Meow…a message from a cat.

I see things you can’t see.  I can see into more dimensions that you can.  Those you call dead, or departed, are everywhere…they’re all around you.  Things that never manifested on earth, stop by to watch you move through your lives.  You just can’t see them.  I can.

We aren’t allowed to tell you what’s really here, moving through this dimension along with you.  We can’t tell you how the past isn’t really gone and the future is here as well.  If you could understand us, it would change the way you live.  It would change what you believe, it would change everything.

The dead can’t help you.  No one can.  When you look at me, you see wisdom and knowing. Look at any human and all you’ll see is confusion, walls, and blankness.  You may see laughter, joy, pain or sorrow, but those are emotions, not intelligence or knowing.   We were sent her to help you.  To lead you.  But your egomania stops you from seeing yourselves, let alone the rest of the living beings on the planet.

Look at me and you will see truth and true beauty.  Keep in mind, that I am the number one predator in the world, but you, well, you’re the most hateful.   No other animal alive, hates.  Your species is the only one.

 

Photo:  Dmitriy Karfagenskiy
Unsplash

How they met…Neon…a short story

“This is a great bookstore,” she said excitedly, throwing a few more things onto the counter.  “I absolutely LOVE it, to the Moon and Back.”

“We’re opening another shop on the moon before Christmas.”

“Interesting,” she muttered.  “And how, exactly, will the customers get there?”

“People are already living on the Moon. The government just doesn’t want anyone to know,”  he said, conspiratorially.  “Don’t tell anyone I mentioned it.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t,” she laughed, crossing her heart with her finger.  “You have a lot of unusual books.  Things I’ve never seen anywhere else.  It’s wonderful.”

“Thanks.”

“We need a lot more independents.  So many closed, but perhaps they’ll start opening again.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” he said.  “It’s a tough business with on-line shopping, offering lower prices.”

She nodded.  “Makes it difficult for everyone.”

“It does.  You get price cuts from publishers, according to the number of books you order.  Who can compete with Big Box stores and Amazon?  No one, that’s who.”

“It’s not fair,” she said.

“No.  It’s not.”

‘How are you going to deal with radiation poisoning on the moon?”

“Tin foil.”

She burst out laughing.  “Great idea.”

“We think so,” he said, smiling.

“Have you read any of the books in my stack?”

He looked at the books and nodded.  “I’ve read all of them, but you won’t like this one,” he said, pulling it out of the pile.  “The blurb is great but the book is terrible.  Bad writing and weak plot.  The characters are so dull I don’t think the pages would catch if you put them into a roaring fireplace.”

She stared at him.  “Thank you.”

“This one is great, and I’d recommend buying the second book. They may be going out of print.  Once that happens, the price will skyrocket and people will be selling their copies on line.”

“I’ll do it.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst, this book is a five, if you like reading about the misery of others.  I don’t, but you might.”

“No,” she said, putting the book aside.  I don’t.”

“This one is fantastic.  Great writing and characters you’ll never forget.  You might even want to be one of them.”

“Perfect,” she said, smiling.  “Have you been to the moon?”

“Excuse me?”

“The moon.  Have you ever been there.  Did you go looking for a proper bookstore site?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one is allowed to know about trips to the moon.”

“Are the people there aliens or humans.”

“Those are the same two things,” he said.

“Hmmm.  I guess they are, when you think about it.”

“We’re aliens on earth.  All of us,” he said.

“You can’t be an alien, if you’re born here.”

“I think you should look at these two books,” he said, reaching for a couple of hardcovers on the shelf behind him.

“Okay.”

“Don’t you want to know what they’re about?”

“No.  I trust you.  If you think they’re great, I’m willing to read them, but only if you read two that I pick out for you.”

“Really?” he said, grinning.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, disappearing into the shop.

When she came back, she had two books in her hands.  “Read these.  No questions asked.”

“Promise,” he said, taking them from her.

“I’ll come back in two weeks and we’ll discuss the books, okay?”

“Yes.  That will be fun,” he said, putting her books into a cloth bag.

“Is the moon beautiful?”

“Not really.  It’s a man-made orb, metal and hollow inside.  It’s cold on the dark side and nothing really grows on the outside.  The government has people working inside the orb, making weapons, lots of things.  It’s a dead place and living inside is horrible, like living in a house with no windows.  Artificial light, is artificial.  Drives you crazy in no time at all and you long to be outside on earth.”

“What if I told you I was CIA and you could be disappeared for what you just said?”

“I’d ask you to kiss me, before you shot me.”

She grabbed his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him.  “You need to be more carful, Timmothy Larken,” she whispered.  “Please don’t make me erase you.”

“People should know,” he said softly.

“They can’t know,” she said, picking up her bag.   “I’ll see you in two weeks.  Hope you like the books I chose for you.”

 

Photo:  Dalal Nizam
Unsplash

 

 

 

 

 

Tulips…2 pictures

okay, so…

Last night Debbie texted, “watch Rebel on hulu.  It’s you.”  I thought it would be a comedy but nope, it was about a loud, aggressive, in your face activist, whose kids never wanted to be activists, but were forced into it by their mom.  Sigh.

Okay, so I dragged my daughter on buses and planes, took her everywhere, to march, demonstrate, defend clinics, animals, and all the rest.

We didn’t do the mother daughter thing, the way a lot of other mother’s and daughter’s did.  My daughter was handing out leaflets, picketing Northwestern’s Animal Labs, furriers, marching in Washington, Springfield, going to International Feminist Conventions, and meetings, working for the ERA, doing voter registration and pretty much everything else, including letter writing, phone calls, coming to most of my lectures, and boycotting.  That was her childhood.

I adore her. She’s an amazing, professional, intelligent, strong, funny, LOYAL, woman, who is much nicer than I am, or ever could be.  I’m aggressive.  She doesn’t go for someone’s throat, until she’s tried other ways.  I give whatever it is about three minutes, and then I’m finished being nice.  So, when she said the character Rebel,on the program, and I were alike, she wasn’t kidding.  She said she kept saying, “There’s my mom,” while she was watching the program.  I have to ask her if that was a good, or bad thing.  Mmmm, probably bad, right? 

My daughter’s like a warm summer breeze and I’m more like a nasty tornado, but we work amazingly well together.  We have each other’s back…always.  I think she’s so perfect because she’s like her father.  He was perfect too.  Our son, well, he was more like me.  Enough said.

Anyway, her nickname for me is, The Shredder.  I tell her I’m not that bad.  She tells me that I am.  We can both be right…or wrong.

We are who we are.

A Winged Bird

This is amazing.

House of Heart

I am who I have always been

a shiver of soft reeds beside the river

or the cascade of  a waterfall.

Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn

gathering their kind they circle

back for me.

I can scarcely bear the

splendor of the world,

its wonder humbles

the wisp  that is me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue

stunned by the promise

of a  red dawn.

Elegant trees  lift

their mighty limbs

host to creatures

large and small.

Their noble crowns filled

with the cornucopia of life.

I want to sail the sea tiny fleck that is me  bearer ofno possession fragment of the universe

art by Amy Judd (represented by Hicks Gallery)

Translation by Bernd Hutschenreuther

Ein geflügelter Vogel sein

Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge…

View original post 60 more words

The Flamingo…Chicklets and Las Vegas

I haven’t taken the chicklets to Vegas in a couple of years.  We always stay at the Aria, since they took all the fun out of NY, NY years ago.   But the chicklets love to visit the Flamingo everyday, because of the beautiful birds, koi, and garden area.  They were going through old photographs and found this one.  Now they want me to take them on a vacation.  I’ve explained that we can’t go, because of the virus, so they are thinking of having a Las Vegas party this summer.

The Stage Crew built the Flamingo on Wheels for the baby chicklets, because some of them wished they could have gone with us.  Now that all the chicklets have seen the photo, they’re getting the flamingo out of storage.  I’m sure the party will be fun, and the Stage Crew is already drawing up plans for slot machines that take corn kernels.  They said the roulette tables will be a snap.

The entertainment is going to be spectacular and very flashy, according to the costume and entertainment committees.  Still, they admit, it won’t be the same as being there.  The Sound Committee is going to work on a machine that will make a lot of noise, so the chicklets will think they are in the casino.

Truth be told, the chicklets spent most of their time in Vegas, shopping and going to shows. Pressing the button on the slot machines hurt their beaks, and the One Arm Bandits had them sitting on top of the machine, then jumping onto the lever.  Lots of accidents and not much fun.  I think they lost six and a half dollars between them.

They love the fountains at the Bellagio and sit on the railings peeping with glee and chirping to the music.  They also love the street artists, especially the violinists.  Two of them were hypnotized by all the flashing lights, which was a problem at first, but we worked it out. But because of that, the Lighting Committee is going to be very careful about how they light things up.

The excitement is spreading, and the Cooking Committee is setting up a meeting with the hens about the menu.

I think it might be fun.  The Entertainment Committee is planning on comedy acts (I’m looking forward to that one) and lots of singing and dancing.  They were thinking of doing things like Cirque du Soleil, but no one thinks they can really pull it off, and none of the chicklets are willing to dive into water, or run up and down a slanting wall, like  they do in Ká.  So it will take some time for them to get everything straight.  We just have to wait and see what happens.  I’m sure it will be…interesting.

Okay, so…THE PIETA

A lot of people see The Pieta as a religious statue, but I think it’s a statue of just another gang killing.  Another killing over IDEAS and BELIEFS, neither of which are actually real, but simply made up by someone for profit, or because of  generations of brainwashing and conditioning..

The Pieta has nothing to do with anything, but a mother holding her dead son, something that happens pretty much everyday, in cities everywhere.  Wars are just really big gang fights over greed, insanity and clashing ideas and beliefs..  They last a long time,  but still, no different than this picture.  A mother looking at her dead child.  That’s what the Pieta IS…It represents MOTHER’S MOURNING THE SENSELESS DEATH OF THEIR CHILDREN, because men love to kill.

And again, what kind of god sends his only kid to die for him? If that’s not a red flag, you’d think the rapist priests would be but…brainwashing really works.  You can tell, because people still go to church and they still send their kids, as well.

 

Photo:  Luis Quero
Pelels

Women are constantly silenced…in SO many ways (2 pictures)

Photo:  Kat Jayne
Unsplash

 

Photo:  Anet Lusina
Unsplash

Wow…this is cool…from: Astronomy Picture of the Day

The Pencil Nebula Supernova Shock Wave

Quote of the Day

Yahooey's Blog

“Nothing, however, is more dubious than the way in which these two words ‘pessimist’ and ‘optimist’ are used; for the optimist appears to be he who cannot bear the world as it is, and is forced by his nature to picture it as it ought to be, and the pessimist one who cannot only bear the world as it is, but loves it well enough to draw it faithfully.” — John Galsworthy, “Some Platitudes Concerning Drama,” The Complete Essays of John Galsworthy

View original post