hello cutieBill Hodges via email
disney abc? i always thought you were an adorable snow white princess dancing and skipping around the magic kingdom 🙂 or maybe minnie mouse. i once moved wisps of hair away from your eyes while you were chattering and discovered small ears. i guess that leaves miss mouse out.
after three major newspapers, i edited an abc project for a year (cd-roms on college football). then national columnist for fansonly/ocsn, espn, cbs and back to espn. of course, disney is tied to espn. to me, espn was heaven. i’m finally now retired.
i kept my distance as always, but wanted to hug and hold you after your dog was killed. i would see you outside crying and i would go inside to cry, too. you are a very special person with incredible depth and feelings … there is so much hidden and undiscovered in that little head.
very surprised you even remember me, but happy that you sent a note. assume you reached out to others you knew far better. you are the first person from the complex that i have had contact with. i stood across the street as a crane took one swipe to destroy the apartment i lived in for 20 years. so much for memories. i traveled for work often and never had close friends there.
i see you are happily married and still want to become president. do you and your husband miss north carolina? loved your wedding dress and perfect for you. i also read “apostate” by your daughter-in-law melissa.
i now live two blocks from the beach and still build sand castles while looking for disney characters in clouds every day. or spunky gidgets 🙂
Allen died a year ago, tonight.
Wanda reported he died around 11:50pm, she thinks — and she was in Virginia at around 2am maybe when she got the call. She knows nothing of the details
I told her 6 “or 7 steps” and left it at that. No Halloween or kids that night. Married, as Jessica Marié. Aunt Wanda agrees. Wanda is also on the hunt for a new man for her “custard stand”.
Jamie, you would have turned 23 yesterday. I had shots of tequila on my mind the night before, thinking of you and your daddy. He went down to the beach last night to spend time alone with you.
I don’t know my daddy’s birthday and thus is just once a year I mourn.
I think about how different everything would be. You know she wanted to split you kids up leaving you to your daddy, and they divorced after your baby sister was born eventually anyway. I think they’d divorced if you’d lived too, but I fear you’d have both the burden of us if they were your fault, splitting kids not to be as obvious.
Oh Jamie. What I do think is that I heard there will be 144,000 men who were chaste virgins reign as kings with Christ for a grand thousand years before you’d return daddy’s princess.
By the time your heart loves honor will be.
Jamie, how I worry for your little sister.
On a happy note — how I love my husband.
He lays bare butt and beautiful. I can’t seem to stop looking at him, and I love him for so much more.
As America's Most Wanted #pedophile it is "estimated he molested over 30 children" while one young #sandiego sister reported he molested her OVER 100 times! JOIN #theHunt FIND #JW #FrederickMclean hiding in a new #KingdomHall, maybe near you? Spread the word #jworg! Tweet tips to @mcleantips $25,000 award https://t.co/ZFZwuUvQZE
— CNN Original Series (@CNNOriginals) August 11, 2014
Had Darryl not added me to his insurance they would likely have released me and secondly there would be no bill.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Darryl had to leave early this morning for the airport — travel on Sunday, and six weeks straight of travel all week. We’ll miss the memorial together.
We’re being swamped by medical bills from them 5150-5250’ing me. I need to get it all sorted, scanned, and posted.
Might as well mime a fight. I feared the thought of showing up at Paradise Valley to protest the out of network 5150 bill, but to find myself taken in again.
March 30, 2016
Nearly through the month. One more day. If only catching up here meant filling in a few days
No. This is the diary to begin the end.
January brought 2 5150’s. Sarah, the canadian neighbor with her darling Stella said she felt threatened. I had been at the ocean and left to walk back up the street to go to the burger joint, The Promiscuous Fork, and tell Darryl to meet me there. He was almost home, returning from Los Angeles, and though I didn’t know, he actually had stopped just up the street at El Pescador to bring home dinner.
From across the street the cops see me and come detain me. I’m 5150’ed without being identified and taken away.
I was taken to Scripp’s Mercy where I was drugged an spent the week.
In the course of waiting I became friends with two female patients. My roommate who slept all day and stayed up all night keeping from sleep all week. That I sleep wasn’t their priority so I was left waiting all night long in the hallway so as not to disturb her. Where is fair in that?
I was finally released to spend the weekend with Darryl. As usual we had a fight before even leaving the parking lot. Cops left me a free woman.
That Sunday I wanted to go to Cracker Barrel on the border for breakfast (practically speaking it’d be brunch). Darryl drove but took me to Paradise Valley instead saying “if I don’t someone is going to call the police”. Molly.com
My instincts told me not to go in. From the parking lot I tried quickly & casually to reason with Darryl. I called Aunt Kristina, Sister La’el, and she understood but gave me the courage to make the choice to go in. Inside we made it from the ER room into the back to be seen. They had me in a corner room, had me undress, but waiting to be seen.
At Scripp’s a man, a known sexual predator, twice sexually assaulted my friend. He had been harassing me, but unlike her I was adept at dodging his physicality.
I didn’t want to sit waiting.
I redressed and went to leave. Walking through the lobby again and striding to the doors, I said “Don’t shoot me in the back.” pointing over my shoulder at the point.
They drugged me.
I no longer remember the names of the women.
I can’t report the assault.
I was released February 16th.
From Paradise Valley I was held in the ICU where they finally could verify insurance and put me into their system.
Had Darryl not added me to his insurance they would likely have released me and secondly there would be no bill.
As it is Paradise Valley was out of network. It’s $25,000+ later, out of pocket.
They kicked me from PV to API, Alvarado Parkway Institute because the hospital guy said it was too expensive.
I begged him to leave me at Paradise Valley for the ONE MORE NIGHT. I was to be RELEASED the next day.
They moved me that night where despite still being without sleep I was kept up waiting for a bed.
It was two weeks later I was released.
At API I was first held in the area for violent patients where I was sexually assaulted by another patient.
I was in a room with two other girls and it was freezing. I feared sleeping for having been assaulted already.
I was moved again, this time to a small area for the elderly.
Then I was moved to a different ward, the one for geriatric care though most of the people were a mix of ages.
Cesar Benitez, the doctor assigned to me was, as usual, evil. He took no time with me, and pursued the 5250 as well as the Reis to drug me against my will.
Twice my mother flew out to defend me but I lost the court’s cases and somehow knew that would be that would go. God’s will be done.
Last night I met with Phil Ohme a UX’er from Intuit and learned his two sons are both autistic. I hold him about cannabis for kids and autism. It brought me to the conclusion: cannabis is like wine. Where it is to be used for pleasure like the way wine brings happiness to ones heart. I was influenced by two glasses of Malbec to find the clarity. You wouldn’t drink red wine on waking or working, would you?
April 30, 2016
Today I have the aspiration that life begins anew ahead. To work and enjoy life like I did when I was younger.
Darryl, and with the help of my mom’s supplements, have brought me back to me.
Soon we shall see, so exciting to once again look ahead in excitement.
The brink! Just on the brink!
Since getting out this past series I’ve come to grasp the strangeness of having self-diagnosed the MTHFR gene mutation — or at least its assumed mom passed hers on to us — in me. It was 2011 when I posted about it, much like the hyperthymia.
Now I finally really have begun to use this knowledge to effect: I’ve been taking L-5-MTHf, methylated folate, to find a serene sense of well being this week.
“To answer your question, the call came in late the evening of the 3rd, 1-2:00 am, he stopped breathing 6-7:00 am on the fourth.”
News reports claim that the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, the official name for the organization that governs the Jehovah’s Witnesses worldwide, has been engaged in covering up child abuse within the religion on a massive scale.
But are these reports justified? Is this a case of an innocent religion being unfairly maligned because of the actions of one or two bad apples in their ranks? How many victims are there? Do the Governing Body know about these issues? What’s really going in the multiple courtroom cases that Watchtower has been fighting across the world?
Jehovah’s Witnesses and Child Abuse—Is there a problem? is a painstakingly researched documentary that draws together evidence from sources spanning the past twenty five years…
I left my McDreamy in bed as I’d had a horrid nights sleep myself. We had watch “Spy Hard” and my active brain is in the mode of being the God daughter, as it were.
I once toyed with the idea of Darryl as God on earth but he rejected the notion. One day He’ll live here and I just imagine what he’ll be like. He’d be a lot like my husband.
Trying desperately to play it cool like some school girl knowing she’s got the night of her dreams planned ahead of the last day of Jacob’s last flare.
Dear God, she begins as sincerely as she is clear…
11:36 am 3 days later, yeah, I’m still here…………..
February 26, 2016 Moving day 2016 II
Govi — Garden of Eden J’ovi Jamié
Legacy Podcast XV #74 Playing.
“There is always hope.” — Banksy 🏹🎈💔
Dear Daisy, your dream guy is getting out of the drone business. For this he seems less de-pressed. I pressed him again about his fit n’ readiness —fore!— love. He is ready. Connect.
Don’t shoot the messenger. Let them do the walkin’ through the yellow pagers — Goldfinchers Harley Grey of …. Hillcrest. 2.26.16
“Now you know all my secrets. You’ve got me.”
And now I know
Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say
I thought I knew
But now I know that rose trees never grow
In New York City
Until you’ve seen this trash can dream come true
You stand at the edge while people run you through
And I thank the Lord
There’s people out there like you
I thank the Lord there’s people out there like you
While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can’t and that is why
They know not if it’s dark outside or light
This Broadway’s got
It’s got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I’ll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown, in New York City
Subway’s no way for a good man to go down
Rich man can ride and the hobo he can drown
And I thank the Lord for the people I have found
I thank the Lord for the people I have found…
All right, you chipmunks. Ready to sing your song? - I’ll say we are! - Let's sing it now... You wanna be Atticus Finch. Good. - I like him. - Why? - He's honest. - Yes. - He stands up for the right thing. - Yes. - And he's a good father. - He is. - Did it all by himself. - Did what all by himself? - Raised his kids. - He didn't raise them by himself!. Who was the woman that came to their house every day? - Calpurnia. - Calpurnia. He remembered. - And what about Boo? - What about Boo? Boo Radley is the most interesting character in To Kill a Mockingbird. Boo Radley is the most interesting character in To Kill a Mockingbird. Mom, tell me more about Livia.
“Toxins cause leukemia, at least according to Mr. Rob0t,” Angela warns the volunteers working for ‘the Society’ at their new headquarters in upstate New York. Concerns are that while the Watchtower Society may be able to protect their vested interests in the property and it’s financial value, they cannot protect their volunteers from exposure to the toxic chemicals.
The Watchtower Bible and Tract Society began as simple American religion financed by William Henry Conley (11 June 1840 – 25 July 1897). William was trained by his uncle in the printing business for ten years, and was a Pittsburgh philanthropist and industrialist. He was married to Sarah Shaffer (1841–1908). Together, they provided organizational and financial support to religious institutions in the United States.
“Boy they loves Hova.”
Illuminati, spirit-directed, or holy?
“Y’all religion causes division”
Who created religion?
“Only God could judge us.”
I’m ready to create—to use the tools we created, the platforms, the surfaces, the languages, the software, the servers, the networks,…
Remember when I was a wee one on the internet
Long before we’d ever met?
If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how sad I am.
That’s the problem I suppose, it’s all relative, and relatively speaking, at least I’m still alive.
Life is tough. Just when you think you managed to escape in the nick of time, you realize that you were running from your own shadow all along.
And the thing about shadows? They’re hard to shake, unless you wake to find yourself six feet under ground.
So, all-in-all, no complaints, but man, this world is not a nice place.
Yeah, sure, I’ve got stories to tell.
But first I want to tell you about not telling them.
You see, that was my badge of honor as a “woman in technology”.
Truth be told I never felt much like a woman in technology. I always felt more like a little girl hanging out with the guys than a woman in a man’s world.
I began to learn the jokes guys made in the bars were the same jokes the guys at work make. Guys are guys. You can take the guy out of the bar, but you can’t take the joke out of the guy.
Most of those jokes were about women or race—I thank God that in my life I have been mostly sheltered from gay-bashers.
I learned to laugh at the jokes that were funny, and how to laugh it off when they weren’t so funny.
My uniform became t-shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans.
I didn’t mean to, but I besides these boobs, and that butt I hear about back there, I was just one of the guys.
Then the day came my momma warned me about. That day when someone was going to ask you to do something that ‘bothers your conscience’…
Much less could his declining age Vanessa’s earliest thoughts engage;
— Darryl + Angela (@thebelovedglass) February 9, 2015
Whom Pallas once, Vanessa’s tutor, Had fix’d on for her coadjutor.
— Baxley+Glass (@BaxleyGlass) February 9, 2015
Cadenus many things had writ: Vanessa much esteem’d his wit,
— Gidget Glass (@GlassGidget) February 9, 2015
Nor shall Vanessa be the theme To manage thy abortive scheme:
— Baxley (@Baxley) February 9, 2015
Both sexes, arm’d with guilt and spite, Against Vanessa’s power unite:
— Angela Marié Glass (@Ang) February 9, 2015
But, not to dwell on things minute, Vanessa finish’d the dispute;
— Andrea Verardi Duty (@dreamnibbles) February 9, 2015
Beautiful. Wish I worked there. :0)
Bean there, counted that.
Themselves religious? Read here: ”
I bet he wears a hat.
She knew he’d get no relief.
Own personal custom Barbie dream.
New eyes from (Album Stream)
By Weezer and believed in paradise?
Founder of the Shadow Guard
Bored Cruz Cruise
From a thing, you little bastard. …
Bad / variant of Signal vs Noise ?
For Doubting Thomas—daddy says watch the Maze Runner
December 11th, 8:35pm
don’t forget you know my memory
that was not what you guys were talking about
is Yahoo a cover for you?
or do you actually work there too?
I work for another company Continue reading
On Sun, Oct 12, 2014 at 1:37 PM, Angela Marie Glass <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
Hey and don’t you think this photo of Eilon and I could make us relatives? 🙂 I think it’s the nose?
In other news, I finally told the truth about why I left Microsoft. The CEO made some stupid comment about women—at a conference celebrating women in technology, no less—and I lost it. I feel better. Lighter.
I’m telling you because you know Eilon and I are tight as blood but keep up like we have eternity. So he’ll hear somehow I’m guessing, but I’m sharing with you as my kind of dad.
The story, if you want to read it, I can send. Otherwise, I just wanted to say hello and send some love to you and your family!
Hello to Shlomit!
a ? cline'd U yet...
Begin forwarded message:Reply-To: email@example.com Date: October 25, 2014 at 11:15:44 AM EDT Subject: Re: Thinking of you… From: Howard Lipton <firstname.lastname@example.org> To: Angela Marie Glass <email@example.com>
Please pardon my tardy reply. I am always delighted to hear from you, and I truly hope that all is going well with you and yours.
Like so many, I was astounded at what Nadella said. Even though he is Indian and only came to the U.S. as an adult, he has been here at least a quarter century and runs the 3d largest company in the world. He knows that women are woefully underrepresented in the coding sectors of his own company, and he certainly knows that teenaged and college women are as interested in the future financial security of their eventual families as are boys. He cannot possibly believe that a paternal attitude where the bosses will “look after the girls” will attract the brilliant women that Microsoft needs, even if he grew up in that culture as a child. Just as does everyone else, these women want transparently equal opportunities for advancement and financial security. While I do not know a lot about him, I am exceedingly suspicious that he actually spoke his mind and told the world what he really thinks. If that is the case, then regardless of his skills as a CEO, I would hope the board considers a change.
Yes, I am interested in why you left Microsoft and would love to read your story. Also, I briefly noticed the comment on your website about “walking after midnight.” While I do not know if that was your reference, that song by Patsy Cline is one of my all-time favorites.
All the best,
Dedicated to Candace Conti and other little boys and girls who are dead or molested.
Jehovah’s Witnesses need not apply. Where did anyone say that anyone would be serving that god in the end? Oh, you’re right. He does factor in…
— Baxley (@Baxley) October 30, 2014
Dear Watchtower at http://t.co/hbC2qywaIv, Your Contact Us Page e-mail link on your website is broken. How do I email you?
— Angela Glass (@Baxley) October 30, 2014
I wanted to design software for the Watchtower when I was 15 years old at it’s headquarters, “Brooklyn Beth’el“.
The Watchtower Corporation of NY, the one that’s moving out so no one notice’s that they topped the richest companies list for the city.
— Angela Glass (@Baxley) October 30, 2014
Guess what? God created Eve, and Eve was naked. And it was good. God said so. He also created weed. He also said it was good to eat.
I was so sweet before you guys got to me. Guess what? While you sleep and dream… Charlotte’s tangled web unweaves… believe. — Angela Glass (@Baxley) October 30, 2014
Religion is a whore. She gave women a bad name. Catholics who give children away in the name of no shame. Universal. — Angela Glass (@Baxley) October 30, 2014
I was turned down. They don’t generally “take sisters“.
Here’s what I did instead: www.linkedin.com/in/angelamarieglass.
“Angela experienced a crisis from an ill marriage and lack of support from the congregation.”
I am a Silent Lamb?—Sacrifice me.
You know what makes me not sleep? Fearing for the children until the adults all die.
— Angela Glass (@Ang) October 30, 2014
For the record, you don’t lose your faith when you stop believing God is Jehovah. But Melissa doesn’t know what losing my religion is all about. Girl, I was a hoarder, and I still am though that was back then. Show you a few things, pretend to be my friend? Oh don’t mind slandering the Baxley’s while you’re at it for the blood of the noble Niblick’s.
Funny, baxleyvsunitedstates.org versus the Dominican nephew determined to shame me—calling me the “shameful aunt”.
I took it in silence. I have learned how to turn away so it doesn’t sink in. No, not really. It really hurt. But hey, I haven’t got time to buy a new deodarant stick of Tom’s every two months — so I use it but it doesn’t work. I have no cash and thus I stink and am not buying it on Amazon and paying for shipping. So I am waiting until someone thinks I stink enough to do something about it. They have a pretty high tolerance.
When I asked if they were going to stay there—in the DR—he sold me this line from his daddy’s mouth: they aren’t living there, they are missionaries. — For Christ’s sake, who hasn’t heard of God? Oh, yeah…
God isn’t Jehovah. Jehovah isn’t peddling love, he’s got Watchtowers to print and has just discovered the Internet.
Well I was in the middle of pestering this corporation called “The Watchtower” on Twitter, when I realized I needed a mood swing. Being a heavy hitter dealing with porno and pedo’s is a bit much for this do-gooder.
I asked a guy today to film dying children and he told me that he wasn’t interested in children. He wants to do it tho. And Porn.
— Angela Glass (@Ang) October 30, 2014
In foreign soil, in foreign land Who will guide us through the end? —Vampire Weekend, Worship You Answer: Rev 7 Topic: Jews in Exodus? — SMRTr World (@SMRTrWorld) October 30, 2014
I mean the internet is for porn, right?
Well anyhoo, distracted again from that to get the video to prove the point that I’m not lost on how I feel about life, I’m just so DAMNED tired of having to stay up all night to work against all of you.
Sometimes I can’t help but feel like a momma Muppet… Should I tuck him in? pic.twitter.com/iNF9x22YYc
— SMRTr World (@SMRTrWorld) October 28, 2014
So I /quit.
Yeah, see I’m not a cultural fit. I’m not a woman in technology and there’s no way come hell or high water, well—we all know which—I would never have a daughter, as I could never let her see this world. Dear God, preserve my seed within me. Save my belly for the beast. I am yours and have ever been devoted. I am sorry for so long I thought that the Watchtower’s disapproval of me was somehow was the directive from God. Dear God, if you don’t love me—Um? Who could you?
A couple of weeks before she died, Rebecca informed us that she was about to be a big girl of six years old, and Becca was a baby name. Once she turned six, she wanted everyone (not just me) to call her Rebecca, not Becca. She made it to six. For almost twelve hours, she was six. So Rebecca it is and must be.
Travis Foote, you touched me one too many times. And my mother blamed me. The Watchtower will pay and you shall be certain you won’t see the outside of that cell. Enjoy.
I’m ready. I’m not a clown, exactly. I’m the last generation.
I’m the joker. Hello thief, it’s time.
But instead I decided to be < ANON. Hi Watchtower. I heard you have a governing body and a corporation but only Jehovah’s spirit. Holy.
— Angela Glass (@Ang) October 30, 2014
“What will happen to life when science identifies the genetic basis of happiness? Who will own the patent? Do we dare revise our own temperaments?…”
I once met a physics teacher who immediately recognized me as the main character in the play he was nearly finished writing.
Born to Be Happy
After reading an article “Born to Be Happy“, I found myself emailing Hagop Akiskal, M.D., Professor of Psychiatry and Director of the International Mood Center at the University of California at San Diego whose “work on dysthymia, cyclothymia and hyperthymia challenged the concept of personality disorders, led to the development of a new instrument (Temperament Evaluation of Memphis, Pisa, Paris and San Diego (TEMPS-A)), thereby contributing to the worldwide renaissance of the temperament field.”
“Information may travel at light speed, but meaning spreads at the speed of dark.”
But being told that I was “hard wired for happiness” seemed a bit over simplified and “hard wired” seemed an insult to this interaction-designer-wannabe-cognitive scientist studying neurogenesis and neuroplasticity.
On “Rewiring the Real“
“Digital and electronic technologies that act as extensions of our bodies and minds are changing how we live, think, act, and write. Some welcome these developments as bringing humans closer to unified consciousness and eternal life. Others worry that invasive globalized technologies threaten to destroy the self and the world. Whether feared or desired, these innovations provoke emotions that have long fueled the religious imagination, suggesting the presence of a latent spirituality in an era mistakenly deemed secular and post-human.”
Posted 12/9/2015, and backdated to original thread date:
I have been considering reaching out to you regarding my own personal experience with the Watchtower. I’m 33 years old, and was baptized as a JW at 12 years of age. I married ‘a brother’ the night before I turned 17, and subsequently was abused for the four years of marriage.
During that time, while still underage (living in North Carolina), I was raped. When I returned home, my husband immediately called the elders and it became a judicial committee. They “handled it” the same way they handle pedophile cases. I was reminded (as I had already been told in regards to my husband’s abuse) that contacting the police “would bring reproach upon Jehovah’s name” and it was “discerned” that in my case, it was not rape, since I could not recall whether or not I had screamed or said “no”. (It is assumed that I was drugged as I was not fully conscious, hence difficulty with remembering details to satisfy the elder’s questions.)
They reproved me for the rape, and later I was disfellowshipped for being unrepentant when I kicked out my abusive husband who continued abuse, including raping me himself that night (to prove that he still claimed me as wife, instead of exercising his ‘right’ to divorce me).
I don’t know what is and is not a legal case but I wanted to offer my support, and my ‘case’ if there should be one, in the fight against the Watchtower’s horrific handling of children in the congregation who have been abused. I understand your cases focus on pedophila, and mine is different, but just in case it’s something that could be used against this awful organization, I wanted to reach out to you. Continue reading
I was on some kind of a never ending silent treatment as if somehow God would actually read my blog and somehow respond to me—among everything else going on in this mad, mad world, including and not limited what seemed like the near blanket agreement that if one was to believe in God then it was merely a delusion which at best should be considered a form of mental illness…
“Got some attachments and baggage I’m working on leaving.”
“Sounds of the city on Capital Hill,
I wore cowboy boots
and did line dances on the bar
where the time went slow
while I learned to drink PBR.”
Here’s looking at you, Rosie.
You thought you could distract me from my homework? I’m going after the belly of the beast, and I couldn’t be more hungry. You carry the blood of my brothers, sisters, prophets and prophetesses.
Following this I saw another Angel descend from Heaven:
His authority was immense,
his glory flooded earth with brightness,
his voice thunderous:
“Ruined, ruined, Great Babylon, ruined!
A ghost town for demons is all that’s left!
A garrison of carrion spirits,
garrison of loathsome, carrion birds.
All nations drank the wild wine of her whoring;
kings of the earth went whoring with her;
entrepreneurs made millions exploiting her.”
Just then I heard another shout out of Heaven:
Get out, my people, as fast as you can,
so you don’t get mixed up in her sins,
so you don’t get caught in her doom.
Her sins stink to high Heaven;
God has remembered every evil she’s done.
Give her back what she’s given,
double what she’s doubled in her works,
double the recipe in the cup she mixed;
Bring her flaunting and wild ways
to torment and tears.
Because she gloated,
“I’m queen over all, and no widow,
never a tear on my face,”
In one day, disasters will crush her—
death, heartbreak, and famine—
Then she’ll be burned by fire,
because God, the Strong God
who judges her, has had enough.
I am strengthened by fortified wine, I nibble on dry bread and think of the dust which composes my flesh, upon which you tread with scaled measure.
A girl and her kite, following the lead of a boy who decided to fly his and brought her holy spirit while she bathed thinking she was alone in the world.
Time to fly guys.
I am Christian.
I’ve been here before this ain’t a battle, this is war
Word to Boonie, I make salat like a Sunni
You won’t find me in the “Kingdom Hall” on Sunday, as I no longer confuse being a Christian with choosing a Religion.
Letter to a Friend
I graduated to a larger keyboard in procrastination.
I went back to do the dishes and thought to myself, ‘this isn’t the life I want’. Did I tell you? I had even tried to convince myself that I just had to get things all in order so that everything in life would be ‘ready’. See how that worked out? Needless to say these hands have yet to hit dishwater. So much for Southern.
But is there really anything wrong with that?
If someone would give me just one cup, plate, bowl, spoon, fork, mug and what else do I need?
I’ll tell you what, just a really cool place to put them!
I need to figure out how to be happy, or this is going to suddenly feel like a very long life, I get the feeling, from here on out…
Today is the day that my daddy died, 30 years ago today, or some time within 12 hours or so either way, because I can never quite remember if the accident happened the night before, or if it was already considered the next day, and when it was that he died, or rather, how long it took him to die. And since I move so damn often, the paper which answers this question every year when I inevitably go searching for it to determine once again, for another year, just it was ‘when’ that ‘what’ happened, is buried in boxes which are worn and disheveled from the packing, repacking, and moving again, again, and again.
Any way, I’m listening to Yo-Yo Ma do Johan Sebastian Bach while considering doing my dishes, or just throwing out all my clothes, …or just moving to a life I’d prefer to be living?
It wouldn’t take a psychiatrist to be able to tell you that if I could have anyone with me here tonight to have a glass of single girl microwaved a few seconds to knock the chill off red refrigerated wine it would be my dad. No, not the one who called yesterday to make sure that I was okay, I think because he knows even if only from the signs from my mother’s odder than usual behavior triggered by it nearing that day again… No, I mean my father, the one who gave me life. He was an artist and a lover, a singer and a movie maker, although I have to tell you his song in the band is pretty much dreadful.
Here’s Dog Sweat, by Matthew Raymond Morris Michael Niblick. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you’ll want to cover your ears. But to me, it’s music. That’s my daddy’s voice. When I heard this ‘song’ this past year, it was the first I’d heard my daddy’s voice, since he died thirty years ago. Still, Dad! What were you thinking?!
He was my father's "Father" until he found God for himself.
— Angela Marié Glass (@Ang) December 9, 2015
Years ago my aunt, the nun, apparently worked in the same parish as Father Alfred Kunz, a rebel Roman Catholic priest who performed exorcisms. They became friends, and like all friends of the Niblick’s at some point he was at the house with the family. Father Al admired my father’s art and invited Matthew out to work on his church in Dane, Wisconsin. What artist would deny the Church as a patron, not even Da Vinci?
Just a few years later, my father dies in a tragic accident in the lonely hours of that pre-light March morning.
Nobody foresaw it on that cold, gray March morning, but the aftermath of Kunz’s death would get strange, and then even stranger. There would be stories of exorcism referrals, a satanic assassination and, eventually, innuendos of sexual impropriety by Kunz, who was known at St. Michael simply as “Father Al.”
Later, there would even be allegations that his murder could somehow be linked to evil in the most unthinkable of places: the vast Catholic hierarchy that Kunz was tied to as a diocesan priest. Some even blame the Vatican in Rome.
In the absence of an arrest, the Kunz case also has developed into a religious Rorschach for many — certainly among those close to the case who consider themselves traditionalists within the troubled Roman Catholic Church, which all but invented the Easter holiday as Western civilization knows it today.
Fifteen years later—March 4, MCMXCVIII—fifteen years ago today, Father Al was found murdered.
“Fifteen years later, someone could still be haunted…
The all-consuming rage at the cockeyed old priest; the uncontainable hatred, day after freezing winter day. The wee-hours confrontation in a dim school hallway outside the priest’s office, where he’d slept like a castaway for the past 31 years.
The attack, the frantic struggle: It all ended in a heartbeat, when the killer plunged a razor-sharp blade into Father Alfred Kunz’s neck, slicing the major artery below his jaw.
And then came all the blood — warm, slippery torrents of it, coating the painted cinderblock walls and the worn, gritty floor tiles. Almost instantly, Kunz fainted into a lifeless heap, his white T-shirt and black slacks soaked from the gaping wound. According to emergency room medical experts, he would have lived for about another minute, probably in a deep, dreamlike haze.
Asperges me domine… Thou shalt sprinkle me, O Lord…
… et mundabo. …and I shall be cleansed.”
Pedophilic Satanism in the bed of Roman Catholicism—the Vatican, otherwise known as the house of Babylon the Great—exorcisms, animal sacrifice, Luciferians; it’s a terrifyingly truthful tale entitled “The Devil and Father Kunz: An Easter tale about murder, the Catholic Church and the strange paths of good and evil“.
Kunz had also traveled to Rome and met Pope John Paul II as the pontiff prayed alone one morning at a secluded Vatican chapel.
One of Kunz’s closest associates was best-selling novelist Malachi Martin, a one-time Vatican insider under Pope John XXIII, who convened Vatican II. Martin would later leave the Vatican circle and become an exorcist, as well as the author of six religious novels, one of which, “Windswept House,” was compared to “Dr. Zhivago” by the Washington Post in 1996…
“What Luciferians resent is interference with someone they regard as theirs,” Martin told me in that interview, adding that his friend believed his life was in danger in the weeks before his death. “We are all convinced beyond anything that Father Kunz was killed in hatred of the faith as punishment — and as an example for the rest of us.”
Martin also repeated his belief that the aftermath of Vatican II was nothing less than a coup by Satanic forces – that, he said, was why he eventually broke with the church’s new mainstream after Vatican II. Martin wrote about the alleged dark influence often in his novels. In “Windswept House,” for instance, he described a satanic animal sacrifice linked by telephone to the Vatican’s Chapel of St. Paul – and the account does bear eerie similarities to a calf mutilation that occurred near Dane almost exactly 24 hours before Kunz was last seen alive.
It’s been thirty years later now, and I wonder more than ever of the short days of my father on this earth. I find 33 a little young to feel so world weary, just look at all my father got in by 23.
I had wondered about whether or not my dad had ever made it to San Francisco the year he hitch hiked across the United States to California for his summer vacation when he was 15. As I realize that he escaped from a Moonie camp, whose home base was in Boonville north of San Francisco out past wine country, it dawns on me, of course he did.
And maybe one day I’ll make it out to Father Al’s church in Dane, Wisconsin, to see my father’s art, though I doubt it… I imagine it would be hard to concentrate with the image of the slain Father Al, hanging before me, throat cut from ear-to-ear, beheaded and bled.
I adore men with guitars and old cars, be it Woody or Dylan, Jack or Jason,
Dave or Love, it all comes back to Johnny Cash, Elvis, the Beatles and
rhythm and blues.
What persuaded me?—It was the Word, alone…
There was a summer,
not the last,
the one before,
where it was decided
that my ignorance
should be no longer.
Fade out on scene.
“I’m writing this down because … I’d sure be the most miserable woman in this world if ever forgot what happened… pic.twitter.com/jbutt1HO6G
— Angela Glass (@spunkygidget) September 13, 2014
More accurately, I was carried away in handcuffs to the San Diego Psychiatric Hospital because someone I had known less than seven days had thought I was “strange”.
I was abused, and I was amused—they were not.
It was fear, not faith that they sought in my face.
I had no fear: “What can man do to me?” (Psalm 118:6, Hebrews 13:6)
Fickle fuddled words couldn’t confuse me.
“Do you hear voices”, she asked?
“I hear them calling my name“, I sang.
Wasn’t this all a scene to amuse me,
to carry me from the boredom of insanity?
Indeed it did.
Man can cuff you,
rough you, drug you
and count the hours you lay wake.
Still I thought they did it somehow for my sake.
They couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t cower and quake.
I couldn’t understand why they thought I would break?
I felt my mind pull away from sanity
as the days lithium laden drew longer.
They wondered, ‘why won’t she sleep?’
There is no man
but the one
who came from above
who knows what it is
that is best for me.
only a dose of two
or three keep me awake
for more than a week.
What is meant to cause sleepiness,
sedation, to make the violent meek,
made me lose my mind
and left me with only my eyes
with which the truth I might seek.
Have you ever looked into your own eyes
knowing therein alone is the truth?
They’d sought to convince me
I’d never been there before.
You see, it takes quite a journey
to bring me to my knees.
The day I went in in handcuffs,
taken from the garden where I’d sleep,
three needles and they lay me asunder
in the authority of their keep.
I awoke to see a vision,
a woman whose eyes I needn’t seek.
What a beautiful moment of awakening—
Her eyes looked back at me.
I knew that she was Angela,
beautiful skin the color of
the nature of Peru.
I’m not crazy
Her name was, of course, Angela.
And Angela, yes, is also me…
But there is another,
as I am Angela Marié…
The other is Maria Angela,
or Angela Maria, as I knew her,
she explained once to me sixteen
or as many years before.
with the moment of sight eye-to-eye
she lay before me.
Only you must know that I am sane—you see?
With what it is that I knew,
I also knew it could not also be true.
Another moment of reality:
Sanity holds true.
Her name was Angela.
I’ll tell you her story.
I do not worry for her,
for in her I saw me.
Our brief moments,
or at least those brief moments
where consciousness was once again mine,
were interrupted by the authority
which told me I should no longer “be”.
They brought me in, condemned,
to 72 hours of detention
but now they didn’t want me.
I believe there was something
in all I had said the night before,
when they laid me to sleep
from which I wasn’t certain to awake,
that made their soul wonder, worry and shake.
“If you can call someone to pick you up, you’re free.”
Drugged, bruised. I had no family.
I called someone, and he came, and we’d leave in a hurry.
He didn’t ask about what it was that he’d seen.
Some people know you,
though they’ve known you not long,
I imagine you’d believe.
He drove me home,
and I asked
if we could not stop
at the coffee shop
on the way?
I tasted the elixir which became my sanities keep,
little did I know my body knew what it was I did need
—caffeine is the remedy when lithium dost thus leak.
Back home he left me, returning quickly to his life which he could only leave briefly.
My roommate, the Trojan, was surprised to see me. I looked into his Greek eyes and told him it’d no longer be.
At once he got out, and I had the day to open the doors wide and see what might come inside.
I swept his room clean, nice and empty, and there I prepared it for what I’d long since wanted it to be to arrive.
Girls came to help, friends like arriving like angels, children who’d come to play with me.
That night in my delight, I entered and slept on the hardwood floor.
As I closed the tent folds behind me, I had only that which I adore. I had carried in my bible, that one which I had before the day I was baptized, in it is still taped a hair, the one he taped the first time I considered sharing my life. I had my violin, it is a mere symbol, that it be that one or an earlier of mine, it was simply my red violin.
I suppose here I must stop to introduce the tall lanky weed with blonde hair, the child I knew was my grandfather before time thus upon him grew.
You see the night before after the free had been freed, I decided to take the light out which bothered my sleep.
It was three in the morn when out of my room and into the street I’d sneak. I stood there midway in bright as day, equipped with a step stool and coffee mitt in either hand prepared, there’s no wonder why it is that they’d stare. The lost then wandered around the corner, and they looked on at I, as I at they and we neither much mattered if the other so much cared. I asked if they’d see anyone rustling bikes in the night, they countered—”why?”—stiffening as if I was prompting a fight. Oh, I told them, some have gone—disappeared. Since they wander in the night, perhaps they’d look out from now on? What is it that you’re doing, not so innocent yourself? I told them what it was I was up to, with night as my only stealth. The one offered to take that mitt off my hands, and the stool he’d too take, and he promised tomorrow, from sleep I would awake. I offered my home for their slumber, they walked it off waiting to drive to their sleep. While one would humbly accept the offer, the other not accustomed to the kindness of strangers, would slink away after the good deed while I slept in his promised sleep.
I woke in the morning. The cat in hat on my couch did sleep! Oh, momma, oh my! How is it that wonder did not pass by-and-by?! Is this really, could it, would it truly be!? Did he hear the prayer that my soul groaned though my knees had never relented, never ever before meek or weak?
Truth I do tell, my heart did swell as the child like golden death did sleep. I slipped out the day for my plunder, and my routines to return to upkeep. I went to Harry’s, the 1960’s family diner that I adore, and Harry’s adored me as ever before. I stopped in Bird Rock for coffee, cappuccino in hand, I pressed on further beyond the border of my imaginary land. I met the mechanic, a good hearted man, he promised he fix it, “if he can”.
I set off determined to venture further, into the Pacific I’d determined to be, there was a bike for sale I’d ride back along the beach. But mere blocks later—who knows if it were the woman or the dog that I’d first meet?—there walked love, three Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and their mommy who they lead. I asked her, who are they? A doggy I’m in need. She said, well here have one, I have one more than I can keep. She handed me the leash to the mommy, opening her heart to love to lose later and for love lost later to bleed. I said why don’t we walk the block or two towards the ocean, and when it we meet, you go the one way, and I the other—when she thus notices, she’ll turn back and toward my home we’ll walk whilst it is you she seeks? Thus it in my life full of wonder, that she did give me her child, in mere moments of meeting, and in mere moments later of meeting did part, her with love and me with her heart. Rosie was her name, a saucy red head more beautiful than anything I’ve ever loved. A red headed daughter of a black Irish man. Pure breed and with papers, she and I could ignore, we were a pair made in heaven, and heaven we’d explore.
We weaved and wove, wandering where the street drove, making our way back home. Along the way, as life would stray, Rosie became Roxie, and thus began what felt like the dawn of new day. She and I tired as we made our way, and eventually came upon a man who had decided he was too. He stopped jogging to walk aside us, and for a moment my heart arose. In childlike wonder, my mind did ponder, would I recognize my father if my father had aged and appeared before my eyes? He was a physicist, he taught Alice in Wonderland, and at night he wrote. He had a screenplay, of which apparently I was already the star. He stumbled and nearly fell, in a few blocks learning what was relatively little, but recognizing what it was in only dreams he had previously he’d saw. The only difference between her and me were the dreads upon her head, he said, and as he faltered it seems the sight of me nearly brought him to his knees.
I explained that he were going home, and she was going home with me. He marveled and stuttered, my life is unimaginable, or imagined by most to be a dream. He said he has a puppy, and he could go home and fetch food for her to eat. He left us at my corner, the wrong-way one-way dead end at the ocean where sky meets dreams, as he headed up the other way, climbing up the street towards the peek.
So it is that later that night as I climb into my tent content that my life is nothing like others, that which seems so bleak, there remained a child of flaxen hair, an abused spirit with a bored debonair stare, and with him in tow, suddenly, his only baggage—a guitar, and a suitcase bearing the cross marked for the Hell’s Angels, upon which a book of words to sound smart with worn edges darkened by frequent thumbing did lay. He kept Roxie, and made me a milkshake to end my day. I ate from the box, it made by some combination of who knows what but I’ll never forget; luscious, delicious and creamy with berries! I laid my head down to sleep.
It seemed he’d slumber pulled asunder, an escaped angel of death, I marveled at what length he dozed. Only on the third day from this arrest was it he rose. He wore my socks, Dr. Seuss striped woven warmers of toes. So happy was me, to finally be free, the Trojan having been disposed. Alas my mind’s sass should have held back for fast it was that the next wave thus goes.
As he sat at the table which sat by the window, the writers seat looking out at sea, he gazed aimlessly at the book which lay before him his eyes suddenly I worried would be deceived. Buddha sat fat and lifeless one of those epic idols of stone before the lost child who sat listless, lonely, dejected and alone. He drank a coca-cola, and I asked he leave it alone. He wondered what was wrong with it, and to reason at that moment I was not prone. Exchange exchanged in a toss and a throw its with shame I admit, first the coke soaked the cover, before out the door, um, well you know.
Anyone would be angered by the arrogant dismissal, oh you know, there’s no excuse for anyone to take someone’s possession and even out one’s own door take aim and throw. It seems somehow not much later with things much sedater that I sat on the couch, my lap Roxie’s throne. My feet up and resting, my sleep not yet recovered from drug’s dressing. Behind me a rustle, the police they entered in a bustle, no privacy no concept of domain or that it was my home.
They entered and stood over me, and their eyes I did meet, no wilting flower, what ever did they want to thus dare to interrupt my dear darling Roxie’s sleep and stand before and above and behind me?
Oh rile me Satan and I thus shall scorn, your work at which you weary is thus on my nerves thus worn. I say get behind me, and the serpent does seethe. Reject the devil and he will flee, but it isn’t immediately he’d leave me. They picked and they lingered, loitering and looking, until finally I was peeved.
What is it, I ask, that you seek? Do you have an address book? (For what should they need an address book, indeed?) I sent them with detailed instruction to where three lay precisely, though each would give them nothing but that which they said they’d seek.
Have you noticed, my nature, gone sour from sweet? Three days after my freedom would bleed, drugged into stupor and stupidity with an edge of a nicotine fiend, they ask will you go willingly or, proverbially, shall we put you on your knees?
I noted that that was no choice at all, and with a sigh I rose in dignity the last moment of peace I recall.
They had asked a myriad of questions, each one asked I answered as fast, precise and accurately as the last. Their questions amused me, how little it showed they’d know. For instance, who asks a girl geek for an address book, not asking instead to see her iPhone? Did I drug my dog, um no? Was it out the door his book I’d thrown? Yes, I didn’t want it in my home. Did you let this man stay here, yes? Does it matter if he had no place to stay? I offered him a place for his head to lay. “A homeless vagrant” though I told them his name and his licensed address no shamed claim to fame. Thus Roxie got fleas, Daniel Zechariah Rhodes took leave, and I’d lose my home.
My angel Torres pic.twitter.com/t9xUG0S7GQ
— Angela Glass (@Ang) November 28, 2013
There’s nine days in between, but at twenty-fours of persistent wakeful sleep speed, thats more than a chapter, and less than a dream.
Suffice to say its somewhere between Angela’s eyes and a tent wander’s dreams.
Though I took the Word into my tent and slept in a wilderness of my own, it was months later I read the book which told me my heart knew I had a home.
So either it’s something in that story, which is long from being done and told, or it is simply the answer.
“I was hungry and you fed me,
I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
I was homeless and you gave me a room,
I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
I was sick and you stopped to visit,
I was in prison and you came to me.”
It was the Word and the Word alone.
I am emotional. I feel betrayed. I was raised in faith that the Watchtower was God’s organization. I believed that my mom and dad knew the answers that one day I’d come to learn. I just felt slow and stupid and that eventually I’d get it. I trusted. I had faith. I believed. I knew my parents were smarter than me. I had read it in the poem that hang on his bedroom wall.
I now learn that while they can’t answer me from the scriptures when will my father live again they will deny the scriptures as they are written as truth.
“And the rest of the dead do not come to life until the end of the thousand years.” — Revelation 20:5
Despite that verse, and the one which precedes it which clearly defines who will partake in the first resurrection (which is immediately followed by this verse—”And the rest of the dead do not come to life until the end of the thousand years.”) she’d say that “apparently” my father, and all other loved ones, such as my uncles and my best friend, will come to life again during the thousand year reign.
“But who will they rule over?”, she asked. Continue reading
“Thanks for the platform Angela. Sorry you had the unfortunate experience of getting molested by my old room mate Curtiss Parker. Hope you get over it some day but I know that’s easier said than done. Allowing me to post this article should at least give you some satisfaction. Too bad it won’t bring you redemption. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will do something about these two con men. As always, Your Friend and former neighbor, John Harter”
The Devil Slept in my Bed
4 messages with John Harter regarding Curtiss Parker
|Angela Baxley||Wed, Aug 15, 2012 at 11:51 AM|
Hey John. Last summer he came downstairs and slept in my bed. I arrived home to find my roommate on the couch, and Curtis in my bed. I believe that was about the same day I decided to kick my roommate out (reasoning, of what use is it to have “a man in the house” when he allows the drunk neighbor to waltz through the living room and into my bedroom to sleep in my bed, when his is upstairs?!).
Later when I was dealing with the cops and they wanted to know why I didn’t feel safe at home, I responded “the devil slept in my bed”. Of course cops are far less imaginative than I am, and they took that to mean I was crazy. Thus I was taken away and locked up—and Curtis still runs free. Irony of life.
I’m not sure what I would suggest you’d do. Curtis told the landlord malicious lies about me, apparently also spreading rumors in the complex about me as well. I heard from neighbors about his saying I was lesbian and other sexually oriented lies. Eventually Karen, the landlord, decided to get rid of me. Why she’s kept Curtis so long, and why she chose him over me, I have no idea. That however doesn’t fair well for you.
You should look into your legal rights—are you on the lease? Is he? Is it a joint lease?
SCAM ALERT: Exposing Fraud on Jeff Stone, Janette Diller Stone and
Curtiss Parker of the Hong Kong Alliance Fund Limited and the Wakabayashi Fund, LLC.
“The Devil slept in my bed”, she said. I found Curtiss Parker drunk and passed out in my bed and I didn’t feel safe in my home anymore.
One day last summer I came home to find my roommate stoned on the couch, and to find “the devil slept in my bed“. My roommate seemed to think nothing of the fact that a man entered our home, proceeded to my bedroom and decided to take a nap in my bed—despite the fact that his very own bed was literally one floor above, as he lived upstairs and his bedroom was directly above my own. I woke him screaming and chased him out of the house, and then I kicked out my roommate.
The roommate moved out, but I continued to have to deal with the drunk upstairs, Curtiss Parker. Who, in addition to sleeping in my bed, also molested me. Yuck.
— Seek Yehowah (@SeekYehowah) November 23, 2014
Baptized at 12 years old coming from multiple generations on my [step] dad’s side—Melvin George Baxley—and my mom and [deceased] father came in [to the truth] together, baptized at the same time arm-in-arm, literally.
Family all still are “JW”, but I’ve been disfellowshipped twice.
I got back “in” this year to be able to speak with family but my parents pretty much shun me because my intent was to share and research the information I had learned of late about the religion.
I’ve faded, immediately after reinstatement.
I live on the west coast and the timing went well as I moved for a job right after reinstatement.
So I am a ghost now. My family is east coast.
I believe in God—even more so than before when it was a religious thing.
I am trying to learn what the bible really says.
Dealing with shunning
Nothing makes you crazier than being ignored and feeling as though you don’t belong.
My family wasn’t strict about it near the end this time around, but our relationships will never be the same after more than 5 years of shunning.
What is your objective for the Channel C panel?
To find association among like-minded people.
Somewhat more private and probably more intellectual than the posts I’ve read on the other public forums.
I’m not into bashing as a past time—Looking for a place that’s more mature [than www.jehovahs-witness.net].
Any other information you think is pertinent or interesting?
I recently started a site (I’m in technology as a profession) : seekjehovah.org.
It’s a work in progress with the intent to be found by witnesses, not immediately repel them, and instead perhaps reach people with information I wish I would have had sooner in life.
On Aug 12, 2012, from “firstname.lastname@example.org”
Based on your responses and candor (below), I think you would be an excellent contributor to the Channel C forum.
I looked at your seekjehovah.org Website and it appears excellent as well. What a genuinely Christian endeavor, appropriate for Jehovah’s Witnesses.
What would you like for a user name and a password? I will register you and look forward to your participation in the discussions.Thanks for your interest in Channel C.
Channel C Admin
Angela M. Baxley <email@example.com> 8/12/12 to cc-questions
thank you. How about “oneapart”.
Rosalie the Channel C admin, and friend of Franz.
Mom, I know that I’m scaring you. And I’m sorry for that.
I don’t know how to explain with words what I’m going through.
I can however share with you what I’m fascinated by, and perhaps you can judge whether or not I’m “okay”.
I’ve been studying the Bible for months now, and I’ve perservered despite the fear that what I would learn might mean that I would separated from my family. I miss you guys so much. You seem nearly as a conceptual thing to me as “daddy” is. I understand what that relationship is supposed to mean, but it’s not something I’ve experienced. Likewise, I don’t really know how to be a sister or to be a daughter, it seems so long ago that I was a part of a family. I’m not sure I ever knew how to interact like I belonged.
Here’s a night in the most recent nights of Angela:
I’m an experience designer, so know that it’s an “experience”. I’m giving you my recipe as it were. I could send you the “Notability” file for instance which recorded me and the background (music in this case) while I studied the Watchtower. You can go along as I highlight and respond, and can hear the music that I was listening to and how I interacted in my study with God.
So. First, it starts with Faith. Continue reading
That was the night that Johnny showed up.
What was I doing for New Year’s Eve last year? Oh!—how could I forget?! I was in New York City at the Phish show in Madison Square Garden with the Trojan’s son.
When I think about that whole concept of a girl having to define the man she’d want to spend the rest of her life with, with just six months to get that concept together—I wonder if you’d have to decide based on some one you know, or if you dream man would be some sort of composite that you just haven’t realized yet?
I wonder if I should feel guilty that I probably can’t even recall all the men who have ever claimed love for me? How many hearts have I broken?
Nah—I need to remember that life is short, and I’ve never really thought that it was true that if you can’t be with the one you love that you should love the one you’re with. It’s about taking that deep breath and remembering that you used to fall asleep every night with dream in your head of what life would look like, in the paradise that your father painted.
What if you believed that you were already there?
That you were in just some kind of symbolic lesson or joke? That your father is really there? Could you believe as I was raised to believe that your father would one day live again? If so, would you recognize his face if you saw him?
Would your father be someone you know? The man in the few photos you have? Or grown older? Would you know his face, if you saw it, either way? Mine died so young, when I was so young. What if he was a phycist?
How do I explain how confusing it is that I seem to have two mothers—only not if you think of it as One who gave me life, the Other who gave me death?
What lessons would you take away? To always listen to your mothers—or perhaps, is it, to wary of the mother who’d commit you?—or would it be the mother who’d bust you out?
If a homeless man came to your door—would you take him in—feed and shelter him?
It didn’t feel like risking my very life that night. It felt like the night that a 21-year old blue-eyed blonde version of grandfather walked through the door.
What if you had to figure out your very own movie? Backwards? Would it be a wedding movie at the end? Or would it be death?
What if you’d already lived it? Could you recall the scenes?—Would you try? Or just live it out as each breath expires in time?
What if the movie was a wedding mystery movie!?! Where you have to figure it out—like Momento—backwards in reverse until the beginning or you get it or something?! Wait?! Didn’t that guy— wasn’t it?!— wasn’t it about some guy who had stuff happen because he couldn’t sleep? No! Wait. That was The Machinst. What happened in Momento? What happened in Donnie Darko for that matter? Was Momento also about not being able to sleep? I can just remember him not being able to remember. Donnie Darko, I can’t remember why he couldn’t sleep. The Machinist—he couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t remember why…
…any way! What if you had to figure it all out? I think I’d circle around to remembering that I liked it better when the Devil slept in my bed and nearly burned my house down, and a girl helped me pitch the tent in my spare bedroom after I kicked out my Trojan horse of a roommate, and The Devil’s uncle brought his kid’s over to watch Annie in our secret garden that reminded me somehow of the surf version of the set of Dirty Dancing. I introduced them to my version of Mister MacGrewgor, and told them about his garden.
I had a bunny once. And this summer I had a beautiful dog. And a summer wonderland. Would you regret what you did this last summer if you knew it were the last summer of this earth?—Oh, it’s been nagging me that thing he said. But you know, there was this other thought that struck me, which is that — jeez — I really need to remember to spin it up faster and remember that you have to remember the scenes.
—Glad that you’ve come back—Cat Powers, Lived in Bars—Could that be your long lost aunt? How old is she? Does she have a twin brother?
—The Ozark Mountain Dare Devils
—Wait?! What if… We kow your house so very well… we’ll bust down your door if you’re not there… She keeps bringing me back to happy… air planes… out of here.
And we’re back again—is it a wedding video? Mystery? In reverse? Or is it a life mediated by reminds, which all seem to point you in some direction, but you’re just not sure which one?
Remember when you met all those crazy people? Why is it that that felt like the beginning? Was that all after Independence Day? I met the old man who looks like John—you know— like John the baptist with dreads.
If you could imagine Jesus— would you imagine him to be more like a blonde, young, lanky Southern California’s next authentic rock star, or would he be in long hair and birkenstocks? And—oh! my!—can you believe what you almost sold your soul to design last year?!—you’d almost forgotten.
What if you took a few drugs and ended up finding your way to Jesus… would you trust Jesus? Or would you believe he was drug induced or psychotic behavior? My father hitch hiked his way across the country in 1975, from Indiana to California, finding himself in a Moonie camp just about an hour north of San Francisco and met some guy named Brent Blakeley who doesn’t believe in making money, or the Internet, and told you that your dad was alive for an hour, to an hour and a half before a trucker came along at that time of night to see him laying there, and to call 911.
You think of your mother, holding his hand—”you blew it buddy”, she said to him. And as his hand slipped from hers, she knew that that was that.
You remember her telling you a story. The first time you’d heard this one. She doubted whether or not your dad could make it. Stay true. But to what, you can’t recall? Not to the religion—but in some behavior? What did he do again? How did he disappoint her, and make her doubt him? He got drunk at some party—? Was that the night she doubted? I wonder if he knew? Or if he believed she believed in him?
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and what else have you read this past year?
And all the movies you saw? Shutter Island, The Adjustment Bureau, Limitless, Source Code… and?
Don’t forget to bring in the Raymond Chandler romance. The Man in the White Suit. He looked so good from so far—and even better in your memory.
The TV shows—Weeds, Californication, The L Word, Entourage, Dollhouse, Nip/Tuck, and How I Met Your Mother.
The bands—The Bird and The Bee, Cat Power, Ozark Mountain Daredevil’s, Bob Dylan, Dave Matthews, and finally some Avett Brothers, or just listening to your iPod on play all the way through, one song at a time.
While it is true that patients who experience hypomania as a side effect of Clonazepam may prove to have a form of bipolar disorder that has previously gone unrecognized, drug-induced hypomania is not invariably indicative of bipolar affective disorders.
It’s frustrating because suddenly I’m facing the woes I wrote about in college regarding labeling mental illness, and the impact of the use of labels, such as “creative” or “over-achiever”.
- I am hyperthymic, literally, “over spirited”.
- It’s not a diagnosis, because being “consistently happy” is not recognized as a mood disorder.
- I became hypomanic, but that wasn’t exhibiting hidden underlying bipolar or schizophrenic disorder.
- It’s not bipolar… it’s drug induced paradoxical side effects.
Label it or Leave it?
Some people would include in the Bipolar Disorder category a consistently elevated mood called hyperthymia. Being constantly upbeat and always enthusiastic is not unheard of, but it is not the norm in the general population. It is more common to experience a fairly steady, neither-too-high-nor-too-low mood characterized by some contentment, some discontentment, some happiness, and some sadness — usually associated with external events such as receiving good news, problems with personal relationships, etc.
Does a long-lasting, exuberant mood that causes no problem need to be placed on the spectrum of mood disorders? In a clinical sense, no. If it poses no threat to anyone’s health, it is not a concern for psychiatrists. Cataloging and understanding a mental state like this, however, may help us better understand the full spectrum of emotional states related to mood disorders and provide clues about what can go wrong when moods become extreme.
Some people always seem to be upbeat and energetic, trying new things and initiating new projects. This trait, which is sometimes called hyperthymia, is not unlike being on a “permanent high.” Some people argue that hyperthymia is a type of mood disorder that results in high activity and inflated sense of self-esteem — something like living with constant hypomania but with the crucial difference that it is not as clearly episodic. Instead, it seems to last and is without any associated depression.
While observations of many people indicate some of them have this mood trait, hyperthymic disorder is not recognized as a mood disorder by either of the two mainstream authorities, the American Psychiatric Association and the World Health Organization. It appears in neither of their diagnostic manuals, the DSM IV and the ICD-10.
On the surface, people with hyperthymia seem optimistic and full of energy. They radiate self-confidence and self-reliance; they seem to believe they can do whatever needs to be done. They thrive on new experiences that promise variety, intrigue, and novelty. Usually, they have a great many personal interests, as well as plans for the future. They also can be articulate and witty.
It might be most accurate to think of hyperthymia as a temperament or personality trait rather than as a marker of a mental disorder. Of course, if this trait causes problems, then it becomes a legitimate subject for psychological or psychiatric care.
In fact, criticism of mainstream psychiatry is often directed at its alleged predisposition to label people with problems that don’t exist. The inclusion of homosexuality in earlier editions of the DSM IV — an error since corrected — is a frequently cited example. The reality is if someone is not unhappy, suffering, or a threat to themselves or others, psychiatrists have no reason to intervene. They are busy enough treating people with serious mental problems. It is only when complaints or serious problems appear that the labels of the DSM IV are applied as part of the process for providing effective treatment. A hyperthymic personality can be satisfying, productive, and creative. But if for some individuals it is a manifestation of a part of a spectrum of mood disorders, it could be problematic. For example, some people later diagnosed with bipolar disorder first seek help with depression after they have experienced a set-back in their lives. A close look back over their lives may reveal that they have been hyperthymic. Rather than having easily recognizable mood swings, these people may have been experiencing years of constant emotional elevation and enthusiasm along with a long history of uncompleted endeavors.
Also, the lack of a healthy response to the full range of life experience might cause problems for some people who always seem to have elevated spirits. A full, healthy life for most people includes periods of elation and introspection, action and reflection. If only one pole of our emotional lives is present, we may miss the benefits of the counterbalancing half of our responses to events. Consequently, we may lack understanding and empathy in the way we interact with people and respond to events in our lives.
“This day YHWH will deliver you into my hand, and I will strike you down, and cut off your head; and I will give the dead bodies of the host of the Philistines this day to the birds of the air and to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that God saves not with sword and spear; for the battle is God’s, and he will give you into our hand.”
David and Goliath
Date: October 28, 2011 2:17 PM
To: Bryan Hertz <firstname.lastname@example.org>
My family went down in history fighting for First Amendment rights, and my grandfather and his friends were not only unjustly imprisoned, but also tarred and feathered for their beliefs. Baxley v. United States is my heritage and in it I revel.
I am proud of my family’s name, and that which they bestowed upon me—spiritual riches beyond any wealth found on earth.
I suppose in your calculations for settlement you likely missed a few key points. I know the value of a name, and know of truest wealth. I have no fear of man, I was raised without it.
I believe in justice and seek it through truth.
In every move, I imbue my own name while striking at yours. Every attack or move you make against me does the same. You are in a game you cannot win, you are unwitting and unwise.
Perhaps it’s unfair, the attention that I grant to this particular instance of injustice in life… Who could have known it was to be your wrong that would be the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back? But did you know, “it is easier for a camel to get through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of God“?
I imagine that’s not a concern for you, and since I have no money, it’s not of much concern to me either. 🙂
Today I am enjoying breaking my polite silence. I acquiesced to your request of almost a year ago. You wished to be friendly, you said. I waited and spent my time in thought, making plans and planning ahead.
One day, when I’m done with it, I’m willing to sell the domain name I’ve acquired, for the right price. With any luck—or whatever you’d call it—perhaps you can outwit the Google historian’s account of our brief history together. Currently the mad strategy is an amusement for me. It doesn’t take much to push “publish” on what constitutes a years worth of thought. It amuses me that it doesn’t have to make much sense, it’s riddles for others to follow when searching or researching your name.
I have to say, I do feel a tinge of regret when it comes to the damage to [redacted, VP of Stuff at Telcentris] I know that he truly (believed he) loved me, and emotional damage he endured before he entered the scene dictated much of his irrational actions. However, one night he took what wasn’t his and in a less than gentlemanly manner. Confronted with his actions he acted as a coward, denying the deed. What an uncomfortable position to be in before my boss—being held to whether or not I should report it as rape or willing—I get the feeling you knew then as I know, that however it is that I ended up beyond consent that night, by it’s very definition “it” didn’t need defined.
Your lawyer informed me, as I already knew, that in California the statue of limitations has already passed for me to make an EEOC claim. I wonder how it is you’re still confused. I’m not after your money—money can’t buy you comfort. If you ever question why it is that I have seemingly endless energy to put towards my intent, recall that day where you forced me against the wall with your words, and I tried to walk. Remember that—once—I tried to protect you.
You wouldn’t let me walk away; I imagine you regret that decision now.
Oh, and I bet you regret not giving me something to sign when I asked for it. Again, I was looking out for you and the company’s best interests above that of my own.
Money can’t buy me love. It is the root of all sorts of injurious things. Yes, perhaps it can quell my wrath, but you weren’t willing to even willing to offer what is legally mine, and expected for me to sign away my right to free speech for the pittance?
It’s not in what I have to gain; it’s in everything you lose.
I don’t know if you read the Bible, but at least you might recognize the lyric “let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late“…