Tag Archives: death

Respect for defenseless animals…even pests

I know I’ve called the mice in the house ‘bastards’ many times.  They are pests, here, unwelcome guests that leave ‘gifts’ everywhere.  Everywhere.

But when you see one dying, it’s another story.  Here’s a brief account of what happened yesterday.

And it is pretty sad.  The poison causes internal bleeding, from what I remember.  Just to see the field mouse go in and out of consciousness…defenseless.  It would otherwise be cute if you didn’t know it has only minutes left on its life.  It unknowingly made its presence known to me by shifting around in the newspapers laid on the floor (the papers—a practice that came with the leaks in the house, and all the water damage…).  Some time later…

It moved on its own, almost willing to get somewhere, but it kept falling asleep.  Low blood oxygen will do that.  Once outside, my mother just turned over the tissue box, where the mouse plopped into the snow.

As an adult who suffers from undiagnosed medical issues and pains every day, I’ve said, I don’t want anyone to suffer.  Now I may have been a little cruel in the past, taking my misery out on other invaders in the house, but not anymore.  Just witnessing the mouse react to the cold, the snow, and drag itself forward, where I knew it would freeze to death—it wasn’t particularly horrific, but it was horrible enough.  So I nudged it back into the box.  It accepted.  Afterward, its breathing became sporadic.

The box was set near the corner of the house away from the back porch.  I checked outside some time later to find the interior of the box wet from splashes of water (it rained Friday).  The mouse was long-dead.  I thought about burying it for a moment, feeble as the thought was.

I take no pleasure in this.  I’d rather it/they not invade the house in the first place.  But once it’s done, it’s done.  Death happens, and life goes on.  Animals don’t understand the concept of death nearly as well as us, but they certainly move on.  Life can happen so fast, too; our bodies kill countless invaders within our blood all day long, where we get zero notification.

So we are all mortal here.  We have to protect ourselves, our family, our property, etc.  But cruelty to animals, even pests?  No.  No, you can count me out.

Slipping – Guest Post

I was honored by Adam’s request to guest post with a poem. I don’t write poetry too often, but I like the challenge. Here, I have attempted to write in the Italian terzanelle form (with only slight cheating). I hope you enjoy it. Thank you.  – Amy from The Bumble Files

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Slipping

Where there’s light, there’s dark—
in the middle toils a tangled mind,
slipping, hiding, gasping,

Will I ever be enough?
Slipping away inside her head,
in the middle toils a tangled mind.

White, chalky tablets fill her hand,
her bright smile hides her dull eyes.
Slipping away inside of her head,

strength enough for everyone except herself,
Christmas baskets clog the decor.
Her bright smile hides her dull eyes,

pills distill antiseptic smells,
its rotting memories no one claims.
Christmas baskets clog the decor,

but no one says anything.
Where there’s light, there’s dark
lurking, wrestling with grace,
slipping, falling, grasping.

photo credit: hurleygurley via photopin cc

the living lie

Yeah, so I’m insane.

But insane like some writers.  Only I’m not talented in creative writing…  Turns out F-social was still about not fitting in anywhere… but an asylum.  Like many poets.  I know, I know, saying that denigrates poetry a little.

I represent no group.

But there’s also this:

But we’re never gonna survive, unless… we get a little  craaazy…
—Seal

But how to measure one’s level of crazy?  Is there, like, some ‘crazy’ equivalent to those Newtons or Fruitons or whatever it is that Scientology ‘measures’ in a person?

Anyway, this long poem… though based in truth, should also not see the light of day.
Not bad, maybe good, but horribly, inescapably depressing
You have been warned. Continue reading the living lie

Lost Listen Abandon

The future that remains for me is presumed short… par usual.
This one is not for small children.

——————————

The body and the memory of why… degrade in this complacent world.
It is a form of hell— limbo, stranded nowhere, unable to recall.
Or realize you’re reluctant, accounting the past as empty upon error.

And try to place now…

To vector off your origin ’cause you put your stake in the ground elsewhere.
That now fails at what the past could yield.
But the past is gone.

But try as you must…

To find a place of opportunity… but shallow opportunity at that, you find.
Fleeting moments, like sugar, the boosts of energy tire you faster.
And a tiring in dealing with your ineffable being to refine!

And try for results…

But results oft always off radar.
To make use of convention, but violate implied rules.
Too often you lose, and lose sleep for aimless, “creative” crud.

And try, while more unknowns enter the scene…

And the unknowns of before, now known, now taken stale or falling apart.
Or, in turn, possibly consistently weak…
Or maybe tapped-in-tapped-out— that you are in synch with a world of weakness.

And try, despite small-minded thoughts…

Little broekn lines, words swiftly assembled to justify fleeting illustrations.
More desultory “small talk,” and false memory of things.
Grown sick of the “casual,” as the actual in talk is rare; the common is moot.

And try, but struggle to sustain your social corpse…

And to parse what you poisoned, of either before or five minutes ago.
It’s origin, loaded, with false pretense or misunderstanding— something unsound.
It’s easy to care less… given the weakness all around.

But try to care…

Nevertheless you harden with each unending uncontrollable error or delay.
But hey, you deserted it, and “justly,” it deserted you back.  “Deservedly,” you could say.
“Where this D. becomes an Ass,” or just an “A.”  (See what I did there?  No, f__k you.)

To try, and fight the never mind!

It, why try to define; what creation brings, based biased like all other things, right?
Tired, but too much, or too little too late…
What in God’s name is being created??

To try, but in time…

You find in anything and everything hard, and that prolonging the effort helps none of it.
That working harder at a false base will not help; doing so will only age you faster.
…But what is true?  Running so long and far, you’ve stressed and forgotten…

To try to try, your efforts “nigh.”

It yields the conclusion, same and old but as to why… you fail.
Not enough love.
Or not the right kind.

To no longer try…

As “love is a choice,” the corrupted mother says… a reciprocity of long past days.
You continue to tolerate the wear and pain, in stagnation and work… to “try.”
Your goal, from long ago, ultimately and unfortunately reduced to finish and die.

………

I grew a little.  I sold without money.  I listened and weighed.
But without answers, I can only listen in passing.
Without hope, however, giving up… sounds like bliss sometimes.

Bipolar mess: just sayin’

Copyright 2012 Stephan Pastis

I had two potentially “funny” posts mostly prepared, but screw it.  I hate myself, my presence again.

After making another ill-timed comment (and wanted it deleted—not something you can do here), beating myself up over it…

…Being put off for a day in seeing the Golden Shower post at A Clown on Fire (and missing the “meme/spoof” point of Monica Balucci doing that before in an ad), laughing my ass off in nonsense, editing like hell…

…Seeing that Starz movie with Nick Stahl and Olivia Wilde—I forget the name…

…Googling my name, seeing how awful, illegitimate my presence is…
(Do I need the thesaurus for ‘awful’?)

At least I’m saying something that hasn’t been prepared (live).  And that probably makes this whole thing a mistake too.  Etc.  Whatever.  I’ve not understood the attention so far—I don’t want more.  If you’re not sure if you should be following, go away.  A rare sight for that expression at WP….Maybe.

Addendum: the name of the Starz movie is On the Inside.

Approaching Winter (dream)

encouragement or housefly,
a couple
had strange links between them.
they could seem inseparable,
yet they were separate;
it was distant,
the relationship, physically apart.
it would be that fly
on the wall to see
what connects
the neighborhood and sea,
with shores of ice,
the little private islands
known as driveways.
not completely peaceful,
just not violent today,
nor confrontational,
communicating like brothers.
but the links grew apart
in the heat of other things;
they drifted.
seemed the chain, with
the initial links the strongest
obviously held something
no longer.
because like the housefly,
it would last
no more than a week
in relationship time.
and now that fly would lose
its bond with the world
to catch glimpses
of messages and blurbs
in memory only.

A Wallflower In Darkness

This one is not for the faint of heart.
I tried to improve it as much as I could.
It was previously titled, “To ‘Last’ Forever Alone”.
Hide the children.

Scum,
becoming of you, of I, of soap—
in sink, in drainer, in tub,
make bathing unthinkable, disgusting, or
oneself ’come disgusting.
Such growths,
life—always coming to be,
from water to surface, then ’to, ’fore on
vertebrates.
Such choices
made—stuck in sloth,
‘bad’ or ‘worse.’
So in this life,
“no time or reason” for this discipline.
Continue reading A Wallflower In Darkness

Sunday: Existence Disorder

“Quite evil, the perceived reality — nothing real cooperates.”

I feel it hard.  Very hard.  I woke up this morning, imagining a different scenario of being approached by a woman for conversation, since I usually don’t start them myself.  After failing to get a ride for something, there I was, with a pit of emptiness.  I couldn’t take a score of sleeping pills or jump off a bridge, but my heart could stop.  I struggle this year to survive the core illness.  (You know I’m alive if you’re reading this.)
On Friday, the library was closed, but I couldn’t stay in the mold-riddled, smart meter-saddled house.  The day went nowhere, and certain pressures that shouldn’t go public were building, so I went back home.  The emptiness and pointlessness came over, and I ate the remainder of the snack box and the thin spaghetti.  For Handcuffed, I could swear I’d clicked ‘Publish’ the day before, but the post didn’t go up.
The ‘approachment’ sounds like the “invisible man” story because the first paragraph in Background to Fore has basis on my past. That’s what made it so easy to start, that Saturday, left on break to finish the next day, only adding one paragraph, rewriting the last and tweaking the whole for flow.

How do you maintain willpower seven days a week?

“With a hole in one’s heart left unfilled, how does one’s heart continue?  Do you suffer alone the consequences of decisions made forgotten?” 
I’m too conscious a person, observing everything I can see, wondering why others don’t.  Of course, I realized they were busy, especially busy rising and maintaining social and work status.

I still believe in freedom of mind — to remain open-minded, but I lose the ability to socially move in my broken expectations.  I could talk about anything to the best of my abilities.  In being quick to critique, I could spoof just about anything.  In a good mood, I can still do it.  I could come up with all sorts of fantastical stories.  But, “He works to no avail.”
It’s the exception that no one talks about.  To be ignored to death.  Other than enthused Facebook members, you primarily hear success stories, or the marketable, “whatever helps the economy” whatever.  And don’t forget the walking advertisements.  It’s a “joke” today, a game to big brother government and illegal institutions, giving the bigger criminals a slap on the wrist.  Whoa— got political there.
As if pretty images and emotionless text can really describe life.  In this ‘blogosphere’ the popularity, of course all goes to the adventures, the relatable ups and downs, the forgettable entertainment, the brilliant guides and the bottomless well of comments that follow.  More views go to cute animals and…guys in Spandex™?  “Poop Adventures!”??
Well, on a lighter note, Heather Atkins won the Bucket List Travel Photo of the Year—the lions pic.  And an…organic T-shirt company for turtle conservation is now following.  Okay

Expansion of intelligence requires effort.  I have some obsessive-compulsive qualities that make that IQ growth happen.  It becomes a waste when no one utilizes it.  I do know of one blogger that will visit with the mere ‘humor’ tag…I’m not doing that.
Hopefully, the sh*t will change. But, so far, hope is rendered meaningless; anything good gets contaminated.

Related Geico® commercial:
Does a former drill sergeant make for a bad psychiatrist?
“’You know what makes me sad?
YOU DO! MAYBE WE SHOULD— ‘CHUG ON OVER TO MAMBY-PAMBY LAND,’ WHERE MAYBE WE CAN FIND SOME SELF-CONFIDENCE FOR YOU, YOU JACK-WAGON!


“Tissue?”
[Lee throws tissue box over patient.]
“Cry baby.”

Niceness trap in north-east Texas

Love lifted me.

Bernie (Millennium Entertainment, 2012).  Rated R for language, and Bernie treating a corpse with make-up and superglue (for the eyelids) in an on-stage demonstration, and a frozen Shirley McLaine.
Jack Black plays a beloved assistant funeral director that added touches to funerals: casket compartments, additional crosses, hugs, singing, and with an extra cost, a release of dove(s).  An unusually nice character, Bernie Tiede tried to please everyone, but he made the mistake of getting sucked into massaging the ego of a spoiled, bitter old lady named Marjorie Nugent, whose family wanted nothing but her money.  Originally, it was his helping hand in giving her someone to travel with, to exotic places or just out-of-state.  But more and more, month after month, she became possessive, and treated him like a servant, to the point that his only escape was with her death.
She commanded him to practice use of an armadillo gun for the invading animals, alone, for the first time using this — or any — gun.  After more needlessly harsh words and an opportunity for a Mr. Hyde to come out, Bernie shot the 81-yr.-old in the back four times.  And after reacting to what he’d done, he preserved the body in a freezer.  The last person on Earth you’d think would do it confesses to police with raw emotion.
Matthew McConaughey plays the prosecuting district attorney.  During slow weeks he would spin a wheel on which crook he’d go after next, stating he’ll surely put them all away.  Now prosecuting an attention-getting murder case, he feeds the jury the message that the defendant was ‘of a different world,’ riding first class — not exactly by choice, and knowing the correct pronunciation of Les Misérables.  So you have the shock of the confession and the shock of the verdict.
Beside the main cast of characters, the Carthage town folk interviews are real.  You get perspectives from real people in the area, and four-letter words to go with some of those perspectives.  They know that most of these homicide cases are domestic; they know any shooting by a stranger in these parts are rare.  And to avoid having the serious subject matter envelop the entire film, humor was maintained.  In the sequence where one guy maps parts of Texas, a literal question mark was rendered for the most north-western part of the state when he drew a blank.
The original writer that covered the actual story teamed with director Richard Linklater (Dazed and Confused, School of Rock) for the screenplay.  Much like Bernie’s ability to liven up cadavers, Black was chosen in casting for his ability to liven up a part that’s ordinary and good at cooking but a bit effeminate.  McConaughey is from Texas, but he ended up sounding like…McConaughey with a Texan accent.  I found the film incomplete as either a documentary or as a comedy; it needs better punctuation.  Grade: B.

Friday: more reflections, neurotic and fatal

Preamble Thingy
I’m not sure if I’m allowed to comment on other commenters, followers, twitters, likers, linkers, feeders, bookers, Dopplers, etc., but…here goes nothing. Really — it’s nothing.
Too much time today, in my limited access time, was spent in confusion and pause, just trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing or going to do on WordPress.com.
Too much time was also spent vertically expanding the “item 3”/“Out of ideas indefinitely” image into a square. Instead of using the Mac® emulator for the fine graphics software I use, I tried to soften the upper area with the Windows® Paint pencil and line tools…
The site sorts the tag list for a post too.

Highlighted Markers
In a different public access environment, I initially thought of “chronicronic” before settling on “libertarianinmind” for the registered name, as I had prepared text on matters constitutional and democratic: “the powers that be need irresponsible voters.” That prepped text, with four sections, was published on the newer version of my first website. There was no time to change the format…or did I belay the action because I’d used the word “brainwashed”? Politics, or constitutional matters miscast as politics turn many people off, and I ought to leave that for the other site. At least until I get something too good to pass up. Unfortunately, I think I covered too much over there already.

Failure Notice
With libertarian-in-mind in name missing most of what I write about, the first thing I did was attempt to change it. After minutes of name churning in my head I came up with “ChronicFaith,” as my condition is now chronic and I have a gained faith. As 24-hour internet access is out of reach here, I couldn’t tell that the name was already taken, and you can’t change your blog name. I was stuck with a name I now hate, trudging forward like a zombie, posting the “prose” I spent hours on and updating the profile—can’t start over now. (It’s a long list, what I hate. And I hate to remember what I hate… so I can’t remember what I hate and end up not hating. I think. Okay, I used to think, but now some may call me an idiot, including me.)

Reading Material
ChronicFaith is owned by Audrey Brennan, a woman in her fifties with multiple sclerosis. Like the neurotic and/but self-repressed voyeur I am, I read all the posts, later after downloading the whole — she ominously stopped posting after March, 2011 — page of them in the afternoon. There are some similar qualities, me her. She just went the full nine yards, fighting for dear life, despising the thought of wanting help from others, listening to and thanking God. And I have my own physical/neurological disabilities, severely losing eyesight, losing gait and other things that people would experience past middle-age while in my twenties, however, only somewhat fighting and going the… not-so-full two yards, not being able to afford the tests on knowing what the $#%@ is up… not consistently working on anything and therefore not getting paid, living in the type of conditions that’d get normal people to move. Just a few similarities. I hope she’s not dead.

Follower Follower
Surprisingly, someone started following this blog after the first and only actual…post. The follower appears to be an expert on economics, econometrics, research & development and having cash in the signature image; SiteWorthChecker put the blog at $1,818. I think “Dan” overlooked the registered name and didn’t read my ‘about’ page: He doesn’t really believe in money, considers debt “insanity,”…

Well, Anyway, Whatever (W.A.W.)
The end of the day in this journey of “life,” with infected toes that need to be kept dry includes dealing with the consequences of jogging and walking in the rain while wearing ye old sneakers that are split open in the toe area and easily get damp on the inside… It also includes momentarily seeing that Danny Glover movie where Moby Dick is replaced with a literal dragon.

I may continue to write in my decline, to once again probably skimp on news reporting. If you couldn’t already tell, I’m not a reporter. Failing to gain first-hand, worldly experience or remember “brilliant” expressions that pop into my head, I can’t say I’m a writer. Failing to commit early on, I can’t even say I’m an artist. The only thing I can say is that I exist. And that sucks.

Update
Into the morning, I used POV-Ray for a new awesome (and dark) image I developed for the blog post. I took after the Julia-fractal template, merging all of the objects into one, and added a tad of blood color. Okay, maybe it’s too dark and bloody for the “Note Pad” design, but I did this despite the hours it takes for a perfectionist like me to work with text-sourced graphics and the now-substandard machine. I did it despite my toes and the common scheduling conflicts, thinking I’d be able to upload all of this on Saturday. I went to sleep at 5 a.m. and was ditched again! Oh, well. I might as well make the image semi-photographic. Roughness, radiosity and area spotlighting…it took over three hours to render.