Sunday Morning Doodles

The kitties are in, bouncing off the walls making circles around each other while trying not to hiss. 

I’ve been outside — in spite of the fact that my hair is salt and pepper frizz this early in the morning and most of any day — to bury yesterday’s kitchen scraps. I hope no one is looking — other than the GOD I know who clearly takes me as I am — the kitties do too — they never say a word that sounds a bit like judging. Sometimes they do hiss, but mostly at each other when Mr. Shire is in the front yard and they can spy him through their giant peering glass. They are jealous that he is out there and that it isn’t them — at least that’s the gist.

Mickey curls up on the rug that he has ruffled — one paw hanging over the hump that he created — then lays his head on it and stretches out to his full length. Lucy oversees him.

Everyone has settled. It’s time for Sunday morning doodles.

A cup of coffee to start. And then another — as many as it takes to prime the engine. Yesterday the floors were vacuumed, swept, mopped and one was painted — again — because it was buffing off to show the under color that was making it look dirty all the time. Some things just needed to be straightened so that all of the congestion in the noodles could be freed of their congestion. 

It’s hard to create when so many things are laughing. The dust is hard to see without glasses, so it might be willing to wait another day — but it’s still laughing in the background making a very unpleasant rattle. 

It feels safe in this little cocoon that has been created just for that purpose — to feel safe. The world seems far away and, if the media is kept off, one would never know of any chaos — so the media stays off. The music is birds or cars racing by — sometimes a train. It’s so soothing to listen to the conversations of all the birds. They seem busy — and so always happy. 

Mickey is still on his hump, staring into space. Lucy likely went into the bedroom for her Sunday morning doodles — her high perch is in there.

The engine has been started but it’s still a little slow. Maybe there is a need for a cookie while there is still doodling going on — something to soak up some of the exhaust of the coffee that is rumbling through the pipes.

People must be getting out of church — more cars a speeding by. It’s time to do some doodles in the journal room where all the papers are.

Don’t sweat the small stuff and it’s all small stuff. Don’t bother stuffing ballots — nothing like that ever works. A cocoon with painted floors works much better in the long run and the short run too.

Image credit: Ms. Spoolteacher 

Fallen From Trees

Sticks.

Oh, it is wonderful to have this machine to type on and go back and delete or rearrange — unlike the mess of paper with scratch-outs and arrows and white paint and sometimes illegible handwriting.

It seems to be a thinking machine.

Some machines think too much. Sometimes we don’t use the k’noggins or k’noodles we are blessed with.

Isn’t it a pity. Isn’t it a shame, that we so seldom play with sticks anymore, along the way? It was so fun in those days we did.

Come to think of it, I do still play with sticks. I sometime hold them in my hands and break them up into little bits when putting them into compost heaps or hugelkultur beds. I like the texture that they are and their colors and all the animals living upon and in them. Those are usually the ones that have fallen from trees. Little limbs too old to hold their own weight anymore, dried beyond repair — a little too much like me. It’s nice that they can crackle.

It’s a joy to play with sticks.

Sticks and stones. Sticks don’t last as long as stones. Stones can wait for another day. Play with sticks today.

Isn’t it a pity
Isn’t it a shame
How we break each other’s hearts
And cause each other pain
How we take each other’s love
Without thinking anymore
Forgetting to give back
Now, isn’t it a pity

~ George Harrison

header image credit: Patrick Dougherty; stickwork.net

So Many Lies

“There is no reason why they, or anyone, should surrender and accept.”

The young person walking by heading for school could just as easily have been a boy or a girl — covered from head to toes with black fabric clothes — all labeled, of course, with symbols — fashion being more important now, it seems, than ever.

The hair was under a hoodie and the only visible part was possibly some glint of eyes had they not been looking down to the ground. Had they even not been looking to the ground, (or possibly at a phone in the hand), it would likely have been too hard to see even the eyes due to the proximity of the hoodie’s drawstring-cap-edge to the black, draping-scarf-type mouth and nose covering’s beginning that met only far enough apart to allow for a sliver — like a burqa.

The non-disclosed gender looked like a zombie walking, covered in black — or someone very scared. 

The next one in line, heading the same way, did appear to be a boy — though his hair was very long. He was wearing a blue mask — the kind the hospitals are doling out. He was carrying an instrument of some kind in a case and the question seemed obvious, Is it a mouth instrument or a type that didn’t require any breath at all? That young man seemed a little less scared than the first one since he had on shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt . All that skin exposed to the elements seemed brave in comparison to the black-covered zombie boy or girl.

There were younger ones behind the fence lining the edge of the sidewalk they were walking on. The children were playing out on the grass, waiting for the bell to ring. Some had masks on, others didn’t. They seemed perfectly happy either way.

It’s been seven months since the alarm bells rang from Wuhan. It was March that the states started setting stakes and making schooling even more unusual.

Who can be fooled this long?

The bell rang. It was time for fake stories of history and life — brainwashing — their parents had already been.

The person watching got busy laying more pavers for making traversing the front yard to the back yard less dirty. While she was still out there, a very big man with his young daughter came strolling along that same sidewalk — across the street from her and headed the direction of the school. Were they late, or scheduled for a second session so that desks can be six feet apart?

“Why,” she wondered, “has it been so hard all along, and not in any kind of school budget, to make smaller classes so teachers wouldn’t have more than they could handle? It’s been a huge fight for so long. From where had all the money come, all of a sudden, for these smaller-than-normal classes?”

So may lies. So many lies.

The little girl with her father was wearing a mask, the blue kind like the hospitals are handing out — the cheap ones — the ones lying all over parking lots with what everyone is afraid of is germs and sickness in the making.

The very large man, who was extremely overweight, wasn’t wearing a mask.

“Wasn’t he worried he’d get sick and bring it home for his daughter to get sick latter?”

Nothing is making sense.

Another man drove by twice — once this way and the next time the other. He was in an open, electric golf cart with his hair blowing. He had his blue mask hung from his ears going under his chin — perhaps so he could get it up quickly once getting to somewhere that the germs are more of a threat. In the meantime, he could virtue signal.

Brainwashed zombies don’t seem able to see the lies. Thinking is not in fashion and doesn’t come with a label. Designer masks, however, do and there is so much money to be made — best to get in on that gold rush while money still might matter.

Image credit: Gustavo Apiti Couture makes every mask to-order

 

 

People At Parties

“What do you think of this new girlfriend thing?” the little boy asked her. 

There was a party going on and she was mingling. The little boy found her. She was returning to the little boys father every so often and reminding him that she was there. The little boy’s father always seemed pleased to remember and didn’t seem to be paying any attention to any of the other women in the group. He was a man’s man and the men were just as attracted to him as the women were and he seemed to prefer that recognition.

“What do you think?” the women asked the little boy in return. 

He shrugged his shoulders but had a pleasant look on his face. The woman grasped him lightly by his shoulders and jostled him just a little bit in friendliness. She could tell that the little boy liked her.

Antony was what the man called his littlest son — his name was Anthony, but that was one of the many nicknames his father used to express his grand love for the little boy.

The woman’s delight in the whole affair overcame her so she went to where the father was and jumped up to be received in his big arms. He lifted her up to be close to his face and she put both her hands on his cheeks and said, “I love you,” and then kissed him.

“I still want to see other women,” he blurted. 

She said nothing but gazed at him with soft eyes in return. She knew that she had blurted too.

All she could think to do now was to leave a little time between them so that he might see her in a different light. She retreated to fetch her coat. It seemed like a good idea to just let him be. She did love him and was tired of holding it back. If he didn’t love her, it was time to know. Clearly, the little boy wanted to know too. Her heart felt brave, if for no other reason than for the little boy’s sake — it just wasn’t fair that he was being jostled by people at parties.

Her fingers lightly crossed the little boy’s face like a feather. He was standing in the path to the exit.

“I shall have to see you another time. I must be off to the races.”

Obscure surely, but she had said some kind of adieu. 

 

Image by Prettysleepy from Pixabay

 

 

 

 

Mouse Over Matter

Mr. and Mrs. Mousel had three children and one on the way. The kids had three cousins who lived next door with their mother and father too. So, there they all were with almost eleven hungry mice to feed.

They all decided to branch out to find their daily bread.

Two went one way, two another and so on since it was better to go with a little help.

There were lots of other mice in the neighborhood, but the Mousels and their relations didn’t know much about them and steered pretty clear — they were pretty much all rather independent, looking out for themselves — the neighbors and the Mousels and the Mousels’ relations.

There hadn’t been much competition up to that point — but the houses they were used to going to for scraps and such, had all been razed to bring in a Giant Food Store. They all thought it might turn out better for them in the long run because there might just be a whole lot more scraps to find and maybe even a big giant dumpster to dive into.

As it turned out, there were guards at the doors not letting anybody in without a face mask. They certainly didn’t want any mice in because mice bring in germs — (or so the story was told) — so there was a brigade of mice stompers at the doors as well as the usual mask marshals.

On top of that, it also turned out that all the mask people couldn’t stay in the store for any great length of time and certainly weren’t allowed to sit, under any circumstance, to eat any meals they could buy at the deli. That meant fewer and fewer morsels for the Mousels and their neighbors to collect even if they could find a way just to get into the Giant Food Store to begin with.

Oh what trouble there seemed to be headed their way now.

Since all the houses had been razed and there was only one Giant Food Store in their vicinity to visit, the neighbors and the Mousels and the Mousels’ relations ended up congregating in one place and were a little bit forced to communicate.

There was a lot of squeaking going on for anyone who spoke mouse to hear because they were all trying to figure out what they were going to do next.

Someone from the Church mouse clan said, “We might have to go underground with our new plans because there is a lot of marshaling going on and lots of stomping up above and all the humans coming and going aren’t very caring or sharing and are being very hoardy. Underground are lots of roots and vegetables and we can start a line passing things along it until we got a giant pile that everyone can share in a pantry at the Churches’ church house.”

A lot of the humans were scared enough about the monster that their masks kept them safe from — (or so the story was told) — that there were many starting to try to garden so there were ever more roots and vegetables in the outlying areas where the Giant Food Store had pushed the people out to to live.

With all the mice together they could really get a big line going.

Suddenly the squeaking the Churches, the Mousels, and all the other clans were squeaking turned into screeching and utter panic as the mice, too, became a little fearful that their needs couldn’t be met or that they might get stomped on or stuck underground trying to harvest from the humans or they might run into some kind of poison or even snap traps. It was all so confusing, they just didn’t know what to do. They wondered if they could find someone to make little mice masks to protect them.

The Mousels headed off for home with their relations and the rest of the neighbors pretty much did too. A couple here or there stayed to try to get into the store because they were a little braver but they said if they did they might not share if no one else would care to try to be even just a little bit brave — maybe even just enough to stay to resuscitate them or drag them away if they did get stomped on.

On their way home, Mr. Mousel had what he thought was a very bright idea, “What if we pack our bags and head off to another country? Maybe another country wouldn’t have these silly rules.”

“That’s likely to be a long way to go,” Mrs. Mousel exclaimed, “And I’m pregnant, Mr. Mousel, in case you haven’t noticed. Not to mention, the young ones can’t travel very well and how did you plan to get there, if I might ask?”

Mr. Mousel hadn’t thought that far.

“It does sound like we have a chance of faring a little better somewhere else — but, who knows what we should expect. Maybe the new rules have traveled there before us or will follow close behind. There are no guarantees. Maybe we should stay were we are and come up with another idea?”

They thought and thought, “Maybe we should pray?” “Maybe we should get the hoards together and make a giant run on the store?” “Maybe we should wait and just eat what we’ve stored and hope for the best with the next election?” “Maybe we should just curl up together and die?”

Mr. Mousel finally decided, with the help of Mrs. Mousel and the kids, that they would learn to think better and read and write and start a YouTube channel to get the word out that the world might look like it’s ending except that there were lots of good vibes too that could just as easily change things for the better as bad vibes could change things for the worse — but that no one can speak well with a mask on and certainly can’t be sending out good vibes that way anyhow — it was simply an emblem of surrender after all.

The Mousels headed off to the library with their laptop. There was still a wifi signal they could access without going in since they didn’t have any mouse masks as it were.

The Mousels ended up becoming famous and had the most subscriptions on YouTube as well as the most views and likes — because, they put on a very homey show as well.

The world was so impressed that a little mouse family could learn to think better and read and write that they felt rather ashamed of themselves and bucked right up.

The whole world turned around for the better after that.

Mouse over matter was the answer.

After all, the Mousels said in their videos, “Mice play an important role in the bigger picture and if they go the whole house of cards could fall. You can imagine what might happen after that — the whole world could go into a tizzy.”

“It’s better,” they said, “to quit being fearful of a mouse or a germ, or some hidden monster that they didn’t really know. Take the mask off and trust in what can be learned if you’re learning the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, (which very often is not in schools). You can’t do that, if you don’t know how to think — so, thinking is the most important thing you can do and think as hard and as often and as hard as you can. There are a lot of magic tricks being played, (propaganda some call it). Sometimes it’s hard to see the con and it might take the help of a friend, but don’t ever think that you can’t do it too if you try hard enough. It’s an obligation as a matter of fact if you want to be free.”

The mighty Mousel mouse family went down in The Mouse Hall of Fame all because they learned how to think — and, that wasn’t easy for a mouse, (or so the story goes).

Subliminal message: Just say no.

Image by mohamed Hassan from Pixabay

Above All Else

Waiting, waiting, waiting. Everyone was waiting for something. They didn’t know what it was but it felt ominous, foreboding.

In the meantime, they could rely on the television to tell them what to be afraid of at that particular moment.

“Be afraid of others.”

“Be afraid of a hidden monster stuck in the ripples of cardboard or on a piece of fruit — certainly on paper money and coins. It might be in the pizza or the box the pizza came in.”

“Don’t tip the pizza man with dirty coins. Be sure he’s wearing gloves and hasn’t ever sneezed. Be sure he didn’t dropped the box.”

“Don’t eat anything because everything could be contaminated.”

“You might as well shrivel up and die because the big bad monster was about to get you around some unknown corner anyway and why wait to die for it? Don’t let it get you — take your own — you are still in control.”

Ha ha, hee hee, ho ho!

“Stay in your room with your freshly scrubbed hands folded on your lap and don’t ever, ever, ever touch your face. Don’t even talk to people through the door. Those particles are small enough to get through wood or metal — nano, quantum particles that a porous mask can stop and they can change at the CDC’s discretion. They’re in the air, they’re everywhere.”

“Be sure to sit in your room with your hands folded on your lap and be sure to have a mask on so you can appear respectful of others if nothing else when they come to put you in the camp or in the ground.”

The mask will surely save you — its magical. It’s a magical mask.

“Don’t love your loved ones. Certainly don’t love them by hugging. Put them in a room and keep everyone else away. Be sure to put a magical mask on them too and make sure their hands are newly scrubbed and folded on their lap. Heck, maybe you should put them out of harm’s way for good. That would be a loving thing to do. Save them from the monster and then save yourself.”

The fear of death is universal and profound and equally distributed — though some are able to go about their business with their head in a cloud. Some use drugs to help them. Some use food. Some use risk. Some use TicTok. Some just live to be afraid — somehow it makes them happy.

Ticktock the clock is moving ever faster to the end — why put it off? It’s nearly beat you down. It won’t go away until the last day so why not make the last day today? Get it over. What’s the point of waiting for the monster?

“Be sure to sit in your room alone with your hands folded on your lap. The end is surely near.”

“Above all else, be sure to do what you are told.”

 

 
Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay
 

What I Have

Karmella couldn’t see it but for some reason she was having feelings about it. People on the other side of her bubble were in trouble. There wasn’t anything she could do except to try to think good thoughts. It was sort of like she was continually praying — addressing some kind of deity — except that, she believed GOD was everywhere and everything and always at or in ones fingertips and in ones heart and in their soul. In fact, she believed GOD was the soul — the one and only everything and everywhere — changing forms at the pleasure of the system near and spreading out from there.

Karmella realized that she wasn’t big enough to make a dither big enough to matter much but she was sure that she could make a little wave that might spread out in the ether going as it pleased hither and thither. Maybe, just maybe it would reach another place where someone much like she would care and send it off a little farther. She wondered if Puggles would like to help.

“Puggles,” she called, “Puggles, I think if you squiggle and squirm and rattle your tail as fast as your little tail will rattle — with all the good vibrations that you hold in your tiny, sandy-colored, fury, soft-and-squeezy and warm little body, you can make a wave bigger than I might be able to. Certainly, together we might count a little more?” She said that last part like it was a question with that dreaded high rising terminal she was happy to get away from in the outside world she came from where everybody talks like that like it’s a fashion.

Puggles looked up at Karmella with his beautiful, heart-melting eyes and rattled his tail as quickly as he was able to. Karmella sent her vibes along with Puggles’ highly resounding tail waves and then she picked him up and they danced around the garden some.

“That was fun,” Karmella said and danced a little more with Puggles in her arms. Dancing in the garden with each other was the thing they loved to do almost as much as snuggle. Karmella and Puggles loved to snuggle. They also liked to dance and eat a lot of cookies.

“What I have, is everything I need,” she said while looking into Puggles soft and sentient eyes. Then she wondered if the bubble she was in could burst but she decided not to worry about that because worrying doesn’t help to keep vibrations at their highest and vibrations at their highest were her best and only hope of keeping the bubble together. That’s how she got inside the bubble in the first place. Puggles must have been on the exact same good vibration because all of a sudden one day, he appeared inside her bubble too. That was the best it was necessary to get — anything else would just be frosting on the cake, or cookie if you’d rather.

Puggles lapped Karmella’s face and she knew by that that it was Cookie-Dookie time. It was almost always Cookie-Dookie time as far as Puggles was concerned. They danced together up onto the porch as usual, and danced the rest of the way into the house to get the cookie jars. Puggles had doggy cookies and Karmella had purple-people cookies and they sat on the soft couch with their jars nearby and snuggled and ate some cookies.

“We’re a little spoiled, don’t you think — my snuggly little puppy?” She had to think that Puggles did agree but Puggles was just a little too busy eating cookies to exclaim.

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

A Social Contract

“Yes, I know. That is why I’m here today, to get a few more things stocked up because this is the last time I will come into this store unless they change their idea of how to deal with this dilemma, (this world-wide, orchestrated panic, she thought but didn’t include). I refuse to wear a mask.”

“Oh, but you know, you could have it right now and not know it and infect someone.”

“Have what?”

“You know, the virus.”

“What virus?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed as if to say, You’re one of those kinds of fools. “We’re done here, if that’s what you think.”

She went on to try a little harder, “Regardless of whether you believe in germ theory or not, they have not done anything that could determine if this, whatever it is, is a novel thing. They can’t be claiming it exists if they haven’t proven that it does.”

Some people just can’t get out of their own fog. Some people simply won’t. 

Safety blankies. Pacifiers. Religions. Cults. Especially now, Scientism.

Personal fears they want to impose on everyone else. 

Some brains go through washers.

But who was she to say. She might just be wrong herself. She would leave him with a smile — the one wearing what looked like thermal undies to cover his mouth and nose and hang down long enough to cover his neck. He could see her smile. She wouldn’t be able to tell if he smiled back because he was also wearing sunglasses. “Nothing could possibly get through that open weave if it was even there and wanted to try,” she thought sarcastically.

Dear humans: face masks don’t work; the study-review was published by your very own CDC

She was about one of five or six that she crossed while traversing the aisles, (sometimes going the right way, sometimes going the wrong way — whatever she wanted to get away with), among the calculated numbers — that weren’t wearing a mask. Who are they to tell her what to do? Aren’t they allowed to stay open because they are essential. Do they not need her business? Isn’t it essential that she be allowed to shop?

It was Sunday — the fake edict would start on Monday but all the cows were following the one with the bell already — good little behavers. 

“What do you think they are trying to do?” he asked her,  “Kill everyone?”

“Not sure about that, (even though she had her suspicions but it wan’t the only or main thing), but I am sure they are trying to establish a techno-tyranny. They want us all as robots.”

He nodded his head in agreement. “That’s true,” he said.

“Well, you can always shop online,” the underwear-wearing gent said.

“Yeah, no, I’m doing my best not to play any of their games.” She wondered if she was going to have to die over this dilemma. She would think about that tomorrow — maybe. For now, she would go back home and try to do a better job of figuring out how to grow food in a desert — or of a better way to distribute food among the non-believers — the food the non-believers are growing themselves.

If you can’t beat ’em’, certainly don’t join ’em’ — start something new. Defeat the status quo. Voting doesn’t help. City counsels are fully rigged with believers.

It was odd being just about the only one without a mask on. She could feel knives in her back coming soon. It’s a social contract, putting on a mask. It says you surrender. It says you agree. It says you comply. It says you’re a fool or a cow or a robot. It says you haven’t done your homework, you’re lazy, you want things easy. It says you have a need to fit in —

You don’t trust yourself to do what’s right.

Dogs roll over and expose their vulnerable parts when the big dog barks.

“Poor little doggies.”

Image by Omni Matryx from Pixabay

 

Not My Monster

So the big question now is whether or not the government, (military), has the right to jab you with a needle with anything in it that they deem necessary for the we’re all in this together game that, (just as likely as not), they could have orchestrated.

According to any of the rules of engagement that are clear enough to understand, it seems that it is legal and necessary and enforceable and required if a giant threat against we’re all in this together might exist.

Might ain’t necessarily right.

“What’s more of a giant threat than the shutting down of the world wide economic systems,” we should be obliged to ask — first and foremost? Lives can be lost by more than one kind of hidden giant monster.

It’s completely clear to see, if you dig enough, that this is an economic tsunami, (WW3), (a coup d’état), for the purpose of shifting all that might be of any value into the hands of the greedy ones — land, equity in any business, gold, silver, digital data, crypto-currency, oil, food, water and air — to establish a world-wide techno-tyranny.

It’s important not to leave the digging to the ones doing all the shifting — you know, the ones who own the media and the microphones. We’re all in this together means we’re all diggers now. Dig that.

If you’re not a digger you’re a dodger since the game requires taking sides — black or white, republican or democrat, pro or con (anti-), if or is???

Who’s asleep at the wheel?

Who’s not asleep at the wheel?

Fat shaming is okay now because if someone who is fat says, “Get that jab you tin-foil-hat-wearing maniac,” then sticks and stones are in order since this is now a child’s game until we all grow up. “You’re fat because you eat junk. If you eat junk, do you think a jab is going to save you from your giant monster. He’s not my monster?”

It’s time to take our diapers off and at least start wearing pull-ups.

It’s as okay to judge people by what’s in their cart at the checkout counter, (except that you might have trouble getting close enough to see,) as it is to judge someone for not having a bacteria harboring, useless serving mask on.

Wouldn’t it be better if we just didn’t judge?

Wouldn’t it be better if the facts were presented as what they really are, (and definitely not by only the ones who will benefit by any of the truths they tell)?

Wouldn’t it be nice if other voices could be heard?

Wouldn’t it be nice if someone was listening to something other than what Dr. Fauci, (the big, fat, little, liar liar pants on fire, Trump’et), has to say? He’s a criminal in case you didn’t know. Do your digging now that you’re a digger.

Dig, dig, dig. Don’t give up until you hit the pay-dirt. We’re all in this together. Pull your load.

It doesn’t hurt to ask for a little help though, if pulling your own weight is on a diet.

 

Header Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay