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“When that time comes, Mikha’el, the great prince who champions your people, will stand up; and there will be a time of distress unparalleled between the time they became a nation and that moment. At that time, your people will be delivered, everyone whose name is found written in the book. Many of those sleeping in the dust of the earth will awaken, some to everlasting life and some to everlasting shame and abhorrence. But those who can discern will shine like the brightness of heaven’s dome, and those who turn many to righteousness like the stars forever and ever.
But you, Dani’el, keep these words secret, and seal up the book until the time of the end. Many will rush here and there as knowledge increases.”
One morning you awaken, just like you have 12,786 other days in your life, and you realize that it is over with. Men march off to war, and the old warhorse in you wants to march off with them, knowing far more about the wretchedness of war than the most vocal peacenik would ever know. Not that they really care. They are driven by fine words and platitudes.
Wages rise, wages fall. Mankind’s old discredited philosophies of government become brand new to a clueless generation. You rise up from your chair in protest, but your voice is lost in the clichés of a new movement. And you throw up your hands and sit down in bitter dissent.
But that is the way it has always been. When the klaxon sounds, will they realize the danger they are in? Not that many could tell you what a Klaxon is anymore. I suppose Klaxon’s have been replaced with a melodic chime and a calm, carefully worded virtual voice.
My generation saw the excesses of three merciless dictators. One was defeated by the world. One was defeated by its on excess. And one was defeated by a vanquished people. All while this generation slept.
So I too seal up my words. Slut shaming and clichés are the tactics of the elite today, and the wise among them is purged. They can have their slogans, they can eat of their fruits, until starvation and want creep up unannounced to destroy them in one season. Who cares?
Update on Augie: Why I do what I do
This is Augie. Or for the short hour and a half he rode with me, he was known as Aggie. Aggie went from a rescuer to a police dog trainer in San Antonio who trains dogs for police work, and gives them to police departments free.
I picked Augie of from a transporter who was bringing him from Texas Star Rescue in Longview, Texas and delivered him into the loving hands of a transporter who took him on in to Universal K9 in San Antonio, Texas.
Augie was frightened of people, and hid his head in the corner when you approached him. He came with a warning to not grab him by the collar, but once you had him on a leash, he was OK. He seemed OK with me, and I was careful to not approach him head on, but rather came up along his side. When I held the leash snap out, he came right up and presented his collar to me. He rode in the back seat of my van, not looking around, nor accepting any treats by hand.
But he apparently took very well to the training, and one of his trainers told me that ever so often he reverted to his old habits. But the officer in the picture and he seem to have become fast friends. You can tell it with his relaxed alertness and the way he stands beside his officer. I understand he already has one bust under his belt.
I am glad that people occasionally let me know what is going on with my transports. I do wonder an care about their future.
You rock, Augie Doggie!
No, GOP, I will not go along, nor do I have to. No, Trumpers, I will not go along, nor do I have to.
No, GOP, I will not go along, nor do I have to.
No, Trumpers, I will not go along, nor do I have to.
I have had to do quite a bit of soul searching the last couple of days. Trumps win in the GOP has signaled to me that the party has moved significantly away from my own core values. Over the years, I have learned to look to what a man puts his hand to rather than his rhetoric when I am taking his measure. I know what Trump has avowed. I know what Trump has done. The two views don’t jibe and the man doesn’t measure up.
I could go into a whole litany of exposing his duplicity, but it doesn’t matter now. Trumpers aren’t going to be swayed by that, and Trumps detractors already know them.
Politics is a compromise solution. If you are a single issue voter, you will certainly be disappointed at every turn, and for years, I accepted that, and supported the nominee. I even voted unenthusiastically for John McCain, who I think gamed the system in a far dishonest manner than Trump.
But Trump is just a bridge too far for me. I will throw my vote away on the Libertarian candidate this year, though I am not truly a libertarian. I don’t even know who the Libertarian candidate is, and really don’t need to know at this point. It doesn’t matter, since he doesn’t have the remotest chance of winning anyway.
This will be the first time since 1964 that I have not voted Republican at the national level. Barry Goldwater was the first ever Presidential vote I cast, and even though he lost to some very clever left wing propaganda, he became the de facto founder of modern Conservativism. Republicans were so incensed at Democratic Party character assignation of Goldwater that they re-united in a way that carried through to this day. So politically, I am a Goldwater Republican, not a Trump Republican. The two are very different men.
I am not exactly leaving the party, but I cannot bring myself to vote for Trump. More, I will focus my efforts at the State and Local level where there is at least some true Conservatives left.
Wandering about religion … even when it isn’t called religion.
I read a blogpost this afternoon about belief, and it got me to thinking. That is usually trouble enough, but what the hey! I push forward anyway.
I am never sure at any given moment where I am in the debate. I drift between agnosticism and belief like a dandelion seed in a May zephyr. I go to prayer at the slightest provocation, but I don’t spend a lot of time with petitions to God. Less and less, I ask for things, and more and more I admit my personal flaws.
Most people today would be surprised at my humiliating background, given my propensity to go off half-cocked with people. I don’t talk about the particulars a lot. Maybe I just got tired of being judged one morning, and started pushing back. I dunno. But I made damned sure that anyone who had something against me went behind my back to say it. I still have some of that chip left on my shoulder, but most of the people I defy to knock it off have the bad result coming to them for their asinine arrogance. But that is another tale for another day.
Oddly, my weaknesses and indignities grew into my strength today, both in my relationships, and my religion. One truly doesn’t know what they believe until that belief is tested. On the outer fringes of theists and atheists is a whole lot of loudmouths who bray like jackasses, revealing the emptiness of their vapid souls to anyone who takes the time to carefully match their words to their life. You can tell their beliefs have never been tested, and more, they will never be until that final day when Charon comes for them, and they don’t even have the cheap coin to pay their way to the other side.
But I usually don’t truck with either of them. I have no time for their ideals nor their politics, and they are usually dispensed with very quickly when they seek to ‘enlighten’ me. Militant fanatics are not the deep thinkers they like to portray themselves as, and their miserable lives and friendships generally prove their poverty of spirit. Whole nations lie devastated by their jingoisms and false intellectualism, and I’ll not be part of it.
It is the mushy middle that drives me crazy. You know the ones. They have withdrawn from the battle before it even began. They are foot-shooting casualties who fantasize about spiritual things than make them feel good, but provide no sustenance for their souls or family. But they are always going on about spiritual things, angelic wings and magic crystals. Ancient runes decorate their homes, yet they comprehend them not. I cannot find it in my heart to even question them, lest I break them. They are the true wounded of untested religion.
Then there are those who actually have stood in the fire, yet were not consumed. You know them because they don’t preach, and they truly don’t judge. You usually won’t find them at the higher levels of academia, and you don’t find them begging on street corners. The only way you ever find out that they are givers is when you actually see them give. Sometimes they are church goers, but certainly not all of them. Their families are well ordered, and a sense of honor envelopes them.
I don’t think any of them blog, either, so I am not one of them. But I sure want to be.
Picking at Scabs
It happened just as I knew it would. “Rusty?” the words on messenger popped up.
A thousand emotions rose up and subsided in me, and I clasped my hands tightly to keep from responding. It was written on an old inactive account that I had forgotten about, but hadn’t unlinked from.
My mind replayed that time when my two dearest of friend’s feet turned to clay on the very same day, and I was left to founder on my own for two years. It was a very hard lesson that I had thought I learned years ago about friendships and one way streets.
Yeah, I did finally recover, losing two precious years of what should have been some of the best of years. I told none of my online friends or family, and fought that one out alone. Those are the hardest of victories, but the more solid of them. In the end, we all walk that last mile alone, no matter how many are gathered around us, anyway. So too with affaires de coeur.
But there will be no second chances here. Casual chit-chat, maybe. But never again the deep conversations of the soul. Spiritually, I have moved on from those bleak days anyway, and I have no interest in other things than those marked out ahead of me.
So I softly closed the window, deactivated the account, and left the query unanswered.
So why is the wound still bleeding?
Rusty as pornographer? May it never be!
I had said to myself this morning that I was going to play my choo-choo simulation rather than work on the porn bit. But when I got things all set up to finish a run from Ash Hill, California to Needles, I saw her scuffed brown pumps dangling in front of the whistle cord.
“What are you doing here?” I said, trying to see around her swollen ankles
“I was reading your piece that you are submitting to literotica®com” she replied, fanning herself with her hand.
“Oh that. I was desperate one night, thinking that life was passing me by, and I have yet to publish anything over 1500 words. I thought maybe I could get some fiction juices going by taking on a subject where the reader wants to get to a point without a bunch of needless bunny trails.”
“Well, it made me hot! I can hardly wait to finish it!” She replied, once again fanning herself with her hand.
“How can you get hot over something that hasn’t happened yet? Besides, you haven’t ever written anything. You just whisper stuff in my mind when I let it run.”
“It has a lot of potential. Horny man, scantily clad neighbor lady, missing pickets in the fence …”
“That was the problem. I just don’t understand the dynamics behind sexual attraction. I know that such things happen on rare occasions, but how do you get a woman within range of a man behind the fence? I have no experience with that. My mentors in writing tell me to simply write about the event without assigning motives to the characters when you don’t understand the motive. But in this case I have to ask: ‘Why would a neighbor lady allow herself to get felt up through a picket fence?’ I can’t devote much space to assigning her a motive. The story is about the man.”
“Why not re-write it from the woman’s point of view? She could be obsessed with him, but shyness and circumstances separate them. Perhaps she could be driven by desires that she doesn’t understand herself. She knows when the neighbor works in the yard, and makes it a point to be outside when he is there.” She suggested.
I asked, “Well, tell me then. Have you ever had the desire to be felt up and make passionate love through a picket fence?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then, some muse you are.”
“You get the muse you deserve.” she said primly.
“I can’t be that bad!”
“Yeah, you can be. And you aren’t going to get better until you write.”
“Maybe I should. But who is going to get the manifest freight over Tehachapi in time for switching out the customer orders in Bakersfield?”
“It’s either that damned sim, or me.” She replied as she folded her arms across her chest.
“That’s an easy choice, for once.” I smirked, knowing that I scored.
“And that is why your little erotic foray is a failure. It doesn’t take any talent to write erotica, and so a talentless wordsmith like you should have no trouble in writing it.” She shot back.
“I dunno. Writing something straight faced like ‘Ahm gonna make love to you so intensely that yuh squeal out mah name!’ is hard for me to take seriously.” I explained.
“Well, just write it, and judge it for triteness later. That should give you plenty of work.” She peevishly replied. “Can’t you enlist one of your women friends to help you with this?”
“There aren’t any of those type of women in my circles anymore. I do miss them. I could ask them any question, no matter how off the wall it seemed. But not so now. I have good female friends, but none that I would discuss sexual plots with.” I said sadly.
“Well, all I can tell you is to write. I can’t help you if you are playing with them %$#!! trains!” she screeched.
“You aren’t much help to me anytime!” I said, somewhat dishonestly.
Preparation Day
Preparation day dawns gloomy and wet as the bands of rain slowly drift north from the Gulf. I continue to marvel at how quickly the land recovers from long droughts. It is a feral land where the wild Texas prairie quickly reclaims abandoned farms and homes.
The
rain patters on the roof, and the gutters roar with the water sluffed off the roof. The view out my window is distorted by the rivulets running down the pain. Dampness is in the air and I snuggle down into my chair using the cushions to ward off the chill.
Now the ground is a succulent green, even in the area along the sides where I mowed the ryegrass and weeds down. Further out, the wildflowers are all budded up, ready to pop on cue, and I am loathe to mow there until the first flush of bluebonnets and phlox appears.
I am starting to drift out of the winters doldrums with the lengthening days, and thoughts of gardens and planters begin intruding on my thoughts. Simplify is my theme now. Gone are the days when I happily trundled barrow loads of topsoil and amendments from bed to bed. Digging is out. Pots are in.
So what does a man do when he has nothing to do? He does nothing!
Good morning!
One wonders ….
“I don’t know how it is that people can sexualize small children!” She said as she pulled the cute bikini top over her three year old daughters shoulders …
Rusty outs himself again.
It is one in the morning, and I am wide awake. The little space heater buzzes at my feet keeping my nekkid tootsies warm in the night chill. But there isn’t much action on the social sites, so I have a little time to do late night musing.
Writing at night is so different than writing in daylight. Old ghosts from the past rise up one by one in my head, then fade into the darkness as I acknowledge them. Odd how things that happened half a century ago rise up as clear as the day they occurred. But I don’t allow them to linger. Just a quick appearance, then on to the next one.
I have recently caught myself editing content that I didn’t want certain people to read lest they be offended. I am known to too many people under both of my pseudo names as well as my real life one. I think it is about time to create a new personality and drift off to a new social site.
There is an interesting ID site that gives you a basic name, address, gender and age, and I have been looking through a few of those for one that will amuse me. Rusty Armor has been my pseudo name and nom-de-plume for well over three decades now, and it is time to retire him. Rusty was actually a username given to me by Compuserve™, a now defunct internet provider. I think they still maintain a home page service and webmail accounts though.
I like Rusty better than my other personalities. He is more sure of his positions than I am, and he doesn’t bother to hide his disdain for people who are always waiving their academic credentials around like that proves they are like … uh … intellectual, or something. He also hates people who think because they hold certain political positions, that makes them more kind, caring and sharing than the rubes who believe in jeezuz. You know this because they never miss a chance to tell you how caring they are in spite of not having jeezuz, and how much more real they are than the jeezuz people.
Rusty loves scratching them until the ugly oozes out, then walks away while they are spewing their hate far and wide. Even though he is not a jeezuz person, he really hates the haters. He does have a tendency to use big words when small words would better serve the purpose, however. I don’t know why he does that. I do love words, and I can and do read dictionaries like they are novels. And Rusty seldom proofs his material, leaving the poor reader confused at the continual tense changes, dropped words, typos and misspells. And almost everyone knows his Grammer is dead and buried.
So Rusty has got to die, someday … but I am just too unwilling to pull the switch on him yet. And though he hasn’t written anything worth publishing in a long, long time now, his publisher still wants him alive, even though magazines are a dying medium. You never know when you might need a few hundred extra bucks someday, so Rusty will probably be around to pound out ten or twelve thousand words until he get too senile to write.
Uncomfortable Discernment
Wednesday dawns brightly, but uncomfortably cool and breezy. It has been a miserable week for me spiritually as yet another messiah fails me, making me wonder if it is me that is the problem, or if is just because there are a lot of narcissists out there who desire to be my guru. From the guru, I can easily walk away. But what do I do about his disciples that I have fallen in love with?
My soul is so unquiet around this. Yet æons ago I was warned in an interstice between the worlds that there would be those whose message is excellent, whose scholarship is impeccable, whose words tantalize and draw people, but an undefinable false note would run through the chords of their song.
I have perhaps a decade left in me, maybe two if some strength returns. I had thought that the bat kol I heard would have been fulfilled in the spring of my youth, not in my dotage. What to do?
Well, for the moment, there is a lush eye aching green view out my window, there is a happy parakeet singing and burbling by my desk, three playful dogs are romping through the house, and a women dressed in fine linen and purple who brings me coffee. All sufficient unto the day …
Good morning!
Rusty's Armory 