A Long Rant with No Photos

First off, every ad on the Internet, Nordstrom purchase, personality disorder found surfing the web can be uploaded to my Facebook with the click of that button. The maladjusted in me is actual adult    oppositional defiant disorder, which I stupidly put up there on Facebook because people's personal lives are not sacred anymore. That scares me. I use Facebook just enough to report that I'm still alive and like videos like this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5PSKYR39sA

Time to empty out my head. I bought a Slip Silk Sleep Mask (in Caramel, from Nordstrom) which came in a few days ago. I was in the apartment office throwing other people's boxes around as if someone sent me crack cocaine. It was better then crack cocaine. A must for insomniacs.

I also use small amounts of Vicks vapor rub when I'm particularly wired, to focus on my breathing. After a hot shower, I weave my hair up in a bun so my pillow can be smooth as silk. I use earplugs if I'm nervous about sleeping in a bed that is not my own. Oh and BioFreeze. That goes on my neck. If I'm with my partner, we are switching turns giving back rubs.

After three sugar-free Redbulls, a news program about El Chapo, Sean Penn (being shady) and a beautiful and fascinating Mexican actress named Kate del Castillo, plus a hot walk in the warm Texas woods, a talk with a double Masters Degree holding, former Manhattan and discontent Connecticut resident, and... what else happened in my run on sentence-type day? The Box. I'll get to the box later.

First, let me get out what little I feel is worth writing about Donald Trump and political correctness. I don't like to label my political beliefs. In fact I try to avoid labels in general because they are restrictive and often come with a stigma. My underlying thoughts always are based on a foundation of compassion and the belief in a unifying beauty to every living entity that is always there even if we are clouded from whatever crap and static make that glowing beauty difficult to see without some catalyst, like a runner's high (run on sentence day again).

There are other catalyst to clear the vision of course, but some have negative side effects that may not be worth the beauty they reveal. I wish my word alone would be enough; to live by faith in my word of this beauty; I swear beauty is always there, whether you see it clearly, beauty is permanent. But if I can circle this rant around The Box, I'll explain clearly how the need to see that beauty without putting in the work, by drugs (LSD in particular) can cause damage that is the equivalent of a high speed car crash to the brain. A half of tab of acid, once, around the right age and with a safe friend is all one ever needs. Ken Kesey never wrote a novel after his LSD experiments, although The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test focused on Ken Kesey as an motivation force. Like Quinn the Eskimo, The Hurdy Gurdy Man or Gilda combined. I would never advocate anyone do hard drugs. The Box I opened today is a concrete example of the negative effects of any drug on the brain. I'll get to that later.

Political correctness can be dangerous. Correcting people who are genuinely innocent in a harsh way, done over and over (from hanging around a certain for example, or a certain environment) can make a person listen to what someone whose platform is, "Down with Political Correctness" like Donald Trump. If one gets caught up in that emotion without using their critical thinking skills and a foundation of compassion, the next genocide is not such a far off slippery slope. I'll explain.

Side Note: Trump is exploiting a annoyance that comes with a vulnerable age that we are all navigating through today. After our first black President (and he did not unify the world, what the fuck?) and blame from a morally pretentious class of people (not morally superior, morally ridged and hyper correcting fuck-tards)  Trump has simply taken that annoyance, shook it up like ants in a farm, and converted that annoyance to hate. He gave hate a name too. The OTHER.

When I was 21 to 23, I was very sweet but naive and the crowd that I knew would scold me when I did not know proper names to new concepts, art, and cultures. Actually, just recently, someone from that crowd said that I was racist because I did not know that my friend, who I thought was Chinese (because I could have swore she told me she was) turned out to be from South Korea. Or when I was 21 and discovered anime, I mistakenly called it, "Japanimation" and was again called a racist. Those examples don't seem drastic enough to say Hell Yeah! to water boarding. Here is one that might:

Very quickly, since I gladly erased five paragraphs on this bummer of a subject, let me simplify. In a domestic violence situation I was personally involved in, every police officer called to help me and my bruised body was appropriately on my side. Except the last of seven police on the scene, who happened to be the only black police officer in that county. His name was Bobby Lucas. The mood change from allowing me to have the house for 16 days by myself yelling for me to quickly run in the house to grab my contacts and a change of clothes. I was told by Bobby Lucas that if I talked at all, I'd go to jail where, "No one will be around to hear [my] drama." He was a vicious man with no heart. He and his partner put my older brother, my cat, and me in the back of his police car and dropped us off in an alley two blocks away from my brother's home.

I Googled his name with the county I lived at during this attack. Let's call it for what it was. A physical attack by my ex and a verbal abusive attack by Bobby Lucas. There was a comment that where weed is involved, Bobby Lucas is the man to call. The comment was (I believe) an innocent one. "Sick Bobby Lucas on these potheads!" This is Humboldt County. So many comments followed about this cop being black, therefor everyone supporting that comment was openly labeled a racist.

It takes strength to go past the skin color regardless and say, "This is not right." It also takes strength to understand that we are still in deeply racist times, and we need to create a dialogue again. Dave Chappelle bridged the gap brilliantly, and the man had a beautiful solid gold heart.

It's very hard to believe that I would care more about being labeled a racist then to protect future abused women, but I am ashamed to say that being falsely labeled a racist terrified me to that extent. One rouge cop who happened to be black made me question the concept of political correctness a lot. But not at all in the way Donald Trump has capitalized on switching that term with a free for all on racial stereotypes. Some of this political dialogue has the potential recipe for disaster. We have the books to guide us. The answers are in any good bookstore. People are bouncing off of different wavelengths. Different channels.

Random thoughts: I always thought if a woman could pull off a classic, simple white t-shirt and look beautiful in that white t-shirt, that is one naturally beautiful woman. The t-shirt test I called it. Just plain white, tasteful and relaxed look. Tyra Banks has worn a plain white t-shirt as if it was a two thousand dollar idea hand selected by her personal stylist. To me beauty is what is in other people. What other people have that I don't, that combined would make us fit together perfectly. The colors and patterns of a puzzle piece that ends where I begin.

When I was in jail a woman's perfume was intoxicating. Their pinned up hair and colored nails did something to my motivation. Something not sexual but in that area of arousing emotions. Maybe just motivation for movement. Perfumed skin was sophisticated freedom.

The white t-shirt on Uma Thurman in Kill Bill part one, with her hair back in a ponytail. That's just as attractive as her lavender Prada gown in 1994. I watched the Oscars with my step sister. She exposed me to sewing my own clothes. To the power of images. Someone who I respected as a painter once told me that graphic artists don't care about art. My step sister was a graphic artist. She cared about surface beauty and the ideas were meant for someone else to interpret. I would rather have her talent then the critics. But I have always been a top notch critic with a talent for talented people.

One line from The Ticket that Exploded, read over a decade ago, has stuck with me. The line about boys running mad in the hot sun, trying to burn their sex skins off before their brains morphed forever into perpetual hunger. Hah, I think I made the second half up, but from his idea. When I started to understand that writer, William S Burroughs, I knew my innocent mind was replaced with a sex fever. Pain killers were the answer to that thirst.

A box came from my older brother today. In this box are love letters, extreme insecurity in pages of journal entries in tiny, meticulously written clear thoughts. I saved unopened 1994 FIFA World Cup Soccer Cards hoping that in these few packets I was lucky enough to have Claudio Canniga's card. I even saved the bar of soap from my favorite day, which was the day I saw my first World Cup game (Argentina versus Nigeria) because I had never seen two cultures come together in the sport that united my own Catholic family every Sunday. Soccer is pure. I saved palm leaves from Palm Sunday in the Catholic Church.

Finally, the start of the end was found in this big box. Photos of a girl that I took off the street in an act of kindness. Once that girl pushed her way into my life, the handwriting started to slip. My ability to reason with logic started to slip. Drug experimentation gave way to a new era of dependency. The ideals that were in my childhood upbringing slipped away, like a boat that is no longer tied to its dock. I've used that analogy for alcoholism. A boat with only me inside, seeing the dock that led to the port and the stores and the town and the lights and colors and ducks and birds and shops, like the city of Annapolis that I knew so well; all of that is in its early stages of sinking back from view. I do not advocate any drug use. Meditation, clear air, the seasons, Sunday walks and stress shake off runs are what I consider a must. My love for one person whose sad story made me fiercely defend her cost me years of isolation and a shaky trust in others. My intentions were to help her because no one deserves to live without love. Her love was selfish, and almost two decades later she has not once thanked me. In fact I have never been the focus of such hate for someone whose life I tried to improve. She knows what is in Vogue, and she knows who pays. She knows the hierarchy of the socially graceful, and she was always just an empty shell that mirrors what she covets in others. In the end I can not say that I regret helping this person. I should have put my health and happiness first though, because a trip and fall while helping for love does not mean you'll be helped up.