tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56310954554872684262024-03-13T06:07:59.308-04:00WRITINGS FROM A LIFE OF WISDOM, HEARTACHE & LOVEWriter R. B. Stuart shares her most intimate collection of work to date. In this biographical platform she is able to dive deep into the abyss of emotions and uncover the darkness of her soul.---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-85591923039977867672017-07-25T03:37:00.000-04:002017-07-25T04:07:17.463-04:00“Melancholy Baby” <a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ugQfGae_W94/WXby0Mh2RUI/AAAAAAAAApc/tpzVcB3MumIszQluISNEeI41jv7M05n4gCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ugQfGae_W94/WXby0Mh2RUI/AAAAAAAAApc/tpzVcB3MumIszQluISNEeI41jv7M05n4gCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_0845.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: #cc0000;">An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</span></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>POEM</strong><br />
<strong>By R. B. STUART </strong><br />
<strong>Post Thirty-Nine</strong> <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Your face haunted me
from the very beginning,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A wisp of your eyes forever lingering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life was
the Nile that kept us apart,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Death was the mule bringing us together by cart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your
strong clutch had the warmth of home tucked in its grip, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I panted as tasting your kisses…tugged at my lip. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through the
hours, the days I listened to the melody of your voice,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">You remained perplexed, and saddled by choice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the
notes of Sinatra tip toed across the bass, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I waited for your arm to twirl me to outer space. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fed you
from my hand, my mind, my heart, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">But your conflict rested, on the weary tree tops. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While
your mind riddled with thoughts of love, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I coaxed your arms open for a deep seated hug. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A moan, a
groan bellowed from your chest,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As my face hooked, on the nape of your neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
manliness wafted throughout my senses, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Stopped you from moving, past the fences. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your
judgment clouded by an awkward goodbye,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Ended on the pavement, at your door with a short
drive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I beckoned
forty years to capture us within, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">But fear claimed space first…and bound it with sin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Casting an
uncertain dye across the sky, </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Gray clouds broke the blue heavens apart,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
laughter, and joy seemed to banish from our heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">If that orange tree had room for two, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Climbing
together we’d both see the view. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">If each day I could tell you how good you are, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You still
couldn’t hear me as your mind has wandered, much too far. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My name no longer lingers in your ear,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consumed by
caution what I say isn’t clear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The words are suspended but you won’t let them out, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Percolating through crevices they are drowning in doubt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A fog of grief has engulfed my pain, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
opened my eyes…nothing was the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Father Time is accelerating much too fast, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Already
recent memories are part of the past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I raised my head from the crib, and found myself 20
overnight, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned
my head to the left…and found my life drifting, out of sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I fear as I lower my head to a pillow…and turn to
the right, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My life may
be complete…and I lost the chance for the love of my life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-5692940235771883262016-01-15T19:15:00.000-05:002016-01-15T19:15:23.424-05:00“Speaking Deutsch with Donny Deutsch”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OK1RvmpYA-o/VpmA6mZK_xI/AAAAAAAAAk8/-KYFrXUUU5E/s1600/DonnyDeutsch%2B%252338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OK1RvmpYA-o/VpmA6mZK_xI/AAAAAAAAAk8/-KYFrXUUU5E/s320/DonnyDeutsch%2B%252338.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="color: #cc0000;">An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>BY R. B. STUART</strong><br />
<strong>Post Thirty-Eight</strong><br />
<strong><em>Original Interview from 2009 </em></strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">I</span></strong>nternational ad man (and
proclaimed ‘great dancer’), Donny Deutsch morphed into a rapid fire orator,
author, Indy film producer and acclaimed talk show host of CNBC’s, “<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">The Big Idea with Donny
Deutsch.” </span>Deutsch appeared on the celebrity scene<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"> w</span>ith the debut of his television show by
interviewing A<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">merica's
most influential entrepreneurs and business titans. It spawned a new book
in January 2009, “<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;">THE BIG
IDEA: How to Make Your Entrepreneurial Dreams Come True from the AHA Moment to
Your First Million.”</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
His life, packed with as many
projects as his punchy, straight talking purr---is orchestrated by three
assistants from his massive <span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">14th floor, <span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;">130,000
sq/ft.</span></span> Manhattan headquarters, <span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">where
Deutsch sits as Chairman</span> of <span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">Deutsch
Inc. As they celebrate their 40th anniversary, the roster of
prestigious clients include; Johnson & Johnson, Anheuser-Busch, InBev, DIRECTV, Kodak and IKEA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">The highly secured ad
agency saddles two coasts. Since 1999 the West Side Chelsea location has housed
a portion of the </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">1,000 employees, where most dressed in jeans, glide across
concrete floors on silver <span style="color: black;">scooters. </span>With
terraces wrapping around nearly all four corners of the space, you’re greeted
by a receptionist overshadowed by a mammoth brushed steel counter---the DEUTSCH
brand illuminated and etched on its façade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">The receptionist’s overhead pages echo throughout the
exposed HVAC and metal piped ceilings like an airport terminal. The windows of
this open, raw design, frames a panoramic view of the city bustling below.
Deutsch’s office, no more stately than the other executives, overflows into a
private conference room. It’s the epitome of transparency---with the third wall
made of glass. And only steps away from <span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;">Deutsch Commons, a sunken loft size room with a pool table,
ping pong, and arcade games where employees gather for lunch, meetings or
parties.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">Deutsch,</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">an impeccably dressed
Wharton School graduate favors suits by Tom Ford, wears this day, a pair of
jeans with a custom Alfred Dunhill shirt made by Bruno. A </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">Vintage Rolex strapped to
one wrist, and beaded, string <span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;">bracelets</span> on the other. A blend of
Bohemia meets affluence for this laid back Queens native whose motto is, “If
you want to be successful, surround yourself with people who are smarter than
you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">His father David Deutsch an advertising veteran, began
Deutsch Associates in 1969. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">His tough love approach helped shape his son, at one point
firing him and saying, ‘Get the hell out of here and find something you’re
passionate about.’ That catapulted him to become a lawyer. Then a</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">t 26 years-old Donny
forfeited law school to intercept the sale</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">of his fathers company. Over an 18 year period the
once identity seeking Deutsch fell in love with advertising, and turned it into
a thriving 2.5 billion dollar agency. By<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>implementing his personal, </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">“leaner, meaner, faster, smarter” philosophy, he transformed
the small advertising shop into a <span style="color: black;">five time award</span>
winning top 10 agency, which begot 300 million dollars in 2000 when they sold
the company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">With Donny remaining at the helm, his father advised
him early on, ‘do what you love.’ And he continues to….no matter what the
occupation.<span style="color: red;"> </span>“My father probably had more
influence on me than anybody,” Deutsch admitted. “He taught me values as a man
and as a business man. And has been a tremendous influence on me as a teacher
and mentor. We’re very different in a lot of ways---but also very similar in
our overall values.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">In 2004 Deutsch stepped in front of the camera for CNBC
and hasn’t looked back. “I tell people if you sell something you have to be
prepared to let it go.” So instead, he’s no longer jolted in the middle of the
night about ad campaigns but a show idea. “The Big Idea” provides the right
amount of inspiration and intuition necessary, to nudge an entrepreneur with a
new patent into the marketplace. Deutsch is the motivational catalyst to many
peoples ideas and dreams. “One of the greatest thrills I’ve had is when someone
comes up to me or sends me a letter and says, ‘I started my business because of
the show. It motivated me.’ What a privilege it is to be part of something that
literally inspires people and effects their lives,” he conceded. “I don’t think
you can hope for anything more in any endeavor particularly in television. I’m
very fortunate to be part of </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Although his show is currently on hiatus, Deutsch can
be seen guest anchoring on CNBC’s “</span><span style="color: black; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">Reports” and “Power
Lunch,” with regular appearances on NBC’s “TODAY Show.” As the economy
sabotages peoples dreams, they’re less likely to risk capitol on new ventures.
But Deutsch says, “The counterintuitive answer is now is actually a good
time…if you’ve lost your job or may lose it. Out of the depression a lot of new
businesses were started. Because of adversity comes the necessity for new
thinking, the models broken so there’s opportunity. We will invent and build
our way out of this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: #400040; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Deutsch never dreamed his life would unfold as it has, but he always
knew he’d be successful. “I felt I had certain gifts, abilities and always
believed in myself </span>and owe that to my parents,” he reflects. <span style="font-weight: normal;">(He quickly reaches to extinguish his cell phone
ring tone of “<span style="color: black;">Alvin and the Chipmunks.”) </span></span><span style="color: black;">“</span>Now I look back and say wow, I’ve been pretty
lucky.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
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The Deutsch brand he explained,
“Has always been about empowerment, rugged individualistic achievement in terms
of going for your dreams and breaking some rules along the way. So I kind of
apply the same ethos to everything I do. And I get a kick out of that I’m able
to motivate and inspire people.”<span style="color: blue; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">His trademark candor, bold and funny style has translated
well to print, penning his first business motivation book in 2005.<span style="color: blue;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9QjsvWekp9M/VpmBSWpkZTI/AAAAAAAAAlE/KewQ0Ovi984/s1600/Donnybuiltbook%2B%252338.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9QjsvWekp9M/VpmBSWpkZTI/AAAAAAAAAlE/KewQ0Ovi984/s320/Donnybuiltbook%2B%252338.tif" width="217" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #400040; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
While he has become a brand he
isn’t thwarted by it. “You can argue it…a good brand is not for everyone. But
there is a core of set values (clearly defined) and if you’re in touch with
your value system and stay true to those, I don’t think there’s a downside,”
Deutsch remarked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Whether at his Park Avenue
apartment or East Hampton home, when he has downtime Deutsch loves being with
his girls. “It’s clearly my favorite thing. Second place would be out to dinner with
friends. They’re the greatest therapy. Sitting two hours with people you
enjoy….laughing and having a drink. I find that a real joy.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As a father of three daughters, “I
so enjoy being a Dad---I love it,” Deutsch beamed. “I call it little people
management. Managing is all about empathy and trying to understand the needs of
the other person. Kids are very simple, they thrive on tons of love, structure,
safety and fun. It comes natural to me because I had a great teacher, my
father. On a scale of 1 to 10 he’s 100.” His father, now 80 years-old. “Is my
greatest supporter, a fantastic artist and sharp as a tack. I should be like
him at 80.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">The best aspect of being Donny Deutsch he says is, “If
you’re lucky enough to achieve a level of stature, ascertain some money and
notoriety---there’s tremendous access and opportunities that comes with that.”
But he doesn’t rest on his laurels, Deutsch serves on the Executive Committee
of University of Pennsylvania's School of Social Policy & Practice, and the
Board of Directors for the Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson's Research</span>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In 1<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">992 he tasted politics for the first time as the lead
member of the Clinton/Gore communications team. It sparked rumor of Deutsch
running for NYC mayor, but he scoffed, “I’ve talked about it but I don’t think
I can…I’m a little too crazy---nothing horrible---just a lot of women---nothing
that’s not fun.” (He is single and twice divorced, his manager sitting in
rolled her eyes at his candor.) “What are you rolling your eyes at it’s no
secret,” he jested. “In France it would be a political platform.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He noted, “Amongst my many
weaknesses, my biggest strength is public speaking. I find I’m able to inspire people
and am very lucky it’s a gift I have. Hopefully in 10 – 20 years I’ll be utilizing it whether
in philanthropy, on the media side or business, somehow they’ll understand it
and be enthralled by it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">In the coming years Deutsch says we as a society have
to start looking at ourselves in a different way. “And start behaving
differently whether it’s not being gluttonous consumers to not trying to kick
the worlds ass anymore and play nicer. We’re going through a change as a
society---finding where we fit, in the world.” </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>© </strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><strong>COPYRIGHT 2016 All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction Without
Permission. STUART ROAD MEDIA<o:p></o:p></strong></span></em></div>
</div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-749474157984915302015-12-09T17:10:00.001-05:002015-12-10T14:02:22.084-05:00"When Your Word is the Sword"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o3hK3WZn0JQ/VmiblD_uNLI/AAAAAAAAAis/f-XxDVtsnjI/s1600/IMG_1750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o3hK3WZn0JQ/VmiblD_uNLI/AAAAAAAAAis/f-XxDVtsnjI/s320/IMG_1750.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"><strong><em> Poisonous Angel Trumpets</em></strong></span><br />
<strong><em><span style="color: black;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="color: #cc0000;">An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>BY R. B. STUART</strong><br />
<strong>Post Thirty-Seven</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span></span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">t’s simple to have
sarcastic banter and humorous discourse without the use of derogatory words. I’ve had my share of name-calling in junior high, that continued periodically in the streets of New York, usually by adult men, whom felt the only way to feel powerful was to call me a fat bitch, ugly bitch, or whore. Those words aren’t on the tip of my psyche when having a verbal altercation with a stranger, but the playing field changes when they go there first. I never hone in on a particular body image or defect; weight, height, or baldness, instead I’ll hit him where he’s the most covered and insecure---in the loins. A montage of carefully selected words may lynch the backbone of his manhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In L. A. the insults
even come from women…usually Latino. Last week a girl approached me one night with her Pit Bull when I was walking my Poodle and was offended when I slid out into the street so she could pass by. She defended her dog, who was angling towards us, as sweet and just wanted to play, adding his Rolodex of Pomeranian friends. I conveyed that mine was Alpha and aggressive, and began to growl in unison of
my remark. Her Pit undeterred stretched closer. I remarked that I wasn’t
interested in them meeting since mine would ultimately be the looser if he nipped at hers, it would provoke a fight and I’d be holding an empty leash. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She retorted with my dogs
need for socialization as I plodded along the darkened boulevard. Then
announced, “Go eat a cheeseburger bitch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was aghast, “Oh
gawd…California is nothing but assholes. You wouldn’t be talking that way to
people if you didn’t have a Pit Bull at your side.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You’re the asshole
bitch…go eat a cheeseburger,” she cockily repeated trying to tighten the grip
on her muscular white and brown carnivore who was becoming agitated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Over the summer I confronted a woman about picking up her dogs poop from my yard [it is the norm in L. A. to not pick-up after your dog no matter how small the turd. The latest trend is allowing them to defecate on the sidewalk and simply leave it. Yes, L.A.ers are a filthy bunch.]
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She professed a verbal
assault, “This is public property you dumb bitch. You’re mental go take your
meds bitch.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unfortunately without
red property lines inking the ground she couldn’t differentiate between public
and private property. Maybe she was referring to Woody Guthrie’s folk song, “This
land is your land, this land is my land. From California to the New York
island. This land was made for you and me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As a celebrity you're
accustomed to haters via Internet comments....and we know how hurtful it can
be. But what about those who 'read' people in their personal life---push
people’s buttons---family and friends? It appears like hating---but is it human
nature to pick people apart, expose their neurosis, or "issues,"
to their face and/or behind their back? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Is speaking the truth a
character flaw, or is it human nature to criticize? How does one dull a sharp
tongue? Being a stand-up comic is the only profession in which cutting wit and
sarcasm is cultivated and praised. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like the venom of a
rabid animal it seethes just below the surface on reality TV. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Realistically, we are
aware no one is perfect---but when others are less than perfect our gripes feel
justified because we observe a personality or character flaw in another---how
do you suspend the words from traveling up your gullet and spewing a mouth full
of razor like verbiage. We know it can cause long held rifts between
people---but once you have the capability to "read" people---how do
you turn off the spigot and shut your mouth. It’s like someone sitting down at
a crystal ball for a reading…and instead of gently taking their hand stroking
their palm---you sever a vein. It’s a psychological wound in which they’ll
never forget the time or place….or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who</i>
the avenger<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>was.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Words are the truth tellers amulet of poison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even Donald Trump laments about aggressive haters, but then like quicksilver uses his <em>trumpet</em> calling Marc Cuban an asshole on Twitter. And in 2015 at the Academy Awards found disapproval with co-presenter, 80 year old, 1950’s Alfred Hitchcock muse, Kim Novak, whose face had transformed from Botox and surgeries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Equally so, Trump has
taken endless jabs about his hair resembling a toupee, unflattering orange
spray tan, mannerisms and overall appearance. And I must admit that I am amused
by Trumps unabashed outspokenness …as it reminds me of my own foibles sans gender,
money, or influence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But why would Trump, who
has the highest of standards in building and design, as well as personal and
professional integrity---lower himself to take swipes at other celebs or
politicians? Novak admitted to her devastation from his public humiliation that
resulted in not leaving home for three days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Society at large is
murky with the spontaneous combustion of castrating someone else’s ego, or
dissecting their physical attributes---it’s akin to frosted donut holes and a
latté.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then again there are
haters who use social media as their platform for public ridicule, slander,
bullying, or racism twisting a joyful event into a civil rights movement. As with
a vicious tweet to Oprah on National Pet Day, as she celebrated lovingly with a
video of giving her dogs treats. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This army of invisible,
ignorant, Internet imbeciles post and tweet without fear of retribution. If the
government can’t protect us from Terrorists posing as Tourists, then how will
they police millions of pages of script littering our information superhighway?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It appears the human
race is under attack from a multitude of nemeses; terror attacks, verbal
attacks, racial attacks, financial attacks, environmental attack, religious
attack, sexual attack, heart attacks… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Has the speed of time
made this world so raw and unfiltered that one must wear a suit of armor before turning on the news, and sling a shield over your breast before walking out the door…or is it merely the fallout
from being truthful, and having the electronic means to spread our freedom of speech---no matter how painful or evil---that we will die, kill or lie for it. Maybe
Jesus meant; Live by the Word. Die by the Sword…. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-64988438399155879092015-04-27T20:42:00.000-04:002015-11-04T18:49:27.849-05:00"If it Were a Dogs World"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wUrhZarwqT8/VTq48WN1TxI/AAAAAAAAAY8/bLZ-HXfz4t4/s1600/IMG_1791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wUrhZarwqT8/VTq48WN1TxI/AAAAAAAAAY8/bLZ-HXfz4t4/s1600/IMG_1791.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<strong><em>Sunday </em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="color: red;">An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>BY R. B. STUART</strong><br />
<strong>Post Thirty-Six</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>I</strong></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">f dogs
ruled the world instead of humans, and we were <b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their </i></b>domesticated pets, and in turn they used <b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i></b> Canine tactics, laws and rules
upon us----how would that change the way we feel about their injustices?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zSDMS9iLWVs/VTq9nBQyEZI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/3a9yCkNIbH8/s1600/2009%2BCher%2B%232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zSDMS9iLWVs/VTq9nBQyEZI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/3a9yCkNIbH8/s1600/2009%2BCher%2B%232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <strong><em>Cher</em></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we gave birth to a baby and they took it away from us at 8 weeks old and
sold it to another family without out permission---our heart would break with
torment and despair…how could we go on loving…or living. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If they sent certain women to live in cages where they were allowed to only
mingle to procreate during menstruation, then birth another baby and remove the
suckling infant from its mother’s breast, only to be sold to a childless
family---it would be a near crucifixion to our Soul. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pikVwK_QgP8/VTq-Zk-HEnI/AAAAAAAAAZY/gVA-yidcOJk/s1600/Thug.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pikVwK_QgP8/VTq-Zk-HEnI/AAAAAAAAAZY/gVA-yidcOJk/s1600/Thug.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <strong><em> Friday</em></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If they decided a few years after adopting a human pet, that they didn’t
like the way it behaved, or how much time it took caring for it, or how
expensive it was because it had a disease or illness---and no longer wanted the
responsibility. They freed themselves from the burden by pushing the baby out on the side
of the road for someone else to deal with---and if that baby survived---it
would be psychologically scarred for the rest of its life. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If they tied up the strongest, most muscular males to a tree in their
front yard, to use as protection for their home…without shelter, nourishment or
interaction, we would wither in sadness and desolation. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If they had a mass vote to keep population under control, and decided to castrate
all the men, and give hysterectomies to all women, no matter what the
age---we would be blinded with rage at such a violation against humanity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DQR6N4TdHys/VTrEVUZjyOI/AAAAAAAAAZw/unYtqMx8cxM/s1600/Smokey%2B(560x800).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DQR6N4TdHys/VTrEVUZjyOI/AAAAAAAAAZw/unYtqMx8cxM/s1600/Smokey%2B(560x800).jpg" width="212" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <strong><em>Smokey, my family abandoned him</em></strong></span></span><br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If their human pet had grown old and was grey with hopelessness, its head
slung low, and riddled with arthritis, they assumed it was time for you to die.
They’d take you to a facility where an injection is used to kill you in
seconds---then stuff your lifeless body into a thick, black plastic bag. And without
celebration or fanfare, of what a great companion, protector and friend you had become---drag you across the graveled ground and leave you at a dumpster </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But it is not a Dog’s World…it is a human world that dogs cohabitate with
us. It isn’t that they don’t remember any pain, suffering or betrayal that we
inflict upon them. They do---they just choose to accept it as part of loving
you, and being by your side. They reason, <em>we </em>must know what’s best…. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If it
were a Dogs World, it would be filled with compassion, love, understanding, acceptance,
joy, comfort and forgiveness. As they would never,</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">unequivocally----mistreat,
harm, endanger, abandon, or exploit…<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us</i></b>. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So remember when adopting a pet, you are becoming a forever family, a permanent home for a creature <strong><u>who didn't</u></strong> have a <em>choice</em> in who takes them, <em>why </em>you have decided to turn their world upside down with human conformity, <em>when</em> they become part of your life, <em>what </em>you do with them, <em>where</em> they live or<em> how</em> they are treated. Treat your furry, lifelong friend with the kindness, respect, patience, devotion and unconditional love they so freely give. For with them in your life---you experience a joy and enrichment that no other human could provide..... </span></span><br />
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<strong><em>Boy</em></strong></div>
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Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</em></span> </strong></span></span></span></div>
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-23123183721938189092014-08-16T15:49:00.000-04:002014-08-16T15:57:41.614-04:00Robin Williams: "One Robin Rescues Another" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong></strong><br />
<strong>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>By R. B. STUART</strong><strong>
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Post Thirty-Five</strong> <br />
<strong>POEM</strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>F</strong>or every Robin who contemplated the end,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">There was one Robin that couldn’t mend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Through tears on his breast, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Robin put his heart to rest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Robin watched his life slip through a noose of<br />
laughter,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Silently, he pushed his spirit towards an early ever<br />
after.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In the bosom of Heavens fate,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Robin will stand at the Angels gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">He’ll watch the sorrow consume his loved ones below,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As they erect a monument from the joy of his soul. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you for your courage so the other Robin’s<br />
could live,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A selfless August act, after sixty-three years, you<br />
still lovingly give. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>Thank You Robin for Giving Your Life so that
Other Robin’s Could Live.</strong></em> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">RIP: July 21, 1951 – August 12, 2014 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: red;">©<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: red; font-size: x-small;">COPYRIGHT 2014, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No
Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em> <span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-30920548820505474742014-07-31T09:25:00.000-04:002015-04-28T15:30:01.939-04:00"THE DEAD---END" (be in the short story)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</strong><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RZec-V_WT2I/U9pBIgNx62I/AAAAAAAAAWA/2kFWApfveOE/s1600/Bill's+NYC++painting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RZec-V_WT2I/U9pBIgNx62I/AAAAAAAAAWA/2kFWApfveOE/s1600/Bill's+NYC++painting.JPG" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <strong><em><span style="color: red;">NYC Painting By Billy McCormack</span></em></strong> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: red;"><strong>Please Help <em>Rescue a Writer</em>: </strong><strong>Be a Character at End of Short Story in </strong></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: red;"><strong>Funeral Scene.</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><strong><span style="color: red;">The Last Paragraph is Ready for You to Enter. Help me Create Who "You" Want to Be! </span></strong></span></span></span><br />
<strong>*BE PART OF THIS GROUND-BREAKING READER INVOLVEMENT TECHNIQUE.</strong><br />
<strong>The post below is the ending/death scene in the soon to be published <em>longer </em>short story. </strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><strong>Kindly help generate a buzz by TWEETING </strong></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><strong>@R_B_STUART Share the Love and Share the Link:</strong></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><strong> </strong><a href="http://writingsbyrbstuart.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-dead-end.html"><strong>"THE DEAD---END" (be in the short story) </strong></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong> </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="color: red;">Thank you for Rescuing a Writer.…</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></span><strong> </strong></span></span> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></b><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">By R. B. STUART</span></span></b><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Post Thirty-Four</span></span></b><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">24 July 2014</span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>W</strong></span>ith only spurts of work and periodic loans from her family Rachel made it through 2013 to July 2014. With $40.00 left in the bank and August clipping at her heels, her brother told her she was ‘a failure’ and was aware she <em>could feel the noose tighten</em>. Her Christian sister sent an E-mail telling her to, ‘Find Jesus first…then find a job.’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Even if I had to live under a bridge Jesus would care for me.</i> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Their generosity of spirit and I. O. U's eroded their compassion and empathy...but this form of tough love wasn't what her already fragile psyche needed. Rachel no longer had her sisters credit card to rely on for emergencies, her car’s registration expiring and heart medicine dwindling…she had no one to ask for help. The 500 plus resumes she’d sent out over the past nine months in Los Angeles, were fruitless…as she believed it was her age they were calculating by her references. The 15 years of experience would hinder her from utilizing the skill-set she mastered as management. Rachel kept turning to call someone to share her distress except there wasn’t anyone. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kat was dead, so was her mother, and her other sister, as well as her father. Her eldest sister who helped her move to the West Coast was like a nonsensical drunk with advice. She'd parrot, “I just don’t know what to say,” at every fraction in Rachel’s life. Rachel always ridiculed her, “How could someone be in their 60’s and be without wisdom about anything?’ She was baffled by her sisters inept guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hasheim spent weeks not even casting an eye her way since his secret marriage. Maybe being from the Middle East he was prone to secrecy. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She desperately wanted to cry all her woes in his arms, instead she'd waken from dreams feeling his warm cheek pressing against her face. He clutched his cell phone like a safety shield and lowered his head when she’d pass by. Sporadically they’d catch one another’s gaze. But Hasheim made no attempt to cross the street to sweep his hands across Pistachios face or bid hello to Rachel like he’d done for months. His moodiness would cycle with more personality changes then Sybil. There were definite signs of a psychological disturbance. But with Rachel being devoid of physical affection she was emotionally malnourished and </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">erred on the side of love rather than common sense---all she wanted was to be the star in someone's sky. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Suicide seemed like the only relief to the anguish. Within days of her mothers 86<sup>th</sup> birthday she couldn’t bare the wedge that had deepened between her and the lackluster she found in her life. Rachel couldn’t comprehend why nobody understood her, or had the empathy to lift her up with praise and assurances that she’d find a way. She couldn’t find the words of encouragement within any longer and dying was the only way. They say suicide is the cowards way out…it’s the most<br /> courageous act one can do. Putting up your dukes to almighty God and following through not knowing who or what is in the darkness on the otherside…diving head first into the fear is a noble final act, that can only be meant on the wings of suffering. How great the pain must be to be able to slit your wrists, blow your brains out, suffocate by asphyxiation, drown, overdose or Rachel’s method, hanging. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
Five o’clock that Friday morning, still awake from the day before she went out to her terrace and unhooked two bungee chords from the back of her ten speed. Rachel stopped to look at herself one last time in the bathroom mirror where she tied a red bandana around her neck knotting it twice, then applied a coat of Chanel’s No 60 New York Red lipstick to her perfectly bowed, thin lips. Her thick, curly blonde mane sprouted ringlets over her forehead. Wearing a white V-neck Jockey T-shirt, a pair of Khaki army green capris, and lime green strappy leather sandals, she delicately pinched the lipstick tube and wrote down her left arm in capital letters; F<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>L<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>U<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>R<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>E. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In silence, Rachel fastened Pistachios, Cesar Milan peacock blue harness around his small 16 pound Apricot frame, and clipped the leash to his collar. She knew his dog tags would be the clue to who she was. She took him for a 20 minute walk through the darkened, desolate streets until she ended up on Sylmar….Hasheim’s street. Rachel knew he was a creature of habit and at six-thirty would walk that way, passing her building enroute to the car wash. She wasn’t blaming him or anyone…it was just life….Rachel could manifest fiction, but not fulfill her dreams, or the love of her life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Under the streetlight she circled Pistachios leash three times around the base of the pole until he was two feet away. He focused on her every move just like he’d done for the past 11 years. He looked at her curiously, his large, brown, sensitive eyes, obsessively watching Rachel as she connected the two bungee chords together. Rachel stood on her tip toes and after several attempts angled the woven-elastic chord around the street sign. The seven foot high pole was tall and sturdy enough to hold her body weight. Rachel jumped up to grasp the hooks from the chord. Forcefully stretching it down the pole linking both metal hooks to her bandana. She gashed her neck with the metal tips but pushed through the pain, until finally she cried out to her Poodle Pistachio, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I love you little Papa. You’re a good doggy. You’ve always been a good boy. I have to go Bye-Bye.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Heaving the guts of her tears---images of him paralleled her mind, his smiling face retrieving a squeaky ball, him whimpering and pawing at a wrapped minty bone with anticipation of it sailing across the room, watching the way his bum shifted when he walked. Pistachio was the most patient, kind, gentle and dedicated dog---it was nothing he'd done---simply his love wasn't strong enough to keep her anchored to the earth any longer. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Pistachio’s head cocked from side to side trying to interpret her final words then hopped on her legs like a pogo stick. The tears streaming down Rachel’s face blurred the street lights and clouded the image of the crescent moon. Rachel unglued her stiffened hands from the outstretched chords. They bounced back jerking her body up the pole and a foot off the ground then bit her tongue. The veins in her neck reddened from lack of oxygen, then like a twig, her neck snapped to the right. On the morning of Ernst Hemingway’s 115<sup>th</sup> birthday, she hung from the noose like a Piñata. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Pistachio began howling like a wolf in the wilderness snagged by the rusty, iron teeth of a trap, </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ahoo…ow..ow..awhooo….ahoo…ow…ow….awhoo.” </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hasheim who was preparing for his first morning cigarette slid the picture window open to sit on the terrace. He listened to the dog howling and thought for a minute that it resembled Pistachio, who barked each day Rachel took him for a walk, or when she drove by. While on Rachel’s lap Pistachio would stand at attention out of the car window barking. Hasheim was amused as if Pistachio was the Captain at the bough of a ship. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He fired up his lighter, bending his partially hairless, silkened head to listen closer. Hasheim knew the little dogs voice. Puzzled, he peered up to the corner towards the front of Rachel’s building. When it didn’t subside, he grabbed his keys then leapt his small but muscular body over the balcony and scurried up the street. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Less than a half a block away, he could see a miniature dog jumping up the street sign pole. He thought the dog was chasing a squirrel. Quickening his pace, forgetting there was a cigarette between his fingers, the orange ambers followed him as he came closer. He saw something thick hanging from the pole, like a scarecrow, and couldn’t believe his eyes. He flipped his cigarette into the gutter and raced to the corner where he saw Rachel’s head cocked to the side, Pistachio frantically squealing was springing up and down the pole. Hasheim slid his cell phone from his Levi's back pocket and dialed 911. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Gasping, “This is an emergency. Hurry. there’s been a hanging. I’m at the corner of….You can’t hear me because the dog is barking. Are you fuckin’ kidding me? A girl is hanging on a pole and you’re worried about the fuckin dog!” he boisterously exclaimed then demanded. “I need an ambulance, fire truck, police…anyone---I need help!!!” and hung up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">With the power of God Hasheim hoisted Rachel’s large frame off the hooks. His hands trembled as adrenalin shot through his body like a bolt of lightening. Her body flopped forwards over his back and he stumbled. His steps strained as he lowered her onto a mound of grass on the curb, her head facing a garden of pansies. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As gently as he could, he awkwardly laid her down. Then uncoiled Pistachios leash from the pole. The hyper, distraught pup galloped over to Rachel and began licking her face and mouth. Hasheim knelt by her side as he’d done many times before when patting Pistachio, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I know buddy…I know…she’s gone.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He picked several purple pansies, then one yellow, a white one and wrapped her right hand around them and placed her arm on her chest. He saw the writings on her left arm and spit in his hand and feverishly began to erase the stained letters from her arm. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">His dark eyes wept onto her breast.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’re not a failure. You’re not a failure, you’re not a failure,” attempting to remove the word from her pale skin. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Suddenly, the normally stoic Middle Eastern man buckled from emotion and bent over her lifeless body. Wiping his eyes and smoothing over his seven day grey beard, he kissed her cheek. "I’m sorry that I didn’t love you sooner. Go Angel…go… You’ll be safe now. We’ll see each other again. I promise. Be free.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hearing the sirens approach Hasheim scooped Pistachio up in his arms and rocked him. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Shhh.shhh.shhhh,” kissing his furry head. “I know buddy…she’s in a better place now. We’ll </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">miss her. I wish that I could have been part of your lives…but I waited too long and made a mistake. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you Pistachio. I promise.” </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The red lights from the ambulance and fire engines bounced off the windows of the apartment buildings. The LAPD patrol cars barreled down the wrong way, their head lights strained Hasheim’s eyes, the cars screeched to a halt. Like John Wayne they sauntered over demanding answers, </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What happened here---who are you?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“She hung herself on the street sign. I pulled her down. I’m a local business owner, this is Rachel Sterling, a friend, she lives across the street, and this is her dog Pistachio. They just moved here from New York last fall. She needed a friend…regrettably…I wasn’t there for her…she was a unique person…very special…life had been gnawing at her and I didn’t see the pain she was in. She was suffering more than I knew. I wish I could have been there,” he said burying his face into Pistachio’s shoulder.
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The EMT’s hoisted Rachel’s body onto a white sheet and like a hammock they moved her onto a gurney. They fastened a thick red seatbelt around her waist and spread the sheet up over her face. Pistachio was squirming out of Hasheim’s arms, his toenails scratching and digging into his forearms, chest and hairless scalp. Hasheim held him tighter, like a straight jacket pressing the anguished dog against his body trying to calm him down, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I know buddy I’m sorry. It’s okay…easy…I have you.” </span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Pistachio was panting. Frantically watching every move of his best friends body. His tongue dripped saliva from his muzzle. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Where’s her face I can’t see it anymore,” he thought. “What happened to her? Why isn’t she moving? I want to go with her. Pleeezzze let me down so I can go with her. I can’t live without her. I love her.” his soul wined with grief and confusion as he watched his beloved placed in the back of a boxy white truck. “I need her. I have to be with her. Let me go with her. She’s mine…she’s my world…I love her with all my heart. Please don’t take her away from me. No…no…no….please. Ahoo…ahoo….ahoo”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In a trail of smoke, the caravan of vehicles wheeled down the Boulevard with Rachel’s body. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Just then Pistachio started to hear the birds chirping and it reminded him of a song Rachel used to play at night when she was meditating, he quieted, his ears pricked, faintly hearing within, the soothing slow baritone of gospel singers, Carlos & Johnny, </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“If you wonder why I’m weeping. It’s because I wake from sleeping. To discover that I’m keeping...you forever more. Holy God I feel your presence. Holy God I feel your power. In God I know I’m whole…and f<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>r <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>e<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>e.” </i></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><em></em></span> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Pistachio and Hasheim stood clutching one another as the morning sun rose. Hasheim too, heard the birds sing-songing in the Oak trees. There was an air of peacefulness as his mind swirled with vibrant memories of her face. Rachel meandering down the side of the road, Pistachio prancing beside her like a show dog. Her life had suddenly evaporated---before his very eyes---she was gone….lost somewhere in the ashes of time and space.</span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">From then on at six-thirty every morning, and five–thirty each evening, Hasheim and Pastachio would walk by the corner where he planted a white cross marker painted with black dog paw prints, a red satin ribbon, her favorite color, was neatly tied in a bow with a double knot at the center, allowing it to stream with the wind. They'd briefly stop. Pistachio would sniff at the ground where Rachel once laid as Hasheim closed his eyes and softy prayed. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Salam alykom,” and blew her a Persian kiss. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">They’d jet across the street,,,,Pistachio trotting beside him barking, trying to pull Hasheim to the front door of the apartment building. He tightened the leash, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No buddy….Mumma’s gone----you’re safe with me now.” </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Pistachio followed his steps and down the road they walked until they disappeared. The birds trailing them with a song of love…</span></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Rachel an undiscovered New York writer, died with a stockpile of unpublished manuscripts, short-stories, essays and poetry. Since 2002 she’d labored over her keyboard drenched in emotion exercising her demons. Her life began to shift in L. A. as she became entrenched in melancholy. Deceased loved ones were more comforting to her than those alive. Her family never respecting or understanding the soulfulness of her craft planned to destroy her belongings and life’s work…since to them there wasn’t any value or meaning to what she crucified her spirit to write. Reading about the hanging and her life in the LA Times, a benefactor stepped forward to honor the invisible and unheard writer, offering to pay for her funeral expenses…. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="http://writingsbyrbstuart.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-dead-end.html">"THE DEAD---END" (be in the short story) </a></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: normal;"><em><span style="color: red;">©<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></em></span><strong><span style="color: black;"><em><span style="color: red;">COPYRIGHT 2014, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No
Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em> </span></strong></div>
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-53370008937321392292014-07-02T03:37:00.001-04:002015-04-28T15:30:30.898-04:00"A Man at the End of the Road"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S1zkR3XNnRo/U7OyHQq313I/AAAAAAAAAU4/NA5kWGsYBbk/s1600/Post+%2333+B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-center: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S1zkR3XNnRo/U7OyHQq313I/AAAAAAAAAU4/NA5kWGsYBbk/s1600/Post+%2333+B.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<strong>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</strong><br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>By R. B. STUART</strong><br />
<strong>Post Thirty-Three</strong><br />
<strong>POEM</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>W</strong>hy
did you have to see me, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---have
to speak to me,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My
heart had closed a thousand times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you have to smile at me, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---have
to beguile me,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My
heart had closed a thousand times. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you have to be smarter than me, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---stronger
than me,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My
heart had closed a thousand times. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you have to be so manly, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---be
so friendly,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My
heart had closed a thousand times. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>* * *</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---with
a smile, so warm, and so kind. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---when
my heart was sealed and blind. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---by
tightly wrapping me in your arms. </span></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---with
banter, and with charm. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---with
kisses soft and sweet. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---by
letting our minds meet. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---with
words of love and praise.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why
did you disturb me,</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---by
taking them away. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</strong></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<o:p>
</o:p></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
was fine..until that day, </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---except
you forgot to see me…the month of May. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
was fine.. until that day, <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---you
couldn’t even find, five words to say. </span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
was fine.. until that day, </span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---you
didn’t feel for me…the same way. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">was fine.. until that day, </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---images
of you kept me awake. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
was fine.. until that day, </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---even
music put my psyche at stake.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
was fine.. until that day, </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---my
stomach turned an empty blue.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I was fine.. until that day, </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---how
can I end, these longings for you. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p>
</o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> <strong>* * *</strong></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---you’ll
never fall to your knees, or balance on my arm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---no
more Persian kisses in the wind…or stroking Sunday’s face warm. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---life
isn’t as simple, when you’re no longer young.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---your
shadow remains, even without the rays, of the sun. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span> </span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---I
see wisps of you still on the run.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---your
gaze skirts away from my eyes. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---you
walk into the future, with a brand, new bride.</span></span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span>
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---she’ll
lock you into an iron cage.</span></span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---tucked
alone in a spot…of cool shade.</span></span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span>
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---silencing
your voice that makes the morning birds sing. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---and
not ever seeing…she’s broken your wing.</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---you
won’t re-emerge until you’re old and grey.</span></span></span> </div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---then
you’ll see, that no one ever stays. </span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
come, you’ve gone,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---that’s
when your heart will close just like mine,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But
don’t worry Darling…you’ll be just fine.</span> </span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>* * *</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---When
a girl at the end of the road, see’s you pass by, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Don’t
worry Darling …you’ll be fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---And
she’ll disturb your life…just as you have mine, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Don’t
worry Darling…you’ll be fine.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---As
your knees weaken and touch the ground, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Don’t
worry Darling …you’ll be fine.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---Your
mind will race….seeking a safe place, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Don’t
worry Darling …you’ll be fine.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">---You’ll
recall a distant memory…when you see it on her </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">face, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">love glowing from deep inside…that time just can’t erase. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So
Goodbye Darling….this is the end of the road,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sunday
and I, just may have been, your pot of gold.....</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--AAeHiPWcms/U7PKeo7ymUI/AAAAAAAAAVU/TKx614IS2EM/s1600/Post+%2333+A.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--AAeHiPWcms/U7PKeo7ymUI/AAAAAAAAAVU/TKx614IS2EM/s1600/Post+%2333+A.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<em>S<strong>UNDAY JEAN 2013</strong></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<o:p>
<br />
</o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">For H. A. S. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sylmar-Chandler <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>---June 2014</span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong></strong><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><em><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">©<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></em></span><strong><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: red; font-size: x-small;"><em>COPYRIGHT 2014, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</em></span> </span></strong></div>
</div>
</span><br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-69923332260072473062014-04-05T21:59:00.000-04:002014-07-02T05:18:32.811-04:00“The Sea Beckons Me”<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ecd-5ebZMAU/U1XMAcMtXXI/AAAAAAAAATw/q7g6DtozWTE/s1600/Post+%2332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ecd-5ebZMAU/U1XMAcMtXXI/AAAAAAAAATw/q7g6DtozWTE/s1600/Post+%2332.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<strong>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>By R. B. STUART</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>Part Thirty-Two</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong>POEM</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong></strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><strong>T</strong>he sea beckons me;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Its blue majesty pulls me to the shore,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dreams of her beauty---glistens forever more. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The sea beckons me; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The tides can’t be undone,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My letters seep into the wet sand---until there were none. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The sea beckons me; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">On
a journey to the past,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Where loved ones wait hovering---around the tarnished mast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The sea beckons me;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">My
heart simply broke apart---fragmented pieces splashed into art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
<br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The sea beckons me;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At long last
time is forced to stop,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Into the salts my body will merge---silently weeping her final
sojourn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The sea beckons me; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The
days will linger on, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The
sun will shimmer through her silkened, golden hair,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Formed
like buttercups---scooping up droplets of care. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The sea beckons me; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Folding
me into the sea layer upon layer,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Until the only reflection---are waves breaking bare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Farewell, the sea beckons me;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Back home where I belong,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you listen carefully---the winds will carry my song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">COPYRIGHT 2014, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction
of this Blog in any form</span></i></b><b><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. </span></b></div>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-32200348967859583942014-03-05T21:16:00.000-05:002014-04-21T21:53:51.355-04:00“THE AGE OF SEXLESSNESS” : WHETHER GAY, STRAIGHT, MALE, FEMALE, MARRIED OR SINGLE<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yt8lTeZGKv4/U1XB8Qrjc8I/AAAAAAAAATg/VnuDT1KGM9k/s1600/Post+%2331+Angel+Tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yt8lTeZGKv4/U1XB8Qrjc8I/AAAAAAAAATg/VnuDT1KGM9k/s1600/Post+%2331+Angel+Tree.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<strong>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By R. B. STUART</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Part Thirty-One</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-size: large; mso-themecolor: text1;"><strong>E</strong></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">xperiencing sexlessness has happened
to me several times throughout my life at different intervals---and it wasn’t
by choice. But I hadn’t realized that sexlessness is also a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bone</i> of contention [no pun intended] in
the long term relationships of my gay friend’s. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">It seems to be the norm, no
matter what your sexual preference is, that after a certain amount of time; 10,
20 or 30 years in a relationship---it’s more about turning over to get a good
night sleep then turning over to splay your legs. Sexlessness erodes the
relationship in silence, week after week, month after month, then year after
year. It chips away at the self-esteem of one or both partners. I say “one”
because usually the other is content with the platonic relationship, and maybe </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"><strong>having sex</strong></span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">
is what made them feel uncomfortable or anxious, whereas </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"><strong>not having</strong></span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">
sex for the other, is what makes him or her feel inadequate to say the least. It
may fester for decades, until the partner feeling rejected, unlovable and empty
finally throws in the dried and disintegrated box of </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;">Trojans</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">, and wants out. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">In other circumstances one
could vow off sex after a painful relationship, a toxic relationship, being in
love with a gay man, having an unrequited fantasy relationship, an abusive
relationship, fearing STD’s, the scare of an unwanted pregnancy, or the ongoing
angst of being involved with an emotionally retarded </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">man---which run rampant like rats</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12pt;"><strong> </strong></span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">through the streets of New
York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">How have you been transformed by sexlessness, a dry
spell, A sexuality, or abstinence?</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">And how does it change the core of who you are
whether gay, straight, male, female, married or single?</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span></i> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">In my 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and
now, the solitary years have lengthened, from one year to two, to five then
seven and ten. One year was an erotic challenge, at two years a cold breeze
erecting my nipples could result in a quivering, five years; the reality of
AIDS, or a pregnancy outweighed the joys of having sex, seven years; I could
still feel the ache in my loins, any old cucumber will do (hold the wax
please), ten years; Tampons no longer fit as I observe my beautiful, limber
hands, </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">“My…where have you been my
whole life?” </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">The need for a masculine, hairy body, was replaced by a furry dog
satisfying my need to nurture and love. Ironically, he in turn attempted to
quench his animal instincts with my leg. Now even George Clooney can’t
stimulate my desire to fornicate. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: black;">Unlike animal’s, why do humans gravitate to a life
of sexlessness either in a relationship or without?</span> </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">The convulsions of an
orgasm appears to lose its shudder as we age. Ecstasy is so muted now, that the
same sensation can be felt as I create new prose for an essay or a chapter in a
book. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">Does that mean as we get
older we are capable of creating an orgasmic life….so in tune with the Divine
that you are overwhelmed with the feeling of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all is well</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am One</i>
with God. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">Does ecstasy begin to resemble the vibration one
experiences as part of Godhead?</span> </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">We strengthen that direct
channel of ecstasy to the Divine through being creative, meditation, daily
prayer, affirmations and mantras---equating spiritual development. Once the
sexual longings are removed from the human equation the Divine can flourish. And
if procreation is no longer viable, then maybe the final season of our lives
are meant to be at one with the Divine essence. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">As our time on the earthly
plane shifts gears into self-examination and self-reflection we question, “why am
I here on earth” and, “what does my life mean.” That introspection is no longer
clouded by the ecstasy in between our legs, but in between our ears and in our
minds with our pineal gland, considered the “seat of the soul.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s responsible for sexual development, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ironically similarly named after a man’s
organ. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">When we uncover the Divine
connection to creativity and ecstasy; the ultimate state of Godhead, our
ability to live in the moment returns, as does self-awareness as we awaken our
creativity and imagination and all that is good. And only when you spend time
without having sexual encounters does that mystery unfold. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">When we’re no longer
distracted by sexual stimulation, fornication or ejaculation and the need to
physically trespass the boundaries of another persons body, we have the
opportunity to strengthen that direct channel of Divine ecstasy. And that map
of sexual exploration appears to be replaced by a transformation of spiritual
exploration. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">Does the removal of sex from our lives automatically
generate a simpler connection to the Divine or make us more creative?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">Not to diminish Dr. Ruth</span><span style="color: red; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">
</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Westheimer’s, </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">work,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but one day honey you’re gonna’ have to </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">throw down that dildo</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"> and venture into with the source of that addictive,
orgasmic sensation, that </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">shoots from our loins, our
heart, our skin, our brain----all within seconds. That pin ball sexual trigger in
the center of our wishbone was created by the Master of the Universe, and there
has to be a reason why he added that euphoric feature to our bodies. That electric
chair sensation thrusts us out of our heads and into the moment, eradicating the
imprisonment of our to-do list that we review, change, and check off as soon as
we’re in the horizontal position. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">We are born with a higher
vibration of the Divine and Godhead. That purity is unmarred by the world of
darkness, empty voids and self-persecution that opens up to us once we shed our
innocence and co-mingle our body and emotions with another. That portal to our
innate perfection has been chipped away since birth. Higher Consciousness is
lost and love becomes murky due to our need for acceptance and validation, as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who</i> we thought we were is changed by
another’s viewpoint of us, and our ideology of self-perfection begins to evaporate.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">After the lower frequency,
ego driven, internal fears and self-judgment of unattractiveness, unworthiness,</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"><strong> </strong></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">unloveability and loneliness have been slophed away,
and systematically worked through, you are at the beginning of your sexless
journey. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">We don’t try to grasp that feeling of completion and perfection again until
we are in our third season of life, where we scratch, dig and finally dive into
our roots and foundation of the Self, discovering that perfection,
non-judgment, self-acceptance, self-awareness and Higher consciousness still
exists inside of us, but like archeologists we must carefully pull that mud-soaked
version of ourselves up from deep down in the darkened bog…piece by piece. A
painstakingly, incremental expedition that can take years before your whole
Self finally reaches the surface. And once you’ve achieved that feat, the work
of chiseling, scraping, dusting and washing away the pain, suffering, and
negativity that’s adhered to you like tar---needs to be evacuated before your
reach that highly polished, vibrant, strong, smooth surface of Divine purity
that begins to appear like Michelangelo</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"><strong>’s </strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">David</i></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;">---as you erect the masterpiece </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"><strong>you</strong></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"> were born to be….. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">COPYRIGHT 2014, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction
of this Blog in any form</span></i></b><b><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. </span></b><o:p><strong><span style="color: #400040;"> </span></strong></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" border="0" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" height="60" title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." width="120" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-64495643579885485602014-02-05T18:38:00.000-05:002014-04-19T20:05:28.242-04:00 “HEROIN IN THE MIRROR” Mainstream Media Misses the Mark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--8Tps_GgAao/U1MMTNerIsI/AAAAAAAAATE/mMOMfc_bI4o/s1600/Post+%2330+Karen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--8Tps_GgAao/U1MMTNerIsI/AAAAAAAAATE/mMOMfc_bI4o/s1600/Post+%2330+Karen.jpg" height="320" width="227" /></a></div>
<strong><span style="color: red;">Karen J. Stuart 1957 - 1987</span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong> </strong><br />
<strong>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</strong><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>By R. B. STUART<br />
</strong><strong>Part Thirty</strong></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">t
was disturbing to hear Dr. Oz, who has become mainstream America’s Doctor say,
that the attraction to Heroin is “its purity.” And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ABC World News Tonight</i> reported the telltale signs to watch for is,
“paraphernalia, tracks, and pinned pupils.” I am certain that the average
American does not know what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a track </i>
is, never mind pinned pupils. And while we have the attention of the world on
this soul-taking addiction, as the great actor, Phillip Seymour Hoffman
succumbed to the need to be psychologically transported into the ethers, until
he went so far he could never return…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Let the misjudgment on Hoffman’s behalf, by his
agent or manager to propose the 2007 Sidney Lumet project, “Before the Devil
Knows You’re Dead,” of a Heroin addict to a former Heroin addict---be partially
to blame. As being back in the mire of Heroin’s accoutrements contributed to
him acquiring the taste to get high once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Allow his mistaken death be the voice that reaches
the families and loved ones struggling with the addiction---because ultimately
the person addicted isn’t trying to kill them self, just be temporarily removed
from the world that is causing him or her so much pain. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Watching my sister become an addict after her introduction
to methamphetamines and cocaine at the age of 16 by a hustler/pimp ten years her
senior, he knew that if she wasn’t persuaded into becoming a prostitute for a black
man sober---then being high <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she would </i>
be. By becoming the source of what made her feel euphoric, and needing the
mighty dollar to buy the drugs that made them both feel unstoppable and
immortal, he’d convince her they’d have all the resources they needed if she went to work in Boston’s Combat Zone as a nude model.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After two years of physical violence and
psychological abuse, she left him to seek me out in New York City. That’s where she met those new “friends,” that would show her New York’s underbelly and street scene. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No longer was CB-GB’s and Max’s Kansas City her hang
outs---but shooting galleries throughout the Village. Cocaine and
methamphetamines became <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speed balls </i>(shooting
up a blend of speed and downs), then graduated to the un-watered down high---straight
Heroin. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fast forward to the age of 29, as she laid in a Florida Hospital bed in 1987 diagnosed with AIDS. She blamed the shooting galleries in NYC and sharing needles with other junkies the culprit of her dire diagnosis. She died three weeks after she was diagnosed. Her death became a gift to transform my life, and I stopped smoking, drinking, doing recreational drugs and having casual sex. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her </i> that I watched dance with the needle, between consciousness and unconsciousness, Heaven and Hell, but a handful of other friends and acquaintance’s. My first injection at 20, guided by her hand, gave me the depiction of the high after vomiting, “I feel dead inside….nothingness. No thoughts or feelings.” She retorted, “Yes, that’s what I love about it.” I never shot Heroin again, but skin popped Dalaudids, which she complained was a waste of good drugs if you’re not going to hit a vein. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The definitions of Heroin usage for the unsuspecting
public to detect in a loved one is broken-down:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 45pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong> + Skin popping; injecting
in the fat of the arm and not a vein.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 45pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>+ Tracks; permanent black
/pencil colored pin marks along a vein where an injection site is used repeatedly
for shooting up the Heroin. The areas on the body can vary from the crook of
the arm, to veins in the hands, behind the knees, and the feet.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 44.75pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>+ Pinned pupils; when the
black pupil of the eye becomes constricted. <o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 44.75pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>+ Paraphernalia; works
i.e. hypodermic needle, rubber band/bandana/belt to tie off the vein to make it
protrude for injection, a piece of foil/silverware/table spoons to cook the
Heroin into liquid form, cigarette lighters to hold the flame under the spoon
to cook-it (the flame will leave a black soot on the bottom of the spoon), mirror
used as a surface to crush the Heroin if it’s not in a powder consistency, a
razor blade is used for that purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 45pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>+ Vomiting within minutes
after an injection.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 45pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>+ Physical symptoms; a dry mouth, nodding off, scratching, slurring speech, not bathing, cluttered/unkempt living quarters, losing weight, lying, stealing (if money is a problem to buy the drug), burn holes (if a smoker) in clothes/rugs/furniture, uninterested in food, horse sounding voice, loss of concentration, skin abscesses in areas that are used repeatedly to shoot-up, swollen feet/legs/arms, sweet cravings, excessive
“sleeping.”</strong> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 63pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The quilt-work of my family and friends that became drug
addicts and Heroin users during a 20-year period from 1980 to 2002, four others
besides my sister would die from AIDS, one other was a Heroin overdose. And
while I couldn’t grasp the reasons for the severity of their addiction during their lifetime… I found a correlation between my sister and five other friends
as I became more self-aware: the common denominator was the secret of being sexually
abused as a child; by a family member, Uncle or step-parent. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Twenty years ago we couldn’t comprehend childhood
sexual abuse, never mind discuss it. I heard each friend’s declaration during
glimpses of sobriety, but being unfamiliar with the damaging effects molestation
has on the child as they reach adult hood, those intimate stories of their
childhood was meant with silence on my behalf. I wish that I could have been
receptive to their inner turmoil, suffering and pain, brought on by their
abuser. I later realized that the only thing capable of drowning out the
emotional and psychological childhood trauma---that was running on a loop in
their psyche every waking hour---was Heroin. It became their savior, and later
their Angel of Death. It may have temporarily eradicated the suffering---but
without help, therapy, and understanding---the addiction compounded the shame
and suffering, and ultimately became impossible to escape. Whether AIDS or overdose….
death was only one needle away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p>
</o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: red; font-size: xx-small;"><strong><em>© </em></strong><strong><em>COPYRIGHT 2014, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form</em></strong></span></span><span style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong><span style="color: red; font-size: xx-small;"><em>.</em></span> </strong></span></span></div>
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---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-10805561602077307392011-10-09T17:46:00.017-04:002014-04-19T19:59:16.880-04:00“A Family’s Inherited Death Wish” The Suicidal Thoughts in My DNA<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span></strong><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NDXGDfs5320/TpIaSi-VDVI/AAAAAAAAASc/9zqrXMWrrss/s1600/%252329%2B-%2BSterling%2BFamily%2B1966%2Bgroup.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NDXGDfs5320/TpIaSi-VDVI/AAAAAAAAASc/9zqrXMWrrss/s400/%252329%2B-%2BSterling%2BFamily%2B1966%2Bgroup.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661616587486334290" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: 85%;"> [all the names herein are changed to protect the privacy of the living.]</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: red;"><em>An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor---Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</em></span></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">Part Twenty-Nine</span></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">I</span></strong>n April 2007 shortly after my move from New York City to the outer tip of Long Island, I experienced an isolation and desperation that brought my thoughts back to suicide. Which hadn’t occurred for 20 years since the age of 26. Now that I was living in my future the hopelessness over my place in life and achievements fell short of the expectations I had for myself as a young girl with dreams of a bright future. After the death of both parents---an orphan for the first time---I witnessed my joy replaced by sadness---and youth traded in for jaded age. It became difficult to see my accomplishments and replicate the beauty cast over me by my mother’s eyes. The vanishing of everything I felt to be true created voids in corners of my life, becoming a vortex of pain that had reached the crux of….that spring day.<br />
<br />
When I left the bank, I could feel the emotion snake up my throat---I didn’t expect to still be struggling at 46 the way I did at 26. I asked the teller Laura if any portion of the check cleared. I felt shame and sadness as I withdrew money from my account. Over the past two years I deposited yet another credit card convenience check to pay my rent and bills. Suspending the tears when she asked how I was doing, “Not well. Say a prayer for me,” I responded trying to hold down the emotions that were beginning to regurgitate. Her soft, compassionate blue eyes had a wisp of sadness in them, as if she knew the hardships I was undergoing. Reflected in numerous withdrawals that dipped my account to the $10 minimum.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t turn my face to walk out the door fast enough before the pain and sorrow imploded from my heart, melting from my eyes. Orchestrated by a high-pitched whale I wept, ‘They say God doesn’t give you anymore than you can handle…it’s a lie. If it were true then people wouldn’t commit suicide.’ It seems God doesn’t ration the mounting pressure one experiences in life. In times of sorrow, sadness, desperation and hopelessness…. nothing changes. You cry yourself through it and wake to the same toil the next day.<br />
<br />
Abandoning the thoughts in my head, I was lost in the grief of my heart. I reached my car door, opened it and sat in the seat of my pain. My apricot miniature Poodle, Sunday lept onto my lap and sniffed the emotions escaping from my mouth. He probably wondered what happened while I was in “that place.” He stayed quiet as I started the car and we left.<br />
<br />
I decided to take him to the woods for a walk on the trails at Laural Lake. As we drove down the steep, mottled, dirt entrance I thought, ‘Should I tie him up to the exhaust pipe the way Daddy did with litters of kittens we couldn’t afford to keep.’ In the 60’s my father would have us kids go in the house while Mum turned up the radio. Then he’d place the unwanted litter in a bag, turn on the car and asphyxiate them. On the outskirts of the woods under mounds of dirt and dried leaves he’d bury the remains in a pit. The decaying animals would rest….living out their memories with us on the grounds in which we played.<br />
<br />
I plotted, ‘If I didn’t have to worry about my dog, then I could kill myself. What if I killed myself and my dog survived, who would take him? If I killed him first I would surely want to die. I couldn’t bare life without him. Maybe a family member would parent him.’ I parked, he yelped and scratched at the door with pleasure having just arrived at one of his favorite spots. He hopped out, prancing as though life was grand, unaware I was premeditating his murder.<br />
<br />
Tucked in the woods we meandered around the dirt trails when I noticed broken chunks and shards of glass from shattered beer bottles. I didn’t want him stepping on broken glass and cutting his paws so I was always cautious where we walked. I began picking up the brown chunks, green chips and clear slivers. I carried them in the palm of my hand, they reflected in the sun. He explored while I contemplated using the glass to cut my arms.<br />
<br />
My thoughts raced, ‘What if I took the glass shards and sliced upwards from my wrist to forearm, the way suicide victims do killing themselves in a tub of water. If I sat down on the old cement foundation in the middle of the woods, and slit my wrists I would eventually bleed to death. Would Sunday howl or lick the blood off my arm? How many hours would it take before I died? Would I make it through the night alone in the woods? Whoever found my car would eventually find me. When opening my car door they’d see I had just come from the bank and was on my way to pay bills. The errand and food list wedged on the dashboard. Ready for execution.’<br />
<br />
In my family, talking about death and dying was as common as discussing life. My thoughts drifted to my father Irwin, a 1st Division Calvary Specialist in WWII, an Army Master SGT who survived the invasion of Normandy but always wished he died with his war buddies. In 1966 he died at 46 from lung cancer. And as he wished, his ashes were scattered across the ocean…finally finding a resting place with his buddies at sea. My father left behind seven children and a 37-year old wife, my mother, Patricia.<br />
<br />
Over a decade ago my mother told us that when my father relocated her from Boston to the 88-acre family farm in the country hills of Sterling, Massachusetts. It was the mid 1950’s, she was around 27, and they were newlyweds. She gave birth to her first two children, my brother Frank and sister Pearl. Desperate to get away from the seclusion of farm living, she went out to the barn and picked up my fathers shotgun. With one hand holding the cold metal barrel she sat with the tip in her mouth. The head pressing against her inner cheek, she tried stretching her other arm down the butt of the rifle. Unable to maneuver both, she fumbled to pull the trigger. In her attempt my father walked in. He ran over and snatched the gun out of her hands and thundered, “What the hell are you doing! Don’t you ever try that again!”<br />
<br />
A city girl used to living a comfortable life, she was ejected into a meager existence as a housewife, and reasoned, “I hate it here! I don’t want to live in the country on a farm.” Desperate to be taken out of the surroundings that on one hand, brought her happiness with her children and husband, and on the other, torment and despair. The poverty, daily chores and tending to the farm animals wasn’t what she thought her life would be. She prevailed throughout the years, and after several strokes she died in 2002 at 73 from Congestive Heart Failure.<br />
<br />
My brother Frank, the first-born and only boy, said at the age of 18 he thought about slitting his wrists with razors. Having felt caught between the stages of boyhood and not wanting to be the same type of man as our father. Which to him represented the negative connotations of being a man. Frank experienced violent physical abuse by my father’s hand. As a result he didn’t want to grow up and be the monster he saw our father to be. So instead he turned to drug use; marijuana, hashish and acid and developed a slicing sense of humor.<br />
<br />
Four decades later, our fathers brother shared Dad knew Frank was homosexual and tried to beat it out of him---thinking he could beat his son into being a man. Frank had experienced bouts of depression since, but no longer suicidal thoughts. Now, in his mid 50’s, he’s drug free, but thick with the past. As a health facilitator he lives happily with his long-term partner.<br />
<br />
Born in 1952 my older sister Pearl, who was a toddler on the farm when my mother attempted to kill herself, has had death thoughts since the age of six. Because of the role my mother gave her as junior Mum caring for her four younger siblings. Rather than be a mother to us, Pearl longed to forfeit her birthright of childhood---to die.<br />
<br />
She’s the only one in the family to be clinically diagnosed with depression. Her desires to die were more silent than the other siblings. It resurfaced over the last five years partly because she feels stuck in her life, and being involved with a verbally abusive alcoholic for over a decade beat her down. Her self-inflicted punishment casts an anchor of guilt around her neck fearing he’ll have nowhere to go if she throws him out. So instead, each day he extracts a piece of her while she slowly dies inside.<br />
<br />
Her seclusion, hopelessness, weight gain, loss of her son and resentments are at most times too much to bear. Pearl confessed to feeling jealous when hearing on the news of people who have accidentally died, “God why take them….I’ll gladly go.” Seeking relief from the pain, she attached a hose to the tailpipe of her car in a failed attempt to asphyxiate herself. It was divine intervention that the car wouldn’t start.<br />
<br />
Pearl remains trapped in a life she loathes, childhood wounds still raw, her lackluster commitment to life saddled with the psychological and emotional loneliness of aging makes merely getting out of bed a challenge. As she disappears, she struggles to keep her grasp on living. Fortunately, a brief stint in a mental facility scared her sane. She finally kicked out her abuser, and life and love seems hopeful, as she’s in control of her life again.<br />
<br />
In 1957 my sister Karen’s birth was shaky from the start having survived a ruptured appendix at age three. After the death of our father, and the remarriage of our mother to gold digging-child molesters, who over a three year period single handedly drained my mother financially, while desecrating everything that was once my fathers---including his children, especially the younger daughters.<br />
<br />
Karen, the prettiest girl in the family, began experimenting with drugs and sex at 16. By her late 20’s she had tasted as many men and women, as drugs, and seemed to be the most seduced by hard drugs; barbiturates, narcotics, amphetamines, shooting up the latter and heroine.<br />
<br />
Influenced by her as an older sister, with her guidance, I began an escapade with drugs. In 1981 at 21, Mum gave me my first journal. Karen and I had rented an apartment together in the North End of Boston. As young women, we hadn’t lived together since we were children, and wanted to experience freedom from abusive, controlling relationships. So we spent nearly a year partying together in the safe havens of Boston’s gay clubs. The drug use created erratic behavior and depression, and an uncertainty in my life. At that tine I needed the comfort and guidance of my father. So the first few pages of my journal were about depression and being caught in between life and death---success and failure.<br />
<br />
Within months Karen had a boyfriend, a pharmacist and drug addict, whom I detested and she eventually married. She decided they would cohabitate so she moved out. Shortly thereafter they broke-up, and impulsively reunited, got another apartment, moved and separated again.<br />
<br />
In the late 1980’s at the age of 28, Karen started complaining of pain on the back of her neck. She compared it to being hit on the back of her head with a brick. At that same time she began a mantra. The first time I heard it we were sitting in the back of a Boston cab going to her apartment in the North End, “I wish I’d get AIDS and die. I wish I’d get AIDS and die,” she chanted. I reasoned with her to stop saying that.<br />
<br />
By January 1987, she wanted to reconcile with her husband who’d been bounced out of pharmacies around Boston for stealing drugs. He moved South, finding a drug store in Florida where he charmed his way back into the pharmaceutical business. Karen made plans to be in Florida with him by Valentines Day. Once there, within weeks she became exhausted, had a shortness of breath and developed the flu. By mid April she was diagnosed with AIDS. Three weeks later she died alone in a Florida hospital at the age of 29.<br />
<br />
The death of my childhood chum, the beauty who shared bunk beds with me, the kid that tormented me, the girl that combed, cut and braided my hair, the friend who shared laughter and scars, my dance partner, the only one who knew my fears and collective memories, she was the black raspberry to my pistachio ice cream, the one who sang Jennifer Holiday’s “Dreamgirls” with me….the only person who corralled those moments in time, in our lifetime, had vanished. Into the ethers her spirit went---sailing the sea with my Daddy.<br />
<br />
I was 27 when she died. My psyche was ripped from the core. My heart bled a constant river of tears and grief. As I mourned, I stopped smoking, no longer drank or did drugs, became celibate and read self-help books. Learned Transcendental Meditation and affirmations, became one with the earth and saw the face of Mother Nature for the first time. I searched the heavens endlessly for the meaning of her death…and to my life. Grappling with my own desires to die.<br />
<br />
In the darkened hours of the night, in the mist of heartache and sorrow, I begged God, “Please take me I want to die. I don’t want to live anymore.” My head waved side to side against the pillow that cradled my inner torment. A flush of tears soaking the sides of my face as I repeated my pleas. My stomach ached from the heaves of anguish. I pleaded to take me from this misery. Exhausted, hopeless and feeling abandoned….I began to fall asleep….until I felt my feet being tugged off the bed.<br />
<br />
A miniature casket was suspended in the left corner of the room where the ceiling meets the wall. There where two lights blinking, one red to stop, one green to go. As it began to move toward the bed the tugging at my feet continued. Like magnets, I was being pulled towards the casket. I looked at the foot of the bed and saw a three-foot high ugly brown troll, with a big animal like face and pointed ears tugging at my feet.<br />
<br />
Frantically I pulled my feet back, using my legs to push myself back up to the headboard. I was horrified and whaled, “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” Instantly the spell was broken. I leaned over to turn on the light. My forehead felt afire, was it my third eye and a mystical episode I wondered. I was panting and called by brother to tell him what happened. That’s the night I made the conscious choice to live---and would never wish to die again. Until 20 years later….<br />
<br />
Karen’s death transformed everyone in the family in different ways. My younger sister Nita decided the Lord was calling her and in 1989 became a missionary for the New Tribes Mission. Giving herself to the Lord she became celibate, refrained from alcohol and smoking, and learned how to preach fire and brimstone. For eight years she lived across the country learning and preparing for the ultimate goal of doing missionary work, bringing Christianity and Jesus to third world countries. She built houses by hand, cut off the heads of chickens, prayed, asked for donations, sang in choirs, learned linguists; Cherokee and Pigeon English so she could speak with the natives. With training complete and her life in crates, she and the other missionaries moved to the New Tribes Mission camp in Papua New Guinea. Where she’d do her life’s work.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t long after she arrived did she meet a tanned and salty scuba diving instructor from Australia, who not only taught her about diving, but rekindled a few of the seven deadly sins. Within a month she was reprimanded and told to stop seeing him or else she would be expelled from New Tribes. The affections from her illicit love was stronger than Jesus, and so she opted out. Leaving with him for a torrid seven-day sojourn in Australia.<br />
<br />
Knowing it was time to depart from her fantasy romance she reluctantly abandoned her heart. Aware that her life over the last eight years had dissolved, she flew to California and stayed with our brother and reverted to secular life. The smoking and drinking reemerged as Nita felt God had forsaken her by allowing a weakness for the flesh to return. For weeks she pondered at the crossroads, then moved to Florida. Overtime the doubts began to surface and by 1997 at 34 she uttered repeatedly, “I wish I’d die. I wish I’d get cancer and die.” She hasn’t died. At 43 she lives successfully….with those thoughts, and has recently begun journaling, writing “goodbye” letters to family and friends.<br />
<br />
In 2006 my baby sister Ella, a 41-year old Army Captain Chaplain with the 101st Airborne returned two years post Iraq with stage IV Dygerminoma cancer. Although the dance of life and death has been one woven throughout all of our lives…when faced with an unwelcomed death sentence with a rare stage IV she whaled, “I don’t want to die. I’m only 40 years old. I’m too young to meet my maker. I don’t have enough memories yet.”<br />
<br />
With all the prayers, a great medical team at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and the rotation of family support in D. C. After 35 rounds of Chemo, two major surgeries, one to remove a volleyball size tumor from her abdomen, the other to remove her creative organs. As of November 2006 she’s in clinical remission and celebrating her rebirth.<br />
<br />
As my yearlong dedication to her began to wane, I had to resuscitate the life I put on hold. During that period I allowed my already fragile writing career to disintegrate. Willingly, I sacrificed the focus of me, my life and doggy, to be certain Ella would live. I made sure not to make the same errors in judgment as with Karen’s death. The remission eradicated her mindset from the death sentence, giving her permission to take her life back, and in the midst forgetting she didn’t do it alone.<br />
<br />
By January 2007 after several telephone arguments, the gratitude and sacrifice of the conjoined family efforts had vanished from her mind. As she reverted back to being the same person before the cancer, with the same sibling conflicts and issues. The near hint of death hadn’t yet transformed, or even awakened her. As a result, our servitude had evaporated from her thoughts.<br />
<br />
This was the catalyst to my emotional devastation, compounded by my fragile financial outlook, and lack of work. Having spent a majority of the nine months with her in D. C., my credit card debts were mounting. Edging their way to swallow me whole. I turned from her to me, and what I found was feelings of forsaken. Being isolated in a new town, with work that was sparse. The burdens of my own and Ella’s, was too much to carry, crushing my last bit of hope. I couldn’t see around the corner---was anything even there? Or was there more loss, pain, suffering and abandon.<br />
<br />
My daily and hourly prayers were marred by doubt. A blanket of confusion of what to do to twist out of the spiral of defeat was taking hold. I felt disconnected from the family, mostly misunderstood, and judged for not having a “normal” life. And slighted for following my fruitless dreams was only compounded by not having a steady income. It gave them the ammunition they needed. Would I abandon them---or my dreams?<br />
<br />
As the work ended my hope diminished. I detached from Nita and Ella breaking the emotional bonds. It was a vortex of heartache that produced thoughts of death once again. Nearly 20 years, 1987 and now 2007. Karen’s death was the catalyst the first time. This time a blend of family and career; fear, scarcity, loneliness and loss.<br />
<br />
I took Sunday for a walk and within blocks my mind was flooded with words, thoughts and visions of how I could die. I wept with each step pleading to God why has he forsaken me. The sorrow dripped from my eyes as I fell in a trance of grief. My dog oblivious to my howls of anguish meandered along the frozen edge of the country roads. The feelings of being misunderstood were apparent, as was the lack of respect for the life experiences I had tucked within my history. I pled to the spirit of Karen, my Mother and Father for help. My mind and heart became one---lost in a bounty of aloneness and suffering.<br />
<br />
As I approached the homes along the bay the negative tape in my head began to silence. The vision of myself along the rocky shores of the beach started to emerge---I became still inside. Like Virginia Woolf’s suicide, I envisioned myself collecting rocks and putting them into my jacket pockets, into my sports bra, into my underwear, my socks, boots and tying Sunday’s leash to my arm. As we’d wade out into the calm winter water, he’d become cautious as I walked slowly through the graveled shore, clutching him against my breast.<br />
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The smooth, faceless cold rocks pressing against my flesh---the weight taking hold, the waves knocking me off balance until I surrendered to the salty foam. The warmth of the water against the crisp air would cover me like a blanket. The life-filled world of Technicolor would become grey, still, and lifeless as my feet became heavy in the sand. I relinquished my will to the vast oceans of death that came before me. Sunday would frantically submit to his masters wish, staying tethered to my arm as our ship of life went down.<br />
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This reel in my mind had silenced my cries---as I was suspended by the vision. We floated back home along the tarred road. I thrust my body onto the bed and whaled for my dark thoughts. Sunday was confused and sat by my side. With no one except the spirits to hear my lowly inner turmoil, my journal became the caring caress I needed. It stood firm, spine erect, arms wide open, steadfast. In silent strength the pages took all I could expel. The unfettered paper marred by tears, pain and confusion absorbed the strife eating away my psyche. Only after I exhausted the power of death did the wave of emptiness rock me peacefully to sleep.<br />
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The next day brought a feeling of renew, and three weeks of unexpected part time work brought my optimism back. It made me feel self-sufficient and strong. I decided to see a tarot card reader in NYC. I needed to know what was ahead. The trees in the forest were closing in. She provided the hope that abandoned me. She spoke of success, riches, powerful men and love. I only had a few weeks and months to wait before all the cards fell into place. She affirmed my terrible life experiences with lady luck nowhere in sight, but all that would change. The depression would lift, and everything I’d worked for in my life would finally meet---with that elusive four-leaf clover.<br />
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I spun like a top with excitement. Nothing could penetrate my star filled eyes. The future was finally mine. Three weeks came, then five weeks, then nine, and….no powerful man, no money, no luck, and was out $50 dollars. I regressed back to the darkness on that crisp, bright spring day when I took Sunday for a walk through the woods at Laural Lake. With each step pieces of my family history sprouted in my head like jewels---suspending the visions of cutting my arms with the glass sparkling in my palm. Their events began to link themselves together. My family’s own personal demons, our own struggles, and fight with life and death I noticed had a similar thread. Like a patchwork quilt their stories surfaced and revealed themselves. Maybe we don’t own those thoughts---they belong to our parents, our ancestors. Their desires to die were passed down to us.<br />
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Woven through my parents and siblings is the fragile balance of doubt and hope, weakness and strength, confusion and clarity, sadness and joy. And if tipped one way for a long period of time desperation emerged wrapped in the package of despair, wishes of dying, or death.<br />
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While I was able to uncoil the intricate emotional longings that have replicated and connected us over the generations….the memories, the words, the sentences. It painted a picture for me of my family, and I thought, ‘Maybe the death wish isn’t mine after all.’<br />
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Just then, as I rejected death, I was possessed by generations of understanding. Their spirits gave me permission to be cradled by the muse and in euphoric excitement I grabbed a pen and paper from my pocket and this story began to unfold. The phrase I penned brought enlightenment, “my death wish was inherited in my DNA, it doesn’t belong to me.” And by unlocking the originators….I felt peace with my demons and was somehow set free. My soul, no longer lost in the woods of darkness---the spell was broken, and in my clarity I found the freedom to finally---live.<br />
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<strong><em><span style="color: red; font-size: 85%;">© COPYRIGHT 2007, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form. </span></em></strong><br />
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<a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" border="0" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" height="60" title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." width="120" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-25211552344111468952011-04-08T16:57:00.014-04:002014-04-19T19:42:38.596-04:00“Fashion Crash: When Clothes, Loss and Car Collide”<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V78lwYdK_XM/TccHM3Bx6lI/AAAAAAAAASM/NkBz0NmSRrk/s1600/#28-HalloCatFace2006cat.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V78lwYdK_XM/TccHM3Bx6lI/AAAAAAAAASM/NkBz0NmSRrk/s400/%252328-HalloCatFace2006cat.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604456178797111890" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 265px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
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<strong><em><span style="color: black;">An Original Collection of Provocative and Powerful Essay's by R. B. STUART. Her Work Begins and Ends at the Crux of Truth, Sorrow and Humor----Capable of Slicing Through Your Psyche and Piercing Your Heart.</span></em></strong> </div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 100%;">Part Twenty-Eight</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 180%;"><strong>S</strong></span>everal years ago my mother suffered her second stroke, then in 2002 the 73 year-old widow had a third relapse. It rattled my existence and I began to ponder my 13 years in New York City, my childhood, and the possible loss of my mother. I reached an understanding; that in order for me to have a quality and healthy life---I'd have to rescue my mother, my own life, and leave New York. I knew I could always have NY but would never have another mother, so I'd forfeit my life in the city as I knew it, and move in with her where she spent the last thirty years of her life in New Hampshire.<br /><br />In taking care of her disintegrating body I'd assist her as she made the transition to death. All the while I still bartered with God that she'd recover from this one as she did the other two. My heart and mind were split as I listened to her yearn for the days as a teenager drinking bottles of Pepsi-Cola and eating Devil Dogs through puffs of oxygen.<br /><br />Reminiscing about her long swims in the cool ocean waters of Gun Rock Beach in Hull, Massachusetts. Mentally I knew she'd eventually die from refusing food, but in my heart I couldn't fathom the loss of my one and only---Mother. Yet, there was still so much I hadn't achieved in my life that I needed her to be around for. After all, I owed her the happiness of seeing me marry a wonderful man, that is after I found one, become a successful author, and buy a beach house where she would live with me while I write---a German Shepard patiently curled by my feet. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />But in the six weeks that followed she died. As her life had unexpectedly ended---mine began. I bought my first car a 1992 Volvo and planned my mothers Memorial service. Within months I anticipated my move from NH where I restlessly left as a child three decades before. But during that mourning period I'd experience waves of grief along with periods of acceptance and a sense of well being. With emotions and their unpredictable manner, I felt consumed by the darkest moments. At midnight driving quietly along still country roads listening to a Dean Martin cassette, remembering the old songs that she loved. I pictured her sitting beside me in the car she’d never seen, swaying to the music and singing in unison.<br /><br />That vision had put me into a tailspin of sorrow and grief. I missed her so. Riding down the blackened, barren roads howling in pain like a lone fox caught in a trap--no one to rescue her in the deep of the night out of the cold, dark woods. Suffering---the ache tightly gripped my head. The forceful well of tears burst from my heart---draining months of sorrow from my eyes. Sleep was the only remedy. It takes me back to Mum, and our family as it should be…<br /><br />When I resuscitate myself from the tidal wave of pain, my memory ponders the last three years of her life….. The second stroke left her with left side paralysis and wheelchair bound, spending her final five years in a seated position. It reduced her sense of fashion and delight of shopping to elastic waist – wide legged pants sufficient for her leg brace. She wore clothes we thought would look good on her, as apposed to her choosing her own wardrobe.<br /><br />The wheelchair made her extremely self-conscious producing a homebound shame that crippled her self-esteem. Her social life had diminished, her comfort came from a "pet" bowl of ice cream or chocolates. It took several years of cajoling when I'd come home for a visit just to attend family gatherings. She'd defy me and whimper with self-pity, "No one wants to see an old lady in a wheelchair." I'd reason, "No one is looking at you in your wheelchair. Do you stare and talk about people you see in a wheelchair?" “No,” she'd answer, pouting in defeat as she'd pivot from her recliner into her mobile metal chair.<br /><br />Finally after four years of my drill sergeant methods to get her out of the house, she sulked when the transport service van drove us to Physical Therapy because afterwards we’d go on foot to the mall. She hadn't been in a store since the stroke, relying heavily on home health aids and family to shop.<br /><br />After her PT I wheeled her 5'10 frame down the hill. Because of her pride she never attached the foot rests, it would only amplify her disability to herself and the world, so her long basketball legs were stretched out before her, her metal knee brace peeking out from under her left pant leg. We rolled along the emergency lane of the bypass, trudging up another hill when it began to sprinkle. She laughed and held her face up to the sky as the raindrops kissed her cheeks. It had been so long since she was out in the rain---like the tin man her caution gave way to ecstasy---filled with glee she shouted repeatedly, "Honey, what an ad-vent--cha!"<br /><br />I tugged, pushed and pulled her around every bend until Kmart was only a roll away. Out of breath, her legs in cramps, both of us damp from the rain, the automatic doors opened and I let go of the wheelchair. Her feet clad in brown orthopedic Frankenstein shoes dropped to the floor and with her heels pulled herself over to the first rack of clothes she could find. The drunken excitement shown over her face. Childlike awe glazed over her protruding hazel eyes as she marveled and caressed each fabric like it was a babies head. She'd gasp in adoration as each rack of clothes were better than the last. A simple pop into a department store for me---was a life changing event for her. After that landmark day her desire for life began to blossom again.<br /><br />But as she became psychically disjointed by the silver metal frame with hoola-hoop sized black rubber wheels that flanked her, I eventually felt socially crippled by the car that had been bought to give me freedom. Even though after her death I moved back to the Empire State and lived closer to the beach, the three-ton metal box with four rubber wheels would begin to erode my self-esteem.<br /><br />It began to cloak my public self, as if putting on an overcoat. I’d adorn my chariot and duck in and out of stores, shielding my lack of make-up behind Armani sunglasses. The rear view mirror the size of a blackboard eraser would reflect the only portion of my body I didn’t mind looking at; my eyes. My lips no longer kissed by a coat of Chanel <em>Star Red</em> lipstick.<br /><br />When living in NYC walking along the city streets is like strutting on the catwalk of life. Paved with cement sidewalks that glisten like diamonds---you’re on display for the world to see. Your gait, your posture, how you feel about yourself is neatly packaged by your Manalo shoes, Hermes red Birkin bag, 4-ply Burberry cashmere sweater and Chanel scarf---all strategically placed---dripping from your neck, shoulders and arm.<br /><br />The absence of being on street-display, saddled with using the car to hide…a whiplash of weight gain emerged. While I forfeited walking---the lack of caring for myself trailed behind. Gaining seven pounds a year over the last six years (although not in that order), the newly packed 40 pounds of girth cushioned the blow of feeling unattractive, and the thicker the insulation---the more secluded I became. The outside world mirrored a shame and inadequacy that cloaked me like new lingerie. My stunted sexuality protected by the metal four-door box in which my social persona lives. No longer do I stand erect along the city streets, but seated in a guarded wheeled cage that effectively protects my pride…while I ride.<br /><br />When you abandon city living---you’re no longer center stage of the style capital---instead your artillery of fashion accessories become abandoned in a darkened closet. The garments are symbolic of the passage of time when they lived amongst the yellow taxi cabs, salty steam of manhole covers, clap of pigeons, hot dog carts and cat calls that make NYC. Like a ghost I’m haunted by a walk in Central Park, my collection of silk scarves rattle the closet doors to be taken out for a wisp of city air. The boxes of Gucci loafers edge themselves further out on the shelves….craving the pavement underfoot. The arm of my Ellen Tracy raincoat longs to drape my shoulders, as my Louis Vuitton tote reaches out to hold my hand.<br /><br />I push back my thoughts of fashion as it’s been replaced by country roads, farmland, vineyards and an automobile---which I have adorned as my armor for the last six years, shielding me away from society. Hiding within the metal comfort of 250 horsepower it replaces the pulse of the city streets, sweeping away the stimulation and culture. Eventually separating me from the world….as I’m no longer bejeweled by my clothes, but a car.<br /><br />While the echo from the city wafts through my senses once again, she begins to tip the scales, like a magnet she draws me away from the seclusion, and reawakens the desire of a women to beatify oneself---through fashion---and accessories are but a drive away…<br /></span></div>
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<strong><span style="color: red;">Copyright 2008, R. B. STUART. All rights reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></strong> </div>
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STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-74073196251358173712011-02-15T15:20:00.015-05:002011-10-09T17:45:18.765-04:00Arianna Huffington - The Greek Tycoon: “Greed Is Good”<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2xUTNOYAus/TVrpN3r1oSI/AAAAAAAAASE/quv0KupeK3U/s1600/#27+-+R.+B.+Stuart+woodstock.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 381px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574023913319801122" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2xUTNOYAus/TVrpN3r1oSI/AAAAAAAAASE/quv0KupeK3U/s400/%252327%2B-%2BR.%2BB.%2BStuart%2Bwoodstock.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>Part Twenty-Seven</strong><br /></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">A</span></strong>s a <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/r-b-stuart">Huffington Post contributor</a>, I was invited <strong><em>[self, above]</em></strong> on <em>FOX Business News</em> on Valentines Day to Interview live with David Asman on <a title="http://video.foxbusiness.com/v/4538928/blogger-huffington-not-looking-to-share-the-wealth/" href="http://video.foxbusiness.com/v/4538928/blogger-huffington-not-looking-to-share-the-wealth/">Nightly Scoreboard</a>, to discuss the recent acquisition of <em>The Huffington Post</em> by AOL. Even the media is dumbfounded to learn that while Arianna Huffington has been building her website and reputation over the past five years----she has never paid any of her writers.<br /><br />I don’t know who Arianna has been consulting as of late, or how many times she’s watched “Wall Street,” but it’s obvious her new mantra is, “Greed Is Good.”<br /><br />This sale of <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20110207/ap_on_hi_te/us_aol_huffington_post">The Huffington Post to AOL</a> last week for $315 million, has caused a backlash throughout journalism, because she, without conscience, profited off the backs of her free labor. <a title="http://www.theimproper.com/18942/huffington-post-slave-writers-in-revolt-over-aol-sale" href="http://www.theimproper.com/18942/huffington-post-slave-writers-in-revolt-over-aol-sale">The 6,000 dedicated, progressive, professional writers</a>, who over the past five years were responsible for transforming the former wife of a U. S. Senator----into a Greek Tycoon.<br /><br />The sale, coming off the heels of her latest book about America becoming a Third World country is ironic, as she treated her devoted writers no better than a boiler room operation in Taiwan.<br /><br />These are the very writers whose quality of content has brought credibility to <em>The Huffington Post.</em> This year <a href="http://nieman.harvard.edu/NiemanFoundation.aspx">Harvard University</a> has accepted the publication as a viable web news source, including its credentials among the categories of national newspaper and magazines for its <a href="http://nieman.harvard.edu/NiemanFoundation/Awards/AwardsAtAGlance/WorthBinghamPrizeForInvestigativeJournalism.aspx">Investigative Journalism award; The Worth Bingham Prize</a>, in which I’ve submitted my series of <a href="http://operationpurpleheart.blogspot.com/">soldiers diagnosed with Cancer post-Iraq</a>.<br /><br />It’s unthinkable that her father, a newspaper publisher himself, would have instilled in his daughter that when she builds her own publishing empire---to be sure she stick her Manolo Blahnik heels into the back of her writers---as she climbs her way to the top.<br /><br />In good faith, Arianna Huffington should have included in her February 7th “contributors” E-mail, that out of the $315 million sale, she would be cutting each of the 6,000 free laborers a check of $1,000, as a thank you [still an insult, but at least it would have been an effort of gratitude]. It would have totaled to $6 million dollars---and still would have had $309 million left.<br /><br />The writers are what made the publication what it is today, and what made<em> </em><strong><em>her</em> </strong>a valuable commodity. So to think she’ll stuff her mattress with $300 million in cash, while her own stable of writers lay their head on a pillow of poverty is unfathomable and ruthless.<br /><br />And to assume that selling her lot of slaves aboard “The Grecca” AKA <em>The Huffington Post,</em> to the conservative billion dollar corporation AOL, where they would continue to provide content for free----puts her in the category of Wall Street execs shafting the middle class. And it is the ultimate act of betrayal and exploitation to her servants of news.<br /><br />This buy-out may have been a shrewd business move in the boardrooms of corporate America---but it has solidified the new tier in the landscape of America’s Workforce---two levels below interning and volunteer work is now exploitation and free labor. The former six levels, will now be seven. Beginning at the bottom; exploitation/free labor, volunteer work, internships, minimum wage, high school diploma, college degree and Masters. This hierarchy of the American work force and age discrimination will saturate journalism with inexperienced mediocrity, and abolish the strife our colleagues suffered at picket lines over a half-century ago when they demanded better wages and working conditions. Their steadfastness and courage for bettering the value of our craft has been usurped by this deal.<br /><br />The only light on the horizon I see is moving to Asia where I can finally be paid by American corporations for the labor I provide. And I will do so willingly as a true American patriot, only marred by the <em>Made in China</em> tattoo stamped on the back of my hand.</div><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">© COPYRIGHT 2008, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.<br /></span></strong><br /></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-37777898645620476042011-02-07T17:42:00.024-05:002011-10-09T17:43:48.768-04:00"Arianna Huffington Sells Lot of Slaves for $315 Million"<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TVB_kkGKlNI/AAAAAAAAAR8/PdzdzpNx_vc/s1600/AH+Curtosy+AP+10-10+huffington.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 295px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571093005198857426" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TVB_kkGKlNI/AAAAAAAAAR8/PdzdzpNx_vc/s400/AH%2BCurtosy%2BAP%2B10-10%2Bhuffington.jpg" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#3366ff;">Arianna Huffington, Courtosy AP 10-10</span></em></strong></div><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>By R. B. STUART</strong><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>Part Twenty-Six</strong></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">A</span></strong>s a <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/r-b-stuart">contributor for The Huffington Post </a>since 2008, I have posted 25 original content articles valued over $25,000 <em>for free</em>. So eager to have the platform for my <a href="http://sistersoldier.blogspot.com/">soldiers stories</a>, of <a href="http://operationpurpleheart.blogspot.com/">U. S. soldiers returning from Iraq with Cancer</a> ---I didn't ask for payment---merely handed over the 20 - 30 hours of reporting of each piece <em>for gratis</em>.<br /><br />Over that period I had asked <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/arianna-huffington">Arianna Huffington</a> several times for financial support with this work, but after being referred to the D.C. based <a href="http://huffpostfund.org/">Huffington Post Investigative Fund</a> as a candidate for payment---I was turned down, as well as by executive editor, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Sekoff">Roy Sekoff</a>.<br /><br />I become incensed to learn that in December The Huffington Post hired away <a href="http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2010/12/huffington_post_steals_sunday.html">two New York Times editors</a> for well over $100,000 each.<br /><br />Then to receive an E-mail today from Arianna and Roy about their <em>"Exciting News"</em> of the AOL take over---I was less than enthusiastic. Do they really think <a href="http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/view/entry/m_en_us1291311#m_en_us1291311">6,000 slave writers</a> will continue to write for free for an international conglomerate like AOL (who pays their web-writers, even if it is meager) without pay?<br /><br />The deal was made between <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20110207/ap_on_hi_te/us_aol_huffington_post">AOL and Arianna Huffington</a> while they courted her over the weekend at the Super Bowl. Not only did they buy out <em>The Huffington Post</em> for $315 million, but $300 million is in cash.<br /><br />Essentially, the 6,000 writers Arianna lured with coveted bylines, then exploited their content while the site raked in ad revenue in the millions---has now <em>sold us</em> without our permission, under the guise we'd continue to write for AOL for free---it is presumptuous and arrogant to say the least.<br /><br />The only way to turn this downward spiral for writers providing original content for the web for meager wages, or in this instance, for not even a slap on the back---is to withdraw. We have grumbled over the years that our craft has lost its value with technical advancement. Web-writing will never compare to print---in respect nor payment---unless we change it. Since the Internet is unregulated when it comes to rights for writers and photographers and collecting fees, then my fellow scribers, this should be a turning point were we no longer <em>write for free</em>. How can one person sell another’s work, without their permission, unless they are slave labor without laws protecting them?<br /><br />We might not have had rights contributing for <em>The Huffington Post</em>. But it is OUR right <strong>now</strong>---whether or not to write for free for <a href="http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-02-07/aol-to-buy-huffington-post-for-315-million-founder-keeps-role.html">AOL</a>--- the new owners of <em>The Huffington Post</em>.<br /><br />This may be an exciting payday for the masthead....but for the thousands of writers that have kept the site in business and lucrative for five years with incentives for advertisers---for AOL to assume it's business as usual without pay---then the executives brokering the deal need to think again. As writing for free for an international corp like AOL---is another beast altogether.<br /><br />To think the award winning, much admired and regarded Arianna, sold her soul as well as The Grecca ship of slaves---is not only corrupt---but unthinkable. And in my opinion this act of greed and exploitation may be the beginning of her demise.<br /><br />And I may not be the only contributor to need a glass of water to wash the bitter taste from their mouth.... </p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">© COPYRIGHT 2011, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form. </span></strong></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-35167818752373461902011-01-15T15:20:00.004-05:002011-01-25T16:05:41.940-05:00End of The Line: “When a Branch of Your Family Tree Breaks”<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TT81-syI6lI/AAAAAAAAARw/myuseXBd-Ro/s1600/%252325%2B-%2BBirch%2BTree%2B%25236.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 264px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566227015742843474" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TT81-syI6lI/AAAAAAAAARw/myuseXBd-Ro/s400/%252325%2B-%2BBirch%2BTree%2B%25236.JPG" /></a><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong><br /><strong>Part Twenty-Five<br /><br /></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">S</span></strong>tudies show that when a woman is shown images of babies their pupils dilate. I have never experienced that sensation but know when I see furry images of a floppy-faced, innocent eyed puppy, my mouth breaks into an immediate smile and my heart is filled with joy. Like when <em>The Grinch</em> is converted by the unconditional love and compassion of little girl Who?, in the town <em>Whosville</em> he’s taken Christmas away. An x-ray of his heart shows it expanding and beginning to pulsate with love and joy, while the sparkle in his eyes give way to half mooned grin. That’s how I feel when I see dogs.<br /><br />Was that the prediction that I would never bear children? Or was it because me and three other sisters were molested for a three-year period all under the age of 12 by our ex-stepfather and his 16 year-old pedophile son?<br /><br />When that psychic scar penetrates your entire life---with a secret that distorts all your romantic relationships. If by your 30’s you don’t allow it to surface into the rage it’s festered---then we turn on ourselves.<br /><br />As my older sister Karen did with hard drugs introduced to them at 16 by a street hustler twice her age. He infiltrated her life preying upon that protection she craved since the death of our father when we where six and nine. The drugs numbed out the childhood pain, and glazed over the domination, exploitation and beatings he’d give her to keep her submissive and fearful of leaving him.<br /><br />In her 20’s her love for heroin was stronger than the addiction she once had for him. And she parlayed that for a new life for herself with other functioning addicts that didn’t abuse her. But it was only time before the drugs would call her home….<br /><br />At 28, while she was going through a period of sobriety she said to me she longed to be someone’s wife, at the same time her demons clawed at her and wished she’d contract AIDS and die. She married a pharmacist with a drug habit and access to pharmaceuticals….and with all her fortitude attempted to salvage her once reckless life. But the mantras of death had already begun to weave their web and she developed full-blown AIDS Easter of 1987. She died that May at the age of 29.<br /><br />Tormented by sexual abuse of my ex-step fathers hand, Karen partied hard and lived recklessly until her body couldn’t withstand the violation it absorbed when she was 12. I watched as she psychically willed herself to death.<br /><br />It left four sisters and a brother to grant my mothers wish of grandchildren. The latter would be removed from carrying on the name since he was gay. The future rested in the wombs of the four remaining.<br /><br />When she died I was 27 and the loss shook the foundation of my holy trinity as she would never reach her 30th birthday and I would ultimately outlive her. Her life was frozen mid-stream---her image burnt into the Kodak paper in my mind. Like a caveman in search of a fossil---I clung to her personal effects as remnants of a life half lived, but had evaporated into the ethers. Her remaining belongings reduced to a few cardboard boxes were sifted through by the family---like wiping the dust from the rubble of a gold mine---in search of the one nugget of artifact that extracted the totality of her life. That would essentially invoke an image, thought or feeling of her.<br /><br />Now only I was the locket of our shared childhood of bumps and bruises, lies and betrayals, jealously and envy, love and empathy. I inherited what was and had the power to change what would be for my own life.<br /><br />I stopped drinking, getting high, partying, quit smoking and became celibate. I lost the support of my intoxicated weekend friends and turned inwards for the first time in search of myself, my pain, my God.<br /><br />As the calendar months flipped by, so did the decades. As I celebrated the milestones of 30, 35, 40---I marked the loss of what could have been for her. Having come from a family of five girls and one boy, after our fathers death in 1966, our innocence was sacrificed for the pleasures of out ex-step brother, as three of us had suffered sexual abuse by him. It would permeate every facet of our life, and forever stain our ability to love, trust and experience intimacy with a man.<br /><br />So damaged, I observed each of us girls become abstinent and relinquish our maternal clocks. While I feel the pricking of turning 50 in a few months I am acutely aware I am childless. Having lost my mother in 2002 at the age of 72 I am now parentless---officially an orphan. Being emotionally maimed by abusive relationships until I was in my mid 30’s---I find myself spouseless. The psychological injuries obtained stunting my ability to love again---trust again. As I’ve resolved it’s too late for me.<br /><br />My family jests my apartment is so over run with memorabilia and collectables---that when I die they dread having to dismantle my tangible life. Threatening me and my objects of affection with a garage sale or much worse the dump. As I scan each intricately placed photograph, shelved Norman Mailer books and an assortment of his framed letters of encouragement and sketches to me, souvenirs from my world travels and longings for Italy hang side by side, religious artifacts, and wall of achievements---my eye rests on a Bible sized, Italian leather bound coffee table book, with a cover etched with a trio of naked female figures.<br /><br />Within the parchment pages is my New England Family Tree dating back to 1834 and 1844 in Naples, Italy, 1616 Scotland, 1711 Belfast and 1847 County Cork, Ireland. My fathers and mothers lineage ends with me and my siblings.<br /><br />Having four childless and spouseless sisters prepares us for a life of spinsterhood. But even more jarring is there’s no one to tell the family stories to, no one to leave the genealogy with, and no other generation who’s interested in my baubles, much cared for chronological photo albums of 25 years---all of which will one day lay on a wobbly aluminum table in a dusty thrift shop. Being picked over by the pelicans of the future.<br /><br />Like those before me who beloved trinkets line flea market tables or antique shops because their family found no attachment or they had no one living that would carry on their memory. No one to leave their every hope and dream, shared laugh and tear, no one to mark the life they had lived.<br /><br />It brings sadness to my heart, as I mourn the life I’ll leave behind. The life that will ultimately vanish into the incinerator of death. The only value of my achievements will be in the money I leave behind. There will be plenty of takers for that…. But my grandmothers cameo pendent and engagement ring, my grandfathers communion ring, my fathers WWII dog tags, my mothers Mother’s ring and ruby, the jewelry from the chapters of my own life---will they lay encased in a darkened, antique store marked with white price tags? Will they strike a strangers fancy and find a home ‘round their finger or neck….their history forever dormant.<br /><br />Or do I have all those keepsakes buried with me, or thrown into the crematory with me? Is it vulgar to ponder adopting a teenage boy and girl to selfishly carry on my Family Tree, and who will mourn my passing by cherishing my volumes of poetry, journals, books, manuscripts and other possessions? Or do I spend the last segment of my life distributing what I’ve amassed over the years to my friends? What will come of my mothers belongings that I horded after her death? The white chest stacked with magical memories and doo-dads laced with her fragrance of “White Shoulders”….the contents and their past only sentimental to a loved one. Will it be impersonally bulldozed into a landfill for seagulls to nest?<br /><br />After her death is when I became more entrenched in her lineage---the parts she kept secret or long ago forgot. I uncovered generations of grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins she intentionally detached from decades ago when she was a young bride in her 20’s. The reasons were hazy. Her estrangements made us, her six children suffer, as we knew no one else except each other.<br /><br />The floodgates of her private heritage opened up with merely a brief tug. My desire to know who she was, and who I am, brought forth a domino of living great aunts, great uncles, cousins, and childhood chums who happily resurrected her life by recalling moments with her. Within two years I’d been introduced to branches of my mothers side back three generations to Italy, and three to Ireland. As I became engulfed in the family history I longed for while she was alive. I saw a pattern in the Irish genealogy beginning with the seven children born in early 1800’s---none ever married.<br /><br />I noticed every generation from then on, whether in a family of two or seven siblings; one, two, three, five or six of them within that family never married. Including my own. And I wondered had their families fallen victim to abuse or dysfunction? Just as I noticed numerous drowning from boat or water accidents over the centuries in my lineage, should I beware of the water? Is it better if a family not reproduce and die-off---rather than perpetuate the dysfunction? Was our need not to procreate a good thing for our lineage? As the torment on my mothers side will end with us. Could it be our mission, our destiny is fulfilled, our spiritual work complete? Or had it been in our bloodline----a prophecy effecting certain family branches like mine?<br /><br />The answers I may never uncover, and it may just be a destiny that no matter how I play tic-tack-toe with my life----the end result is the same for my family: no heirs. At some point I have to come to peace with my inability to pass along all that is precious to me. So along your journey if you come across a bauble, a trinket, old pictures or a journal along the way and find my name etched somewhere----please buy it and give it life----knowing that it came from a girl without a tree.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">© COPYRIGHT October 2009, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a> </div>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-2942287751108142922010-10-19T19:40:00.009-04:002011-01-25T16:05:03.609-05:00“Celibate in The City” - When Abstinence Becomes Celibacy…and You’re Not Clergy<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TPROBp539lI/AAAAAAAAARk/qK-EJCCl-jo/s1600/%252324%2B-%2BSterling%2B1966%2Brobin.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 120px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 174px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545142831535355474" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TPROBp539lI/AAAAAAAAARk/qK-EJCCl-jo/s400/%252324%2B-%2BSterling%2B1966%2Brobin.jpg" /></a><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong><br /><strong>Part Twenty-Four<br /></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">T</span></strong>hey tell you as a writer to write what you know. It’s not that I set out on a path of vaginal cobwebs---it just happened that way---by choosing emotionally retarded or sexually deviant men over the years, paralleled with idealistic notions of love and romance portrayed in 1940’s films. My travails into premature spinsterhood was emphasized by broken promises, disappointments and misunderstandings. Compounded by my own emotional vocabulary comparable to the board game level of four letters (Scrabble). My trust issues percolated just below the surface with fear of intimacy and abandonment.<br /><br />Since my late teens I went from abusive relationships with men 10 to 20 years my senior to intoxicated sex with the rare gay male friend, parlayed into fantasy relationships in my early 30’s upon moving to New York City. Which at the height of AIDS graduated to abstinence and later celibacy. My last casual relationship was with an impotent man (unless silicone was omni present) who still lived at home (fully aroused when watching the Playboy channel). When I caught him one day masturbating to their televised, artificially enhanced, shiny naked bodies---our fragile year long relationship ended, and so did my self-esteem as it was marred in cellulite. That finale edged me towards abstinence and into fantasy relationships.<br /><br />My aptitude for fantasy affairs was born when I was 5 years old twirling around a silver clothes line pole holding the imaginary hand of my “man.” We'd end the dance with a kiss---my innocent tongue reached out to lick the salty, cold metal, as my blue plastic Cat glasses clanked the pipe. Immediately, my notions of men became eschewed as they took on an air of an inanimate, lifeless object. <strong><span style="color:#ff0000;"><em>[photo above at six years old]</em><br /></span></strong><br />Likened to a romance novel unfolding, my imaginary ideal of love resurrected itself a quarter of a century later with a handful of fantasy relationships. They were rich with sexual gratification (in my own mind). Literally carrying on a romantic conversation with my latest conquest that escalated to sexual encounters. They were fueled by suppressed longings and an inability to communicate my attraction in real life (unleashing imaginary escapades).<br /><br />The last fantasy relationship I had was with Ken, a young George Clooney type who worked at World Gym in Lincoln Center. In time, the disinterest and endless rejection from my object of affection, would eventually slap me back to reality. That is after I realized my lovely wasn't able to wake-up and smell the obsession. The hope of my affections being returned would ultimately go unfulfilled and the heartwrenching discovery became apparent, that once again, I latched onto unrequited love.<br /><br />Ken interest wasn’t in me---but rather a heavily painted, faux bronzed gym tart with implants. I wasn’t dissuaded. To me he was strong and solid like a rock---unmovable. But unknowingly, internally, he was shaking in his Nike’s. His silent strength emerged when he was still, quietly listening to me, and for the first time I felt understood and accepted. I thought during those seven months we had a special, equal, honest connection. Unfortunately, I was so excited by it, (becoming an exuberant puppy with men I’m attracted to) I couldn't contain myself and wanted to share with him every aspect of my life (without peeing on his foot). And in turn he became overwhelmed.<br /><br />I felt that I had so much to offer and searched years for a man that could handle it, that my unexpressed emotions poured into him. The only way for me to stop the overflow was to step-back and give him and myself---space. Only a few days after we stopped talking did I realize that I appeared "needy." Maybe I was needing to be heard by someone familiar who would just listen. To be understood, accepted, and liked for who I was---by a man.<br /><br />But a week later the abandonment set in and I crumbled. In an attempt to cloak my emotional collapse, I grappled with small talk, but Ken was swiftly doing sets, and the more he pretended I was invisible, the more desperate I became. I couldn’t bare the hurricane swirling within and it being Easter weekend---searched for the nearest church.<br /><br />Barely able to contain my psychological and emotional convergence, I scurried down Ninth Avenue and leapt up the stairs of a church at 55th Street. I found myself weeping at the foot of another man----a priest, begging him for clarification. With sorrow spilling from my heart, I cried uncontrollably and in between heaves and puffs of breath asked, “Father, every time I find a man it’s unrequited love---no man ever loves me?” With a halo of candles burning behind him, he replied matter-of-factly, “You have to love yourself first.”<br /><br />Those detached words of wisdom didn’t bring comfort or understanding, and I staggered drunk with sorrow to the M11 bus home (where I would rekindle a late night rendezvous with a Trinitron sized David Letterman).<br /><br />Except, Ken’s rejection was so severe, it sent me to the cold white tiles of my bathroom floor. Symbolically, the bathroom where one cleanses, the primal pain of lovelessness throughout my lifetime surfaced as I sat hunched on the floor in the shadows of a night light. Trying to muffle my howls (from the other tenants), I cradled myself behind the closed door. The portal of pain became uncontrollable sucking me into a trance of one question to God, “Why doesn’t anyone love me?” That mantra reverberated through me as I rocked myself looking desperately for answers.<br /><br />The emotional breaks of past loves (post abusers); Stephen, Michael, George, Marcello, Leonard, and imagined ones; Roy, Blaire and Ken---had ruptured. Looking at pictures of myself in a variety of ages and stages spanning my life---no longer a young, taunt filly. I realized I spent my youth wildly---and wept for the girl I used to be.<br /><br />Is that me? Such a beautiful, young creature. Why didn't I see it then and love her more. Have I lost my youth? I didn't know what it looked like when I had it. Now I see--it was me. How could I have wasted so many years wondering what's wrong with me?<br /><br />Believing I was too fat, too homely, too crooked, too loud. Now I see her as thinner, prettier, and all the crooked lines have disappeared. What a fool I was to spend her so recklessly.<br /><br />While laying in the hammock of my loneliness I cried uncontrollably for quiet some time. I reached for my journal to write what was unearthing. I wrote about the loneliness I felt. It was then I observed my own mind, it wasn't cluttered with the obsessive thoughts of a man. The fantasy obsessions were for many years a distraction for the lack of a man----the void of love in my life. Without the daily pining over a man whom didn't want me, my dejected spirit, negative feelings of self-worth and unattractiveness became intertwined. I was finally alone with the emptiness of my own heart and mind. The more I scribed and reflected, I began to put the pieces of my emotional and psychological puzzle together.<br /><br />I had many fictional relationships begin and end in my mind. Each ending was as traumatic as in real life. Aware of my regrets and mistakes, with each termination learning more about myself. I'd jest with my siblings that I was the only person to have a relationship, and cause infliction upon myself without ever touching or involving the other person. The fantasies protected me from a partner with unsuspecting sexual dysfunction's or diseases, feared pregnancy or the dreaded, awkward confrontation of clearing out your clothes or his (and asking for the return of apartment keys). It was less messy. Only one partner was hurt. One side of the story (literally). And after I woke from my hypnotic obsession, I'd wonder what I ever saw in him anyway.<br /><br />As a writer I found the paper helped clear the dead wood hanging around the attic of my heart and mind. An emotional eruption gained momentum with each memory unleashed and re-lived. In order to write about it I had to re-experience it. During a moment of being stuck in a deep fog of emotional pain from the past. I came to realize while walking through the fire---that somewhere along the way I stopped needing people. The endings of important relationships, the loss, the deaths stacked upon one another until I closed my heart and stopped needing and loving others. In the interim it was safer to fantasize relationships. Ending a fictional relationship was still hurtful for my young heart, but less permanent. The obsession was created as a need to not feel any more pain or loss---I was already filled to capacity and needed to empty.<br /><br />The vessel I searched my lifetime for, to pour my love and adoration into, wasn't a man after all. I mislead my heart in a continual quest for "the one" who could handle such powerful love and devotion. The prose tumbled around my soul while I waited for him. I had so much to share with this creature, where was he?<br /><br />The years of suppressed emotions saddled with the inability to communicate laid dormant no longer. As I hovered over my laptop rewriting the past, the sorrow and pain surfaced. A cluster of tears dripped from my eyes and through them I found my way clearly. All the experiences and words I absorbed until that point imploded onto the page. The paper morphed into my vessel. I poured all the love, sorrow, regrets and heartache into those pages; strong enough to handle the abundance of painful words. In its silence---effortlessly absorbing the overflow of what I could no longer contain. Unconditionally accepting everything I offered.<br /><br />But the more I wrote….the more detached I became from men and relationships---as the work became my lover---the memories and experiences became my muse. The reams of white cotton 24 lb. Strathmore paper parlayed my way to celibacy.<br /><br />Trying to quell my sexual desires the first year of abstinence was the most difficult. The second, somewhat challenging but fulfilled by conjuring up liaisons. Years three to five were satisfied by porno….<br /><br />And what I notice now after living without the warmth of a mans hand, is that the more I’m in my head as a writer---the less I feel my body below. A disconnect emerged. The less physical touch I experience---the less time I invest in (presumed) dysfunctional friendships or relationships, it severs my connection with other humans. I’m not sure if there’s a way of going back. As I still sense the trappings of inadequacies, the older I become, the more beautiful younger women appear (affirming that without enhanced procedures my days are numbered).<br /><br />So instead my thoughts drift off to prayer and God (the ultimate in imaginary figures), imagining a better life, and what I want to accomplish. I ponder how iconic religious figures, whether Jesus, the Pope, Dalai Lama or Buddha dealt with the lack of intimacy that comes with celibacy. In 2007, new Mother Teresa journals surfaced, one inscription read, “….I am told God loves me — and yet the reality of darkness, coldness and emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul. (If I am) The Child of Your Love….you have thrown (me) away as unwanted — unloved. I call, I cling, I want — and there is no one to answer — no one on whom I can cling — no one. — Alone…”<br /><br />Is it harder to walk this life alone, independent, and seemingly self-contained---then committing to the pain and sorrow brought by exploring and loving another? Or will we as humans always crave the love and closeness of another, whether we are celibate or not.<br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;"><em>© COPYRIGHT May 14, 2009, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</em></span></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a></div>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-36976067919163517442010-07-21T14:51:00.018-04:002011-05-08T18:21:14.732-04:00“Loving The Alien: But What If They’re Illegal”<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TEdGPps-q0I/AAAAAAAAARU/dwL3gyXRmcI/s1600/Mexico+Mayan.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496439104935471938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TEdGPps-q0I/AAAAAAAAARU/dwL3gyXRmcI/s400/Mexico+Mayan.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#3366ff;"> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">MEXICO: The Mayan Ruins</span></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#33ccff;"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong></span></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>Part Twenty-Three</strong><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">L</span></strong>iving in an International atmosphere like New York City you are exposed to the United Nations of culture, daily. I welcome and enjoy the diversity of a city that epitomizes a multitude of ethnicities from food, music, clothes and the arts. It’s common place to be saturated in foreign languages, styles and traditions. And when it comes to a lover….a foreigner is always best, even after a few Red Stripes then washing down the sex with a burrito and nachos. To possess a few coveted items across the pond, I’d consider renting my womb to own an Italian Villa. Would likely have no qualms donating my teeth to an orthodontic school for dentures if it meant a red Hermes Birkin bag in return. And with a penchant for foreign motorcars, there’s nothing like driving 120 MPH on the Autobahn with a Chanel loafer underfoot.<br /><br />But with all things foreign, as an American I have less acceptance with illegal aliens who intentionally exploit our legal loopholes and our leniency by fraudulently making a home in our country by producing “anchor babies.” It guarantees their right to citizenship because they have procreated on our soil, and not just one child, but many children, solidifying there claim to not be sent home, therefore anchoring them in the U.S. To me being able to get knocked-up in America doesn’t constitute a reason for entitlement whether government assistance money, food, housing or medical care.<br /><br />Being an American and immigrating to “the land of opportunity” should include a list of expectations, one being to speak English, to respect our environment and not litter or pollute, to not undercut our workforce by accepting our jobs at lower wages [gratis of Clinton’s NAFTA], and refrain from criminal activity. The latter we have enough American made criminals spanning from street drug traffickers, petty thieves, to the upscale robbers of Wall Street. If you want to contribute to our society then be a productive member----since we’re already filled to the brim with psycho’s, scammers, environmental slayers and financial rapists.<br /><br />The issue is with illegal immigrants, not those immigrating here with a heart of hope, a skill, pre-born children, and a basket of good intentions. As many did three and four centuries ago through Ellis Island. My Italian grandparents immigrated here three generations ago, and my Scottish grandfather was sent to New England seven generations ago against his will as a POW. A soldier, Duncan Stewart was one of 2,000 Scot slaves captured after King Charles’ II, Battle of Worcester in 1651. Some not only lost their lives…but lost the right to their homeland. They were sent by ship to the U. S. in the port of Massachusetts. They reincarnated their birthplace by naming the Western Massachusetts towns Worcester, Leominster and Sterling, the namesakes of their abandoned beloved Scottish Highlands.<br /><br />They worked hard, eventually bought up land, cultivated farms and contributed to the American way of life. They infused into their children a respect for the earth, how to care for animals, and be self-sufficient. Even if they were poor, with dirt floors, an out-house in lieu of plumbing using a nearby tree leaf to wipe, and at nighttime wrapping hot bricks in newspaper and placed at the foot of the bed to keep you warm through the night. These humble means built character and built Americans. Without sending home their U.S. wages weekly, they contributed to this economy.<br /><br />No doubt there are still poor American’s living in the United States….but to an outsider looking in, the perception is askew. I’ve met natives from Mexico, Jamaica and Nigeria who believe “all Americans” are rich, and it is that notion that foreigners pack their suitcases and head for our shores----hoping that the preconceived riches will be theirs too. They board boats in the blinding night heading towards Florida where they are met with the law of a “wet foot or dry foot policy.” If they are caught in the water they are deported back to their country, but if their foot touches U.S. soil, they are sent to Crown Detention Center in Miami where they are detained and allowed the opportunity to enter the U.S. legally.<br /><br />In Mexico with meager or no possessions they run with their life towards our boarders for the promise of the American dream. They scale walls, crawl on their bellies, hide in brush or are transported illegally by a carrier. Their network of families and friends already here house and guide them along the way. But why leave the poppy fields of Oz for a land of crusty, old whities who only want your cheap labor and homemade salsa.<br /><br />The Mexican aliens work hard for miniscule pay in all areas where English isn’t necessary. They may bring a tireless work ethic, but they also bring the environmental disrespect they have learned in their own country. The dirty water, lack of sanitation and poor living conditions in Mexico are translated when they arrive in the U. S. as they begin “trashing” our country.<br /><br />Dawn Nita, American born, formerly lived in Papua New Guinea where she spent a year like the natives living off the land. She’s lived in Southern Florida for 15 years and has witnessed a decline in her community. “Living in South Florida is a great cultural experience and I love it here. Over the years I have noticed not only does the influence of the South American cultures impact us in a positive way with the uniqueness of their culture, but if you will, I have also noticed an increase in their “cultural garbage.”<br /><br />She explains, “As these cultures spread-out over south Florida up from Miami so has the amount of litter that lines the sides of the highways, roads, and parking lots. It has increased significantly even in the communities where I do now, and have lived. When I walk my dog I see fast food bags, bottles, cans and even household items that are thrown without a second thought out of car windows or as people walk down the street.”<br /><br />“Seeing this brings me back to the days growing up in America and the education and habits that were instilled in us as children.” Nita vividly remembers the PSA’s, “Don’t Be A Litterbug,” “Give a Hoot---Don’t Pollute,” to a single tear rolling down the cheek of an American Indian who witnesses our carelessness with mother nature, as a bag of fast food trash is thrown at his feet. As well as the street signs that started appearing warning of fines for littering. “These messages were ingrained into my generation resulting in as adults we are conscious of recycling and not littering.”<br /><br />“Now that there has been an influx of Third World immigrants---they haven’t learned the respect of what it means to live here with our standards of living. The cultures that now populate our towns and cities didn’t have the same influence to “Keep American Clean.” They find it natural to throw their trash anywhere they please, even if the garbage can is only a few feet away. It saddens me to see this, and I witness it every day. Leaving their waste for someone else like myself to collect and properly discard,” Nita expressed. “I consider myself a keeper of the planet, but without fail the next day more trash has replaced what was removed.”<br /><br />“It would serve America well if we made an effort to re-run the PSA’s in many languages teaching our new residents and citizens the same respect we were taught growing up in this beautiful land of America,” she ended.<br /><br />Those striking images and messages at a young age impresses upon us to care for our environment by not polluting our air or littering our water, and land. But those public messages aren’t developed nor brought with those illegal Third World aliens. Without that initial respect for the land, sea and air, their ignorance smacks us everyday as we contend with their abuse.<br /><br />Strewn plastic water bottles, broken glass beer bottles are the gifts from our new “grateful” residents, who with their thoughtlessness have made America truly feel like home. By disposing of their refuse in the streets, beaches and parks, maybe intentionally out of defiance, in retribution for low wages and for the U. S. not being all they’d expected---turning our environment into theirs. As we become the minority in our own land with bed bugs crawling under our covers, garbage lodged in between the daffodils, and where the McDonalds French fries and waxed paper are a seagulls delight, while pigeon’s peck in a frenzy at the shiny glass soaked pavement---we have been stamped with the escalating appearance of a Third-World.<br /><br />So if Arizona believes the many years of illegal Mexican infiltration and cultural garbage has crippled their quality of life---then it’s our way or the highway, and let them enter legally and respectfully---learning the rules of the land and what it takes to actually “be” an American.<br /><br />But what if we are the intruders of their land? Gary Frank, an American and twenty-year resident of Los Angeles admits the Mexican’s do the work Californian’s won’t do, but we are the aliens. “Essentially, we [American’s] stole the land from the Mexican’s like we did to the Indians. Originally back in the 1600 to 1800’s California, Arizona, New Mexico and the boarder of Texas were all part of Mexico. They are just taking back what is rightfully theirs.”<br /><br />The Mexican/American wars of those era’s were depicted as a “murderous plunder” only benefiting the U. S. The bloodbath feuds over the centuries in Europe, the Middle East and Asia have been steeped in religious conflict between Christians, Jews, Muslims, Catholic and Protestants, but here in the U. S. our acts of violence, oppression and slavery have taken on a different tone, one of skin color, beginning with the American Indian, then Mexican and Blacks. During our history religion had less to do with our prejudice---but if you were darker than white and owned some land, particularly mineral rich land with natural resources---we took pride in our need to dominate, control, and without conscience take anything you had of value, especially if you were of a darker pigment.<br /><br />“I find racism deplorable,” Frank underlines. “But each State has its right to do as they please...after all we were not founded as a democracy but Republic for and by the People. This being said...California has many, many lovely Mexican National legal and illegal residents.”<br /><br />But Frank wonders if we grant them citizenship does it solve the problem? “Why are there no Jobs in Mexico…surely the Gulf Disaster can use some day laborers to clean up for the next 30 years.”<br /><br />“Living in L.A. we also have general overpopulation with gang and drug issues, including homelessness and destitute people of all races to contend with---so it’s far from the “California Dreamin” fame of the 60's.” Frank’s personal concern about immigration is the crime. “People who reside on Arizona's border have a right to protect themselves and property. There are the safety issues from the have not's robbing the haves which resulted in L.A. and San Diego putting bars on many home windows. Because of the drug trade helicopters hover above all neighborhoods at all hours, and shootings occur at random restaurants.”<br /><br />“Compounded by our State crying broke to provide social services, there is much work to be done in America,” he concludes. “We were founded on caring for the huddled masses yearning for freedom...now there are so many people our freedoms are dissolving into history one by one.”<br /><br />If the Mexican people want to leave the home in which they grew up in and migrate to the land that was once theirs, a place where the new American owners have painstakingly developed and beautified over the centuries transforming it into the oasis they sought. Then they should respect the country we have built and partake in making it even better by contributing environmentally and economically, by not sending their resources back to a country that has long ago self-destructed, with the inability to accommodate their basic needs, and failed to become the Eden in which they hoped.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">© COPYRIGHT 2010, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em></strong> </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." height="60" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" border="0" /></a> </p></div>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-74206834308095713332010-05-15T15:11:00.001-04:002010-06-20T15:56:00.410-04:00“DIVORCE: Reality Style”<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TB5rnAiwhAI/AAAAAAAAARE/UnOp3H6dhv0/s1600/%2322+Brooke+Shields+2007+C++MJ+Allmaras.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 233px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 338px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484939714088698882" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TB5rnAiwhAI/AAAAAAAAARE/UnOp3H6dhv0/s400/%2322+Brooke+Shields+2007+C++MJ+Allmaras.jpg" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Part Twenty-Two</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">S</span></strong>ince the consumption of Reality TV in 2000, a genre that at times is forgettable, America’s fascination is quenched by the dirty laundry and beatification of the average couple next door---all dressed in professional make-up, designer clothes and lights. They may be anointed celebrities because of their media exposure and real-life drama----but they don’t have the staying power and public adoration of the Hollywood made television or film star’s that have, or will become, legends in the entertainment industry for not only their natural glamour, but gift of craft. <strong><em><span style="color:#ff6666;">[Unrelated to Divorce or Reality TV are two Hollywood stars pictured herein, the multi talented since a mere babe, Brooke Shields, and newcomer Mandy Moore.] </span><br /></em></strong><br />Lasting notoriety, celebrity and stardom is earned, not donned like a badge on a Girl Scout uniform. And maybe that’s the culprit why so many of the reality show couples, who started out on the small screen in a loving marriage---become hostile and combative with one another, ultimately ending in divorce. The final act is punishment by The God’s for selling out on something sacred, pure and honest---the love and partnership of another---in exchange for money and [fleeting] fame.<br /><br />With the exception of the already famous Celeb’s who signed on for reality shows and eventually settled in divorce court upon wrapping their series: “Being Bobby Brown” with rapper Bobby Brown and iconic songstress Whitney Houston, “Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica” with popster Jessica Simpson and boy band husband Nick Lachey, “Hogan Knows Best” with pro wrestler Hulk Hogan and stay at home bombshell mom, Linda, “The Osbourne’s” with metal head banger Ozzy Osbourne and wife turned reality judge, Sharon.<br /><br />Others who attained infamy and termination of marriage; “The Real Housewives of New York” [Countess once removed] LuAnn and extra marital affair European hubby, Count Alex de Lesseps, “John & Kate Plus Eight” with [another double dipper] John and Kate Gosselin, and as of late “Housewives of Orange County” Tamra and controlling but faithful spouse, Simon Barney.<br /><br />The non-performer and ordinary reality Mom, Kate Gosselin depicted just how painful it is to watch a non-professional in a professional role, as in “Dancing With The Stars.” Her Frankenstein dance steps and inability to “turn on” that extroverted aspect of her personality who craves the camera lights and applause---shows the stark contrast of real actors/celebrity’s capability to effortlessly call on the performer within to entertain.<br /><br />If we asked Dr. Drew Pinsky, the celebrity psychotherapist with his own VH1 reality show that addresses celebrity drug addiction “Celebrity Rehab.” These married couples who’ve acquired immediate false stardom through a reality show, by putting each argument and neurosis under the magnification of a camera lense, eventually exposing themselves to public scrutiny. How does that “celebrity” effect their relationship?<br /><br />Why does marriage become more fragile when public scrutiny is thrown n the mix? After seeing the inner-workings of the marriage on television---how does seeing oneself 360 degrees effect who we are? And that self-awareness and observations of the spouse is so severe it’s capable of breaking a committed relationship?<br /><br />Is it because they are able to witness for themselves their own shortcomings, or their partners flaws---their differences too painfully apparent when seen on television. With a focus so intense it replicates an experiment, a case study in ones home, who’s subjects have gone awry. Was the relationship doomed from the start?<br /><br />Since the veil of ignorance was lifted on their own and their partners behaviors, as well as them as a unit, then is the reality check of a divorce the only recourse---as they can’t go back to who they once were---and now that the conflicts and differences have surfaced, are they too apparent to ignore, too great to work on, too ill matched to continue a relationship?<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TB5sPwqkJuI/AAAAAAAAARM/LhnvG6dgxP0/s1600/%2322+Mandy+Moore+C+2007+MJ+Allmaras.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 316px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 395px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484940414201112290" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/TB5sPwqkJuI/AAAAAAAAARM/LhnvG6dgxP0/s400/%2322+Mandy+Moore+C+2007+MJ+Allmaras.jpg" /></a>Because reality show couples are foreign to celebrity and unaware how detrimental it can be to their privacy. They make the grave mistake of taking “the show on the road.” Whereas celebrity that has been achieved and warranted through years of hard work and success from the craft of an actor whether television or film---they are familiar with the pitfalls of fame and its attempt to snake itself into personal aspects of their private life and relationships, making them more capable of maintaining boundaries and savvy at side stepping [if desired] journalists and paparazzi.<br /><br />So without having the experience of the media, as an accredited actor does, and allowing the world into your marriage, and being seduced by, and ill-prepared to handle all the instant trappings of the faux TV land fame. Than it has the ability of contaminating your relationship.<br /><br />It is that decade or longer learning curve of show-biz steps one acquires being a professional in the entertainment industry before the taste of celebrity ever kisses their lips. And it is that preparation that reality show marriages are devoid of and the reason for the dissolution of their union.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong><em>COPYRIGHT 2010, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</em></strong><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-28960328033361298362010-04-12T16:13:00.009-04:002010-06-20T15:57:18.247-04:00"The Flooding: Is the Moon’s Feud with NASA”<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S5wbYfYntGI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/FLQPZFiGqkM/s1600-h/The+NY+Full+Moon+7-20-05+stuart.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 289px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448259756767032418" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S5wbYfYntGI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/FLQPZFiGqkM/s400/The+NY+Full+Moon+7-20-05+stuart.jpg" /></a><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span><br />Part Twenty-One</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span></strong>n February NASA came forward, not to discuss their erroneous decision to lob a Centaur rocket at the moon on October 9, 2009---but to share their probe into ice on Saturn. In October, in search of water, the mega ton missile blasted a hole in the moons lunar surface at twice the speed of a bullet.</div><div><br />Now I don’t know who else isn’t paying attention, but their hair-brain idea to attack the moon has caused a weather calamity on earth. Within one week after their mission of “boring a hole in the moon looking for water,” snow fell on New Jersey---and it wasn’t even Halloween yet.<br /><br />Since then no officials have stepped forward with the findings that what they have done, is alter the moons natural rhythms in association with water i.e. the tides umm.....floods. I believe NASA is to blame for the enormous changes we've seen with flooding throughout the U. S. since their test last fall. They have downplayed their moon-water venture by stating the moon can handle their assault, adding it was infitessimal in the grand scheme of outer space explosions.<br /><br />If the moon was able to handle her timing being "off" by the manipulation of an unnatural collision of a man-made weapon on her surface. Then why has the water NASA was searching for on the moon, all of a sudden fallen to earth 100 fold in the form of snow or rain? And in behemoth proportions.<br /><br />But the U.S. isn’t the only obnoxious super power to challenge the ball of light in the nights sky, as Japan’s Kaguya impacters collided with the moon in June 2009 seeking aqua. And <em>Hello Kitty</em>---the tit for tat for that crash---has impacted Toyota worldwide.<br /><br />The evidence of NASA’s nonsensical actions is record high snowfalls and floods in areas that don’t normally experience snow i.e. Texas. Thus far, for the U. S. 1,180 snowfall records have been broken across 49 of the 50 states. Even in Washington, D.C. where Mother Nature’s offenders reside at NASA Headquarters, they’ve been pummeled with 54.9 inches this winter breaking their 1898 record.<br /><br />Philadelphia admitted they haven’t seen this much snow in 14 years at 65.5 inches in one winter. This season has surpassed that number by five inches----and it’s still snowing here in NYC as I pen this.<br /><br />The sideway falling snow on Thursday caused such havoc in New York City that a 42 year old-man was killed when walking through Central Park when a snow laden tree toppled onto him. Just strolling through the park---is like the NY lottery of death, ‘hey’ you never know.’ Throughout the city trees were bending, breaking and being uprooted by the maddening storm. In a city that’s withstood the raping by Wall St., the westward angle of the rapidly falling-frozen-white-flakes---caused the Big Apple to buckle under the strain of yet another, snowy concrete landscape.<br /><br />The heck with El Niño---it’s more like the El’ Ninny’s at NASA for believing they can interfere with piercing the moon with a fuel soaked, school bus sized titanium rocket, and not expect her wrath and retribution for searching her private crevices for water. It is arrogant, egotistical and self-indulgent---and mostly unnecessary since we have an abundance of water here---that the earth has provided <em>for free</em>. Oh yes, but it needs care and cleaning-up after the centuries of corporate exploitation and industry abuse---so I guess it’s more economical and easier to search for clean water on a planet suspended in space light miles away.<br /><br />No matter how minor they claim the assault of the moon was---it is apparent the slightest interference in its surface has most certainly affected its role in regulating not only the oceans ebb and flow throughout the earth, but its precipitation; whether rain, snow, sleet or hail.<br /><br />When will the “powers that be” realize that Mother Nature is fragile and wields more power than any nuclear weapon, any money printer at the Federal Reserve, any White House Presidential seat, or any Deregulation to the laws of the moon, the earth….and with one fell swoop she can cause a catastrophe in one fragment of a country called Haiti, send in waves to wash away people on a California beach, or bury us in 70 feet of snow. This extreme weather is a mere smack in the face since with one backhand, she can slap us into extinction, and will ultimately have the last word….<em>you don’t mess with Mother Nature.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong><em>COPYRIGHT February 2010, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</em></strong></span><br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a> </div>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-3600276648143345942010-03-12T15:50:00.008-05:002010-03-13T17:55:52.035-05:00“Her Irish Eyes Are Smilin’ ”<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S5qrJJjJYkI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/l6Mo3qYUi-M/s1600-h/%233+Mum+.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 221px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 232px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447854872928543298" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S5qrJJjJYkI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/l6Mo3qYUi-M/s400/%233+Mum+.jpg" /></a><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span></strong></div><br /><div></div><div></div><div align="center"><br />Now I know why Mum used to sit in the yard watching us play,<br />Because she knew time was slowly slipping away.<br />Now that I’m older---<br />Life without her has grown colder.<br /><br />My yearn to leave her to explore the world,<br />Brought me right back with tales of my journey and trinkets of foreign pearls.<br />She’d listen captivated by the stories from distant shores---<br />Her eyes would widen so she could drink in more.<br /><br />But now she’s gone, no longer sitting and watching us from home,<br />Her face, her smile, her laugh, her love---<br />Now hangs suspended from the heavens above.<br /><br />Her words, her gaze---<br />From the days <em><strong>we </strong></em>watched <em><strong>her</strong></em>…..as we played,<br />Brings me back to the time I was born---<br />And the loving clutch of a young, mothers arm.<br />She has left this earth far too soon---<br />Now I sit and watch her sing and dance, ‘round the moon.<br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33cc00;">Patricia T. Stuart 28 July 28 ~ 12 March 02</span></strong> </div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">Copyright March 2010 R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em></strong> </div><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-64698839286111765302010-02-13T16:25:00.011-05:002010-02-13T17:19:15.064-05:00“Bill Gates and The Number 8”<div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccNYu7V2I/AAAAAAAAAQU/Fxjq_eSQ4TA/s1600-h/%23A+-+145448.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 335px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 288px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437846091376318306" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccNYu7V2I/AAAAAAAAAQU/Fxjq_eSQ4TA/s400/%23A+-+145448.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><em><strong>images provided by The NewsMarket/Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation</strong></em><br /></span></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong></div><p><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span><br />Part Twenty</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span></strong>n November, CNBC’s program <em>BIOGRAPHY </em>highlighted gazzilionaires Bill Gates and Warren Buffett. William H. III has become the official gate to the buffet of money left behind by his partner in wealth, equally as lucky, rabbits foot up the wazoo, four leaf clover ingrained in the palm of his hand---Warren. So selfless are these two magical moneymen….that they can’t bare to leave any of it to their children [well not really any dough…just pittance compared to their amassed wealth], and are donating the majority to their beloved charities.<br /><br /></p><p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccNvxtxRI/AAAAAAAAAQc/pnTXfVr2oqw/s1600-h/%23B+-++41910.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 264px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437846097562027282" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccNvxtxRI/AAAAAAAAAQc/pnTXfVr2oqw/s400/%23B+-++41910.jpg" /></a><br />Was it simply luck of the draw in the sperm bank of life when these two men where conceived---or will the trio of Gates offspring be just as gifted in ideas made of green----as is their royal-flush holding papa. Either way I had hoped by watching the televised special on the life of Gates…that maybe somehow the divine universe would send a little-Buddha-belly-rubbing my way. But it’s been three months now and I’m still a pauper---the only green thing coming my way is chlorine-bleached hair and mold.<br /><br />So I’ll press on in my fascination with his life story and explore the coincidences of the number eight that surfaced.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccN8XaU_I/AAAAAAAAAQk/U03fX_G7cwg/s1600-h/%23C+-+147614.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 278px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 280px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437846100941362162" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccN8XaU_I/AAAAAAAAAQk/U03fX_G7cwg/s400/%23C+-+147614.jpg" /></a><br />William H. Gates: the letter H is the <strong>8th</strong> letter of the alphabet<br /><br />Born: October 2<strong>8</strong>, 1955<br /><br />On his SAT’s math test he scored: <strong>8</strong>00<br /><br />His first computer model: Altair <strong>88</strong>00<br /><br />Early on he merged his Altair with a company in New Mexico: address <strong>8</strong>19 Two Park Central Tower<br /><br />His business relationship ended in N. M and he moved to Seattle: in 197<strong>8</strong><br /><br />The CEO of IBM wanted his operating system for a P. C.: in 19<strong>8</strong>0<br /><br />Gates’ revenue was up and his employee’s increased from: 197<strong>8</strong> to 19<strong>8</strong>1<br /><br />Microsoft was used throughout the world: by 19<strong>8</strong>3<br /><br />His partner Paul Allen was diagnosed with an illness: at age 2<strong>8 </strong><br /><br />Gates’ face graced the cover of Time Magazine: in 19<strong>8</strong>4<br /><br />Windows Software was debuted in Apple: in 19<strong>8</strong>6<br /><br />Gates took the company public: in 19<strong>8</strong>6<br /><br />Future wife and staffer Melinda French: was 2<strong>8 </strong>when they met<br /><br />Her birthday: in August /<strong> 8th </strong>month<br /><br />The senate charged Microsoft with a monopoly pursuing an antitrust trail: in 199<strong>8</strong><br /><br />Bill Gates left Microsoft to work full time at their Gates Foundation: in 200<strong>8</strong><br /><br />Since the recent release of Microsoft 7.0: next version is <strong>8</strong>.0<br /><br />In 2013: Bill will be 5<strong>8</strong> years old, and maybe he’ll release Microsoft <strong>8.</strong>0<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccODf2VHI/AAAAAAAAAQs/b4fwjAIIFfo/s1600-h/%23D+-++62943.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 387px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437846102855799922" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S3ccODf2VHI/AAAAAAAAAQs/b4fwjAIIFfo/s400/%23D+-++62943.jpg" /></a><br /><strong>In numerology, the Tarot version, the number eight represents <em>JUSTICE.</em> Its attributes, similar to his, follow.</strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Number 8:</em></strong> You are inspiring, result-oriented, powerful, ambitious, visionary, generous, perseverant, forgiving, broad-minded, money-conscious and self-disciplined. You have the potential for enormous success and the possibility to accumulate great wealth. You are also a good judge of character a natural leader and a survivor.<br /><br /><strong><em>Career choices:</em></strong><br />Manager, investor, entrepreneur, business person, scientist, politician, financial expert, real estate, politician, athlete.<br /><br /><strong><em>Weaknesses:</em></strong> Stubborn, intolerant, impatient, stressed, materialistic, impatient with people, arrogant and reckless. You have the power to accumulate great wealth, but you also susceptible to loosing everything. You are a gambler, you have a strong desire for luxuries and you can fall for corruption. You have to find a balance between the spiritual and the material world. Learn to use your power for benefit of mankind.<br /><br /><em>And that he has…… </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">COPYRIGHT 2010, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></strong> </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></p><p></em><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a> </p>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-41939595847268269162010-01-04T14:47:00.019-05:002010-01-04T16:09:29.555-05:00“The Furry Paws of God”<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JJUt6807I/AAAAAAAAAPU/B33hpEohW6E/s1600-h/%2319A+Fran+Sun.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 265px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422977521580561330" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JJUt6807I/AAAAAAAAAPU/B33hpEohW6E/s400/%2319A+Fran+Sun.jpg" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART</span><br />Part Nineteen</strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">W</span></strong>hen my sister <span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;"><strong><em>[above with my dog Sunday]</em></strong><span style="color:#000000;">,</span></span><span style="color:#000000;"> </span>Fran E. Stuart transferred from the Navy <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">[below]</span></em></strong> to the Army in 2001 she hadn’t know that within months she’d be deployed to Iraq in 2003. As an Army Chaplain Captain on the heels of a war with Iraq she was deployed from Ft. Campbell, Ky. Enroute to Baghdad with the rest of the 101st Airborne battalion in a C130 Military Aircraft. Unaware by March 2006, she would be diagnosed with a rare Stage IV Dysgerminoma Cancer two years post her tour in Iraq.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JS0zxujPI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Lyis54W9oqk/s1600-h/%2319+Navy+franny.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422987968512953586" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JS0zxujPI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Lyis54W9oqk/s400/%2319+Navy+franny.jpg" /></a>In the year while Fran was stationed in Mosul, Iraq, within six months she built for her battalion the first ever 101st Airborne Army library, her Colonel named it “Camp Performance.” Aiding her with donations from The New York Public Library, Penguin Putnam Books, Blockbuster and others packed the shelves with religious works, collections of books, music and movies. The library was to serve as a recreation center, a place where soldiers could gather hope, and occupy their minds with something other than war.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JQx2Uu3gI/AAAAAAAAAP0/2O_DYinu32w/s1600-h/%2319+Iraq+monistery.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422985718633782786" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JQx2Uu3gI/AAAAAAAAAP0/2O_DYinu32w/s400/%2319+Iraq+monistery.jpg" /></a>Besides her daily prayer services and Sunday worships that accommodated all denominations and ethnic faiths<span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;"><em><strong> [above monistary Iraq]</strong></em><span style="color:#000000;">,</span></span><span style="color:#000000;"> </span>Fran also created a Commitment Ceremony for the married soldiers to re-strengthen their bond to the spouses back home. While other soldiers she took on field trips to the sacred sites of mosques built in the desert centuries ago. Visiting the holy lands only seen by the Iraqi's themselves---until now.<br /><br />Fran’s makeshift office was in an abandoned Iraqi Army Officers Base and became the center of her mission. Surrounded by protective talismans; some sent by family, others she brought. The religious artifacts, angels and saints rested on her desk, clung to the walls, hung around her neck and laid in her pockets. They were constant reminders that God was present and all would be well. Amidst the heat, gun blats, and waves of sand storms, she would continue to care for the soldiers and press on.<br /><br />Fran often wondered if she’d escape the war without damage---besides the fear of her safety and psychological impact of the noise---she did. Except two years post Iraq, she was deployed to Germany for three years where she would undergo hostility from several civilian co-workers. The daily strife caused so much angst and discontent Fran knew she couldn’t cope there the three year term. Nearing the end of the first year she began praying to God, begging him, to somehow get her out of there and back home to the United States closer to her five siblings. And unknowingly---God heard every word. Her wishes were fulfilled---and prayers granted. In March 2006, at 40 years-old Fran was diagnosed with stage IV Ovarian cancer, later re-diagnosed to Dysgerminoma, a rare aggressive Germ Cell Cancer. She was instructed to get her affairs in order--for she--was going home.<br /><br />The Army made arrangements to medEvac her to Walter Reed Army Medical Center [WRAMC] in D. C. Fran telephoned me in NY from Germany to tell me her worst fears. Whaling the results into my ear, she cried out, “I'm only 40 years-old, I’m too young to meet my maker. I'll be 41 on Wednesday. I need more memories. I don't have enough yet,” she bawled in horror. I could only weep, “I'm sorry honey, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Ironically, it was almost three years to the day since she was first deployed to Iraq.<br /><br />How could a young woman who had held the hands of wounded soldiers, comforted the spouses of soldiers killed in a cross fire, cradled babies dying of Leukemia and give the last rights to those in their final days….be herself on the other side of the bed? And be at war with the Cancer raging within. I asked myself, “Why her?” And then thought, “Why not her?” Fran said she asked herself, “Why me?” A voice repeated, “Why not me?” We both had unknowingly heard the same answer.<br /><br />The day before Fran’s 41st birthday, March 14th, the medEvac originating in Germany laden with 30 plus soldiers from Iraq, all in need of medical attention in the U.S., headed for D.C. and Andrews Airforce Base. They carried her in a stretcher across the tarmac to the plane, she heard music blaring from the cockpit, the Rolling Stones song, Beast of Burden. The tears began to slide down the sides of her temples as she knew she was finally going home to see her family, but I didn't expect this way. The song reminded her of me, I used to sing it when we were younger. Fran loves music and has always had a special song for each of her family members.<br /><br />A different person was emerging, one who shared her secrets, her joys, her pains. The Cancer was unveiling her Soul, the sorrow was opening her heart.<br /><br />On St. Patrick’s Day 2006 Fran was wheeled into the WRAMC O.R. where she gave birth to a Volleyball size tumor that grew in my belly. And later, the eventual loss of her creative organs, as well as her red locques of hair. Conjoined would be the loss of faith and hope in God, as she asked why he would give her Cancer, as she was doing his work.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JXyDOXPrI/AAAAAAAAAQM/5Y4IZVFCKRU/s1600-h/%2319+Kitty.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 318px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422993418678124210" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JXyDOXPrI/AAAAAAAAAQM/5Y4IZVFCKRU/s400/%2319+Kitty.jpg" /></a>Months before the Cancer diagnosis she remembered envisioning a white, short haired kitty with piercing green eyes sitting on her belly. She whispered to me, “Its paws stretched out grabbing lightly at my chest. I’d stroke it with both hands and it would purr. It made me feel good when I’d see it.” Being a cat lover—I told her it was a guardian angel.<br /><br />After six months and 30 rounds of chemo, the loss of who she was brought with it a fear of the future and an abandonment of hope. The family watched their baby sister revert to an infant, at the same time intertwine with the fragility and sadness of an old woman. Through the carving away of self through surgeries, unable to recognize herself anymore and finding more in common with a monster---produced a betrayal of her body as it had relinquished her life force to Cancer. The violation by another’s hands inside of your sacred body, splitting your armor apart and dissecting deep into your soul…..as they attempt to remold what God himself created, and in the process lifting the veil of boundaries of the sacred self, marred by the spoils of war.<br /><br />We heard the echoes of her silent cries and inner torment as Cancer spread itself through the entire family, changing the core of who we were, as we try to balance between life and death, health and sickness, love and loss. The anger penetrates her dreams and dissolves her thirst for life as it becomes too arduous to live…and death is just a slip away.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JNiG1515I/AAAAAAAAAPs/HE4tSb13KMk/s1600-h/%2319B+Sunday+coat-bootie+12-27-06+sunday.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 265px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422982149655091090" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JNiG1515I/AAAAAAAAAPs/HE4tSb13KMk/s400/%2319B+Sunday+coat-bootie+12-27-06+sunday.JPG" /></a>In September 2006, for two weeks in between treatments as a way of revitalizing her, I picked Fran up at WRAMC and brought her home with me to New York. While visiting, a four-year-old male nurse appeared draped in Poodle fur, his name was Sunday. Never experiencing the sight of a bald human, nor the scent of Cancer, he steadfastly stayed by Fran’s side forfeiting his daily walks, food and water for days on end. His gaze affixed upon her, his small furry body glued to the calf of her leg. He wasn’t aware his patient was of rank, a Captain, and a higharchy of the cloth, a Chaplain. All he knew was that he must stay with her every move.<br /><br />Sunday became entranced with his mission to care and bring comfort. And although Sunday was naturally a timid pup---he became a Dingo. Like a mother protecting a newborn, he turned on his owner---me. I stayed away, as he became her nurse. As she leapt from the couch to the bathroom to vomit he was by my side, head cocked as this strange odor spewed from her mouth. Fran became his master, as he listened to her every command. In turn, I became invisible.<br /><br />Since I couldn’t get near him without him showing his teeth, daily Fran would clip the leash to his collar so that I could drag him off the bed and out of the house to urinate. As I tugged him towards the door, he resisted and barked in protest as if to say, “Don’t move! Don’t get up. I’m being taken away. But I’ll be back!”<br /><br />Once outside he’d scamper down the stairs of the deck to the backyard, and urgently go to the bathroom next to the last step. Without thought of me---he’d race back to scratch and bark at the glass door, notifying Fran he was coming back into the house. I’d unclip him from the leash and he’d dash to the bedroom and jump onto the bed to inspect his patient; sniff her mouth, push the pajama leg up with the tip of his nose and lick the skin of her calf. He insisted she keep the skin of her legs bare at all times, besides cleaning her legs, he’d rest his head on Fran’s shin, to detect any movement or change in body odor. A possible signal to him she was in distress.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JMisr7XBI/AAAAAAAAAPk/prSV1mgEF0s/s1600-h/%2319C+Sunday+bed.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 265px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422981060302167058" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JMisr7XBI/AAAAAAAAAPk/prSV1mgEF0s/s400/%2319C+Sunday+bed.JPG" /></a>Determined to nourish him, after he shadowed her to the bathroom she quickly shut the bedroom door so that I could attempt to feed him. He scratched at the wooden door, while I laid the plate down next to him. Without taking his eyes off the door he realized how hungry he was---and in rapid speed scoffed a few bites down. In between chews he’d pick up his head to listen for movement in the room and make sure the door didn’t open. Hesitantly focusing on the food, jerking his body back to the door I could see his apprehension as he tried to do two things at once. He was caught between guarding the door and eating as fast as possible. Normally a picky eater---now within minutes he was done. I opened the door and back he went to inspect his patient, canvassing her entire body with his eyes and nose before finally laying at her feet.<br /><br />I’d never seen such behavior in him. And didn’t want to interfere with what he was doing---but knew whatever it was it was important to him, and it brought comfort to Fran and waves of pleasure and laughter, as this strange creature would sacrifice, his food, water, sleep and walks---to tend to her. The ultimate sacrifice of God – Dog.<br /><br />It was time to return to WRAMC and Sunday would head off to N. H. for a month. I would drive Fran back to D. C. and care for her through the final five rounds of Chemo and exploratory surgery. The darkness of the womb was calling her home, and at the same time her heart was beating stronger towards the light, towards the love cradling her back to health. The strings of her memories, the melody to her songs awakened the eye of hope, and courage was born. The goodwill and faith of others pulled her back into life as she turned a corner onto a different path. The wheel no longer in her hands, she proceeded with caution and edging herself out of the tunnel of fear, towards the rebirth of the woman she has become.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JLnW1WITI/AAAAAAAAAPc/BrDGpOArR_4/s1600-h/%2319D+Sunday+xmas.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 265px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422980040823808306" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JLnW1WITI/AAAAAAAAAPc/BrDGpOArR_4/s400/%2319D+Sunday+xmas.jpg" /></a>By November 2006, after 35 rounds of Chemo, and three surgeries, Fran was deemed in clinical remission. The sun returned to nourish her sprouting red locks and sparked the wisdom beaming from her eyes. As she shed the infant; the innocence no longer paints her face. And shrugged off the spine of an old woman as she walked into the future---holding the hand---of hope. The death sentence is lifted, the words remission propel her back into life as she’s once again, <em>Fit for Duty</em>.<br /><br />God is omni present, taking Fran’s hand and walking her back to the soldiers returning from war---like her. With conviction in tact, she dons her Army uniform---black and gold crosses on her lapel, and once again, Fran the Chaplain returns to the path of comforting the military men and woman---with the furry paws of God.<br /><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">Copyright August 2007, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;"></span></em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-34450365882124961502009-12-24T14:22:00.010-05:002010-01-04T15:58:12.378-05:00“Where Christmas Lives”<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JUoLlQ0ZI/AAAAAAAAAQE/HTu02XG-aZ0/s1600-h/%2318+Bella+Woodstock+bella.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 265px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422989950588080530" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/S0JUoLlQ0ZI/AAAAAAAAAQE/HTu02XG-aZ0/s400/%2318+Bella+Woodstock+bella.JPG" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">By R. B. STUART<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Part Eighteen</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;"><em>[Woodstock, N.Y. Christmas 2006: Bella cozy by fire]</em></span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">R</span></strong>ecently I spoke to the woman who cuts my hair about Christmas. She has three young children under 9 years of age and told me they're each allowed ten gifts a piece. "TEN!" I exclaimed, "Isn't that a lot?" She thought it was a fair amount to show her children how much she loved and cared for them.<br /><br />While driving in N.H. I was listening to WZID radio station. The DJ spoke about the delight she felt while watching a father walk his three toddlers through the Mall of NH. Their sparkling young eyes attempting to devour everything in sight. The colorful world of plastic toys enthralling them like the Kiddie Menu at McDonalds. Wanting everything they see---but after giving it to them---not wanting it at all.<br /><br />What their eager hearts and captivating eyes pretend to ferociously desire---is in fact a misrepresentation of their actual needs. Their unquenchable appetite wasn't for toys after all. It was for the warm, loving and adoring eyes of their mother---the strong but gentle approving hand of their father. That is what evolves their little world of love; a commodity readily available, but sometimes forgotten.<br /><br />During their childhood an adult recalls the festively wrapped gifts stacked under a fra- grant, meticulously decorated, prickly green tree. But only one toy, if any at all, remains tucked away in your mind. None---in the confines of your heart. Within those walls reside the spirit of love and sentimental memory, made from the threads only a human connection can bring.<br /><br />The simple yet all consuming love bond between a parent and child---is forever held, within the Spirit of Christmas past and present for no cost at all. And its wrapping isn't one of paper; it's of a warm embrace, a sweet kiss on the cheek, a tender glance, a hand swept across your mane, a joyous laugh pealing from your loved one's lips. Right now no one understands that more than the 8,000 disjointed families that have had to let go of their loved ones for a 6 month deployment to Iraq---to fight in a misguided war. And to those especially, who have lost their beloved beauties---much too soon---to the blue heavens above.<br /><br />Those are non-tangible things impossible to grasp---like a perfect white sliver of snow floating aimlessly from the sky, evaporating from the lash of your eye. Or the initial waft of a freshly cut Blue Spruce Christmas tree catapulting you to drink it, with a slow deep breath. And the warm excitement fluttering within when we go home for the holidays, when we open the front door to see our beloved mothers face aglow. That is what weaves our Spirits together---that's where Christmas lives---wrapped in the packaging of our heart.<br /><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">Copyright December 2004, R. B. STUART. All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-82498573378217185542009-11-17T20:47:00.001-05:002015-12-10T14:29:18.003-05:00“Galloping Through Life with Filmmaker Barry Sonnenfeld”<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/Syrs9Ps2gGI/AAAAAAAAAO8/rOdKfdyIJrM/s1600-h/%2317+Barry+Sonnenfeld+BS.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416402038797271138" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/Syrs9Ps2gGI/AAAAAAAAAO8/rOdKfdyIJrM/s400/%2317+Barry+Sonnenfeld+BS.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">By R. B. STUART </span></strong><br />
<strong>Part Seventeen </strong><br />
<em><span style="color: red; font-size: 85%;"><strong>[original interview May 23, 2007]</strong></span></em><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">F</span></strong>ilmmaker Barry Sonnenfeld, a New York City native and East Hampton/Amagansett resident [pictured above in trademark cowboy hat] began his career in the mid 1980’s as a cinematographer. Some of the award winning films he’s eyed the lens for; <em>BIG </em>the heartfelt comedy that catapulted Tom Hanks to film stardom, <em>When Harry Met Sally</em> the timeless romantic comedy with Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal and <em>Misery </em>the Stephen King nightmare brought to life with Kathy Bates and James Caan.<br />
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In the late 80’s his ability to paint a picture with the lens caught the eye of the dynamic duo, the Coen Brothers and Sonnenfeld signed on to film <em>Raising Arizona</em> with Nicholas Cage and the gangster film <em>Millers Crossing</em> with fedora wearing Gabriel Byrne, and John Tuturro. By the early 90’s he directed his first film with Angelica Huston and the late Raul Julia in <em>The Addams</em> <em>Family</em>. Bringing the black and white 1964 cult classic television series to the big screen. Where characters who once appeared strange but loveable to us in the mid 60’s, donning black lipstick and clothes, has now incorporated into our landscape by this generations version of Goth.<br />
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Last year, Sonnenfeld directed a dysfunctional family’s comedic sojourn across Colorado in RV with Robin Williams, and this year produced the Disney film <em>Enchanted</em> with Susan Sarandon. In the movie business it’s directing he loves the most. “I like to be in charge of everything…since at home I have an opinionated 14 year-old daughter Chloe, and Susan, my strong and smart wife of 18 years who tell me what to do. So when I’m directing, I’m in charge---so that’s very exciting for me,” he mused.<br />
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Sonnenfeld who’s been involved with over a dozen blockbusters during his 20 year career in film. The most popular to span all demographics of movie goers was the 1997 mega hit <em>Men in Black</em> where he directed the stars, Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones. And it was at the wrap party of the 2002 sequel, Men in Black II that the crew gave their beloved director, Sonnenfeld an unusual parting gift, a Western saddle. “When directing I put it on top of an apple box and sit on it…..it makes me feel more manly,” he jests. “I don’t ride horses---I only ride the apple box.”<br />
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And he hopes to one day ride that saddle onto a set starring George Clooney, since he was able to only produce Clooney in <em>Out of Sight</em> in 1998. “Some day I would like to direct Clooney in a film. Because he’s comically handsome and very talented,” he explained.<br />
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Sonnenfeld’s favorite 1995 film that he produced, directed and had a cameo in, <em>Get Shorty</em> with John Travolta took him over 6 years to get made. “I acquired the script and every studio I pitched it to passed on the film. So it was very rewarding finally getting it made.” With Travolta not appearing in many films since the 1970’s, he hadn’t been Sonnenfeld’s first choice. Until his wife Susan saw a rough cut of Quentin Tarrentino’s, <em>Pulp Fiction.</em> “Many actors passed on the <em>Get Shorty</em> script, from Warren Beatty to Dustin Hoffman. My wife was a big Travolta fan and told me to watch <em>Pulp Fiction</em>. After I did I was more than convinced he’d do a great job.” And the character “Chili” spun Travolta’s career back on track.<br />
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But making films has its challenges when you’re trying to bring that Hollywood magic to the screen. “It’s very difficult to convince the studio heads to green light the films you want to make,” Sonnenfeld admitted. “I have scripts I’ve owned for years and the hardest thing is trying to convince the studio to back you and make the movie.”<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/Syrr-YGthWI/AAAAAAAAAO0/MpRhEa6JGXo/s1600-h/%2317+Barry+Sonnenfeld+headshot+barry.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416400958721459554" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/Syrr-YGthWI/AAAAAAAAAO0/MpRhEa6JGXo/s400/%2317+Barry+Sonnenfeld+headshot+barry.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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This spring, Sonnenfeld as director/producer ventured back into television with an ABC series <em>Notes From the Underbelly</em> a comedy about the politics of parenthood starring Peter Cambor and Jennifer Westfeldt, based on Risa Green's novel of the same name. With his experience in both genre’s, movies and television shows, does he have a preference. “Making films or TV shows are both rewarding for different reasons. I like directing and producing TV shows because the pace is fast. While films are a slower and a drearier experience. What else I like about TV is if you direct a bad TV show it’s, ‘no harm, no foul,’ and it will never be aired. But if I direct a bad movie…it will be in Variety the next morning,” he concedes.<br />
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Sonnenfeld’s no stranger to adapting books to screen. He took Elmore Leonard’s novels <em>Get Shorty</em> and <em>Out of Sight</em> successfully from the page to the screen. Where some readers cringe when their beloved books are adapted to film because they claim movies don’t do the book justice. Sonnenfeld has been able to sweep those grumbles under the red carpet with his praise worthy adaptations. He explained, “What makes Leonard’s work so fun to adapt is he writes great dialogue and characters, two things that are hard to find in a script. His work supplies you with both. And adapting for TV or film has the same challenges, it needs to have three elements: a good story, compelling characters and be written well.”<br />
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And this time he’s inked his own script with writer/producer Bryan Fuller for their fall ABC show, <em>Pushing Daisies</em> a high-concept fantasy blended with romance and crime that Sonnenfeld will direct. This love story is about a young man “Ned” played by Golden Globe nominee Lee Pace, who in order to solve crimes, has the special gift of being able to briefly bring someone dead back to life with a simple touch. Another Golden Globe nominee Swoosie Kurtz will also be part of the weekly cast of this magical and quirky series. And unlike the challenges of Hollywood studio exec’s and films, ABC has been able with foresight to harness and corner the market when it comes to quality and enjoyable programming. Do doubt this production will fall into the charmed line up of new hot fall shows.<br />
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There is longevity in films as opposed to television programming, “What’s interesting about television is more people will turn on TV in one night, like 10 million viewers will watch <em>Pushing Daises</em>, and that’s equivalent to $100 million dollars in movie making ticket sales,” he says.<br />
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Unpredictable humor runs through the vein of Sonnenfeld’s work, whether it’s film, television, or writing, as he scribes a monthly column, <em>“The Digital Man”</em> for <em>Esquire </em>magazine since 2003. He attributes his innate wit to his parents, “I grew up an only child in a protective family. So I spent a lot of time with adults…my parents friends, a lot of time with funny Jews,” he recalled.<br />
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Even though Sonnenfeld was a short, shy and a quiet boy when he was in school. He grew 6 inches right before his senior year. And like most people who have a knack for comedic timing whether they’re famous or not, they’ve usually spent their early childhood years in some sort of uncomfortable inner torment. Which gives birth to humor as one ages. “As you get older you become your worst trait,” Sonnenfeld observes. “I find the world surreal and amusing as it’s always been---I’ve just become more tolerant.”<br />
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Sonnenfeld an East Hampton/Amagansett resident for over 25 years has raised all 3 of his children there. And has been a generous supporter to the local school system and helped found The Hayground School in Bridgehampton, NY. In the summer he packs up his family and leaves the Hamptons for their second home in Telluride, Colorado in the area RV was filmed. Maybe he used a hint of autobiographical material….<br />
<br />---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5631095455487268426.post-75684908808747279602009-09-18T19:57:00.010-04:002009-12-17T20:42:06.189-05:00“Dear Bill: A Politically Incorrect Correspondence”<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/SrQgzWtWSNI/AAAAAAAAAOs/QbjcSU3OMSk/s1600-h/WTC+shields.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382963521255786706" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dRM73Qv6ObE/SrQgzWtWSNI/AAAAAAAAAOs/QbjcSU3OMSk/s400/WTC+shields.JPG" /></a><br /><div><strong>By R. B. STUART</strong><br /><strong>Part Sixteen</strong></div><div><strong>A 200<em>1 letter to Bill Maher</em></strong><br /><br /><em><em></em></em></div><div><em><em><blockquote><em><em>Dear Bill Maher,<br />I ran into you days before the WTC attack at a health food store on 8th Avenue and 55th Street in NYC. You were looking to buy a fan. I turned around amused and said, "I'm a fan." We chuckled as I had caught you in a double entendre. I congratulated you on your good work and left with my groceries as you searched a food store for electrical appliances (next time check a hardware store).<br /></em><br /><em>I wanted to write a diary of events as a volunteer behind the scenes. And for being a NY "fan" I'm sending along a FDNY T-shirt. I know you're a little fella so I hope it's not too big. The shirt is from my local company on West 43rd Street, Rescue One. This specialized unit was created as a rescue company of firemen for firemen. They're considered the Green Beret of firemen. They have lost nearly half of their men. Among the 11 missing, 6 have been found dead along with the Captain Terence Hatton. They hope to recover the other 5. So wear it well.<br /><br />October 3, 2001<br />A Politically Incorrect New Yorker,<br />--R. B. Stuart</em><br /></em></blockquote></em><br /></div></em><div>Dear Bill,<br /><br />My diary of events from behind the scenes as a NYC volunteer: What disturbs me the most about this tragedy besides the obvious: Is Ian Schrager running full page condolence ad's in the Times and then a paragraph down begins hawking his luxury rooms to the people that were displaced for $3,000 a month. While Mayor Guiliani strut's around the city as if he's really done something significant besides touring politicians around the site. While begging us to spend money, he insists that we go back to normal by pretending nothing has happened, so NY doesn't go into a financial collapse. He's worried about money and camera angles---we're worried about mourning.<br /><br />The Red Cross has been in hype mode for volunteers, blood and money. During the initial days and weeks of the tragedy, fifteen volunteers besides myself have watched first hand the multi-level confusion and disorganization with this agency. The miscommunication is rampant at Red Cross headquarters. From the thousands of LDV large disaster volunteers) workers whether you're a driver, food deliverer, shelter worker, telephone bank person; no one knows what's going on. The national Red Cross members continuously hand down incompetent information and instructions. As a result, this is one organization I will never depend on. My mother told me that my father (a WWII Veteran) always hated the Red Cross. I asked why. She said, "Because Daddy said the Red Cross didn't do shit for them in the war." It is apparent.<br /><br />The Red Cross claims that they have never seen a disaster as monumental as this and they were unprepared. Well, what was WWI and WWII a play ground? This organization has been around since 1864, I think that's plenty of time to get their shit together. Frankly I think that they are using the WTC tragedy to restock their blood banks and fatten their bank accounts with all the financial donations pouring in. [<em>Four weeks after this was written their financial support for the victims is in question as is the blood.]</em><br /><br />By day three the city set up a volunteer center at the Jacob Javits Center. Within two day's thousands of people enlisted. We forked over confidential information and identification then waited on the sidewalks of 11th Avenue and 34th Street. Standing the day and through the night, waiting with a slip of paper in hand with a designated number. <em>[I wonder what the city really did with all the data that they accumulated?]<br /></em><br />The left side of the street was 10 deep with volunteer electricians, plumbers, steel and construction workers. The right side lined with out-of-town cops mingling with the NYPD, medical staff and us. We were being well taken care of with food and beverages by The Salvation Army and local New Yorkers walking around with trays and baskets of sandwiches, pizza, fruit, cookies, candy, water, soda, kindness and love. The unity had begun. A New World was forming. Some slept over night on the cold sidewalks; the voluntary homeless with make-shift beds out of newspaper and denim jackets, colored bandannas tied around their necks, scuffed yellow-buck work boots fastened at their ankles, pillows of blue plastic hard-hats, and rows of white candlelight looming over head.<br /><br />The country that was built on the backs of these men, and were willing to break their backs again by sleeping on the grey concrete their brothers mixed and poured years before. Even still---they would wake with ease. Then at Ground Zero they'd gather the ruins that were laced with sweat and toil from their forefathers. Which was now soiled with the blood of our beloved, and our enemy. And they would do so lovingly.<br /><br />Eventually you realized that your volunteer potential wasn't being utilized. Which prompted many of us to "do your own thing" by helping on the "block." The Relief Workers donation center was set up in a fenced outdoor parking lot on West 34th Street, accepting truck loads of supplies 24 hours a day. The trucks were jammed pack with newly packaged men's white socks, T-shirts, briefs, sport shirts, sweat pants, work gloves, black steel-toe work boots, masks, packaged food, bottled water, medical supplies, toiletries, paper goods, cigarettes, Canine booties, dog food and bones.<br /><br />In the dark of the night we worked side by side unloading these trucks. Crews of construction workers and out-of-town cops. Women and men, shoulder to shoulder---white collar and blue. Each of us suspended in a new reality. Tied together by the red, white and blue ribbons that were pinned to our breast. While a quiet sadness filled our hearts and a peacefulness flowed from our Spirits---for once, we were all equal.<br /><br />It was distressing to hear the next day that a truck was loaded from the donation center and the driver took off with the entire contents. Along with having to fend off the few meandering vultures that thought they were at a K-Mart free-for-all, as they attempted to stuff their bags with socks, T-shirts and toiletries. Only after reprimanding them with scornful dismay were they reminded of WHO the recipients were; the FDNY. Disgruntled for my spoiling their Christmas, they reluctantly walked away. One man did steal a sleeping bag, but claimed to be homeless. And a local fire company let a stranger into the firehouse to use the bathroom. He was graciously admitted since he was adorned with a FD sweatshirt. Once inside he pulled the fire alarm, and during the ruckus he wiped out the firehouse of their gear. This was not an isolated incident. At another station house someone stole a bag of protective asbestos masks ten minutes after it was logged. People were going to extremes to be allowed into Ground Zero. Although it was the NYPD that disappointed me the most.<br /><br />By day four, the FDNY were still not receiving the proper gear they needed for Ground Zero. What was being sent to the stations were work boots in size 6. A size a teenage boy could wear. The firemen still without masks or sufficient footwear were wearing their own make-shift work gear taped up. The work boots that did make there way to the site were hoarded by the NYPD. Some cops refusing the firemen boots saving six pairs for their fellow officers. I know the NYPD lost men in the collapse, but isn't it the firemen who are working in the rubble along side the iron and construction workers? Shame on the NYPD for such a power play. I guess they feel their guns and badge gives them the authority to bogart anyone.<br /><br />With Guiliani having the Police and Fire Commissioners in his back pocket, it's no wonder why this was allowed. I hadn't realized it until I went to a firefighters memorial service at St. Patricks. When the Mayor went to the podium to speak I intentionally didn't clap. But when he introduced the Fire Commissioner, Thomas Von Essen the applause wasn't as grand as Guiliani's. I observed many firemen not clapping for the commissioner. And found it peculiar. I wondered if there was some underlying resentments with the firefighters. After some probing I discovered there was.<br /><br />Over the years, with each promotion, Von Essen moved up in union ranks at the Fire Fighter's Union. The firemen supported him every step of the way and hoped, "Finally if we have one of our own in there. Then we'll start being treated better." Each year passed and nothing changed. Von Essen gained clout and eventually was selected under Guiliani's reign as the Fire Commissioner. The firemen who stood by his side voting for him at each step---he ultimately left in the dust, and rubble. No longer one of them. He sold them out to be another Guiliani puppet.<br /><br />And as of lately, Guiliani has through the media, trashed the FDNY who only recently were the cities most beloved Hero's. It seems (by anonymous FDNY sources) the fire bashing Mayor was interested in hundreds of firefighters volunteering for the relief effort only until the truck load of gold and crime scene material was located and recovered. Days after the retrieval of this "valuable dig" is when Guiliani cut back the man power needed for the WTC clean-up. Which evoked the passion and dedication in these men who have tirelessly worked around the clock for nearly two months in a cause more valuable than gold---HUMAN REMAINS.<br /><br />It is sacrilegious to remove the remaining 4,000 loved ones mixed with debris by dump truck. And to scale back the man power to twenty-five men is utterly preposterous. It will take seven times longer to clean up that area if this act of degradation is allowed by the Mayor. And the excuse Guiliani's using for the cut-back is ridiculous, "It's for their safety. There are too many firefighters working at Ground Zero someone might get hurt." The firemen are the one's who are in the rescue business. They weren't in the way or unqualified on September 11th, why are they now? It can't be because they're costing the city too much in overtime, because they are doing this for free. Even eight weeks later the firefighters working at the WTC are VOLUNTEERING. How about Guiliani volunteering for the city for two months and giving his salary to them?<br /><br />It is a disgrace that Guiliani is attempting to turn the public against the FDNY. As the media hops on the band wagon of this smear campaign. Reducing the quiet, humble and caring firemen to a pack of violent thugs---is a shameful slander of character made by the news stations via Guiliani's police state. Because of his District Attorney background you'll never hear him slamming the NYPD who's reputation is one of a big-blue Teflon bully. He has a Gestapo mentality and cops blood running through his DNA. But he'll never possess what is needed to be a member of the FDNY: Heart.<br /><br />Meanwhile Bill, the Mayor just sits by as the residents in lower Manhattan remain displaced indefinitely, and still have to pay telephone, electricity and rent, on some apartments that aren't even salvageable. Those rents should be waved with no questions asked. With businesses closing weekly, hiring freezes due to Anthrax, the city is in a financial crisis. If he wants to help us he should roll back the rents throughout the city. A $1,500 shoe-box studio will lose its appeal when people see Manhattan ends at 8th Street and the air has been infiltrated with asbestos. But it seems his only concern is car pooling or taking Mass Transit since it will ultimately create revenue for the city.<br /><br />The irony is two years ago Guilini sunk $16 million into building “the bunker" on the 23rd floor of 7 WTC. Which went up in smoke along with the Mass Transit offices. Maybe I'm mistaken, but isn't a bunker a shelter below ground? Why doesn't he focus on that financial blunder for a day or two? His distraction for everyone is to shop, shop, shop, buy Broadway tickets and trinkets, eat Bon-Bon's and drink Cosmopolitans. There's atleast 10 percent of us in this city without jobs, how can we spend? Who wants to be trivial in such a tragic time.<br /><br />I guess my question is really for the FBI and CIA. If there is all this file footage on television from camera men shooting video tape of bin Laden over the years. Where did it come from his P.R. people? And if he is really the master mind and such a dangerously evil man, then who is the Governmental Einstein (probably a friend of Guuliani's) that allowed them close enough to shoot film of him all around Afghanistan, but not shoot him dead. If they had access to him and knew where he was to shoot the footage, why wouldn't they know now? What was the CIA waiting for? THIS?<br /><br />I must say that prior to this tragedy the word GOD was used only on Christian networks. On the 11th of September that changed. In the initial three weeks I heard news anchors, talk show hosts, and people in general talk about GOD with ease. Where people would once shirk at the mere mention of the word. Even Oprah has relinquished her New Age term "Higher Power" for the exact word of GOD. After thousands of years of spiritual bankruptcy, let New York lead the way. Maybe through financial bankruptcy our spirituality can emerge from beneath the ashes of loss and mourning. Could this be the second coming?<br /><br />Maybe the two slabs of wood Jesus was nailed to now takes form in two steel towers, and the nails hammered into his flesh, was the planes thrust into the buildings. The blood from Jesus' body is akin to the blood shed of the 6,000 people. And the horror, the grief, the unbelievable sorrow is a reenactment of that day in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago. The reason is the same: religion. The bottom line is the same: money. The outcome: mourning and resurrection.<br /><br />A spiritual shift has occurred within the masses around the world and it is 6,000 times stronger. We just might be able to get it right this time. That's if our love and unity can overpower the hate and violence the Government is trying to jam down our throats via the media through fear. I have longed for the day to live heaven on earth---instead of in my mind and heart. Maybe now we're that much closer, and if not---then there's still time to bake anthrax cookies. If things get any worse I'll send you a dozen…..<br /><br />Be well Bill, keep up the good work----and don't let the bastards get you down.<br />--R. B. Stuart<br />October 3, 2001</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">Copyright October 2001, R. B. STUART, All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction of this Blog in any form.</span></em></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.copyscape.com/"><img title="Do not copy content from the page. Plagiarism will be detected by Copyscape." border="0" alt="Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape" src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" width="120" height="60" /></a>---R. B. STUARThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15329293913021766198noreply@blogger.com0