overtures, my Mother was told by a Four Star General she had to return Stateside, since no spouses of service members were allowed in their duty stations. To the credit of the multitasking High Priestess herself, my Mother soon had the Five Star General overruling the Four Star General.
So the trails are infinite that my Mother left me to follow in her footsteps, and though I often wonder where my paths would have led me if I had known these parables earlier, I do feel as if the Pills that Mother gives you, somehow, unlike Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane once cooed, do create something after all, even if they are given posthumously, when in silence and awe, everyone, with the lights on, was at Home.
Why do we often find that though the lights were on the whole time, but for some reason or another, the doors were not open to those lives,and those lives, laughingly, were not at home. Shortly, as timelines go, or the strings to infinity dangled from my own ceilings, I was confronted with some of the biblical scribes that my Mother had left dangling amid the protocols of the meridians on life's highways and byways, leaving them instead to gather on their own, for most people, pervasive and unused moss laden paths.
Rather, as I was to find out, after her passing, that at 17 or 18, she was to take a fate filled voyage thru the rebirths of her multiple selves. She first took a train ride from Baltimore, Maryland, across Purple Mountains Majesties and Amber Waves of Grain, until she found the Pacific Ocean beckoning her to continue her quest.
From here, she found herself, as part of the freight,on a ship bound for Japan to initiate her survival modes with her new found Spouse. My Father, it seems, had not broken her Dreams, and she unlike Jack and Jill, would not fall down that slippery hill.
When, upon arrival, she found that my Father had been reassigned and she would have to talk a Five Star General into letting her go where no Woman had gone before, and was promptly shipped to China, where her and my Father would spend time, like his earlier assignment in Post World War II Japan, doing reparations and imbibing the cultural adaptations necessary for reconciliation purposes.
When those lines of communications had been telegraphed across the countrysides of China, and my Father was informed his next orders were to return to the shores of Japan to accomplish the same overtures, my Mother was told by a Four Star General she had to return Stateside, since no spouses of service members were allowed in their duty stations. To the credit of the multitasking High Priestess herself, my Mother soon had the Five Star General overruling the Four Star General.
So the trails are infinite that my Mother left me to follow in her footsteps, and though I often wonder where my paths would have led me if I had known these parables earlier, I do feel as if the Pills that Mother gives you, somehow, unlike Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane once cooed, do create something after all, even if they are given posthumously, when in silence and awe, everyone, with the lights on, was at Home.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Real Strings of my Lives on my Violin
There you are floating serenely in warm superfluous calming liquid in your birth mother's womb. You are an intact consciousness, yet not a fully developed species, just a momentary embryo, waiting to exhale your first breath in an exterior physical reality, chosen, believe it or not, by yourself. You are being communicated to by spirit guides, who continue to persuade your intellect that when you actually arrive, on dry land, as it were, you will be responsible for remembering those keynotes in your concertos of Lives.
All along this road trip, one essentially calls Life, from time to time, will be the billboards of fate, dancing, singing, and sometimes ruthlessly begging for you to notice their prescence. As religious artifacts, or tightly strung strings on the violin, they could be called epiphanies. You don't have to give into the tinglings of humanity, the perfect tones coming from the musical instrument itself or divine intervention, although pleading out is so much easier when they're benign, rather than malignant.
In my own time, just around three years of age, I woke up and remembered there was purpose, responsibility and fates attached to keeping myself awake, aware, and going along with certain epiphanies, while ignoring others. One of those early billboards came while I was evading speaking in complete sentences, giving those who cared about me, concerns. As fate would have it, phonics, in their eyes, was the short term answer.
You can fight it all you want, but going along with certain programs brings calm and reassurance, to loved ones, keeping hind sights and detours from running the musical notes off the page. In my case however, after allowing Phonics to curtail my autism, my loved ones soon bore the hind sight, of maybe, leaving me to my own mystical concerts could of spared them from the onslaught my verbosity created. The string duet surrounding such an epiphany had taken a turn in both directions, for those who forced the initial foray of musical notes to the song, and for myself, when actually trying to play the violin concerto in whatever key it was transcribed in, when perchance, in later years my mother ubiquitously said, I will help you, if I can, if you have any questions, but I don't want to hear any complaints.
This meant for me, in so many words, that part of my decision to allow myself to indulge in free will, in physical reality, was when I forgot, or ran into screen doors trying to answer the phone, that I couldn't finger peck out that all too easy stanza, "Why Me". Instead, learning to accept the consequences of the musical nuances was part of the refrain that came with the conductor's baton.
All along this road trip, one essentially calls Life, from time to time, will be the billboards of fate, dancing, singing, and sometimes ruthlessly begging for you to notice their prescence. As religious artifacts, or tightly strung strings on the violin, they could be called epiphanies. You don't have to give into the tinglings of humanity, the perfect tones coming from the musical instrument itself or divine intervention, although pleading out is so much easier when they're benign, rather than malignant.
In my own time, just around three years of age, I woke up and remembered there was purpose, responsibility and fates attached to keeping myself awake, aware, and going along with certain epiphanies, while ignoring others. One of those early billboards came while I was evading speaking in complete sentences, giving those who cared about me, concerns. As fate would have it, phonics, in their eyes, was the short term answer.
You can fight it all you want, but going along with certain programs brings calm and reassurance, to loved ones, keeping hind sights and detours from running the musical notes off the page. In my case however, after allowing Phonics to curtail my autism, my loved ones soon bore the hind sight, of maybe, leaving me to my own mystical concerts could of spared them from the onslaught my verbosity created. The string duet surrounding such an epiphany had taken a turn in both directions, for those who forced the initial foray of musical notes to the song, and for myself, when actually trying to play the violin concerto in whatever key it was transcribed in, when perchance, in later years my mother ubiquitously said, I will help you, if I can, if you have any questions, but I don't want to hear any complaints.
This meant for me, in so many words, that part of my decision to allow myself to indulge in free will, in physical reality, was when I forgot, or ran into screen doors trying to answer the phone, that I couldn't finger peck out that all too easy stanza, "Why Me". Instead, learning to accept the consequences of the musical nuances was part of the refrain that came with the conductor's baton.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Halloween Parade at the Mortensen Household
The kids had come in costumes ranging from a Mermaid, to Captain America, to the Harley Davidson Man, to one of the characters in Toy Story, don't ask me who, and the adults came in disguises that only Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds would recognize.
After getting a few individual pictures, they all banded together and took a jaunt down Hoen Court. The neighbors all peeked out their windows, and some even came out to converse with the motley crew, as they passed by their homes on the Court.
When the procession ended, they all enjoyed a lunch from Togo's and then hopped in their vehicles and headed over to Howath Park, to continue the festivities with Ponies and Carousels, and later headed back to their personal domiciles.
One never knows, but always wishes, for the holidays to come with family gatherings and lots of laughs and talks about personal histories and going home with fond memories.
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