On the Edge

Backbone of road
paved with dogma
marks a chart of longing,
splinters trail
the blackened night
silent as a dream.



A strange idea came to me while I listened to old dogma spouted by Stepford faces.

Instead of legislating a minimum wage, mandate a maximum.

Rape of local land and distant countries might cease when the money monopoly dispersed so plenty could re-emerge.




fractal by sue

Golden Age

Long ago, when the average death of life was about 40, there weren’t too many grandparents. And those few were often were placed in sanitoria or poor houses. A lucky few lived with unfortunate family.

The great witch doctors decided there was more money to be made if folks lived longer. After all, an early death meant the end of taxes and tithes from the deceased. Putting their heads together, an act not totally truth, resulted in a longevity/security plan. Each person from the first day of labor would contribute a designated number of rupees to be placed in an account to help with costs of aging.

The emperor decreed that this amount would remain holy, not to be commingled, until such time as each person came close to death and past financial health. And the people played along by sending money monthly, yearly and sometimes daily to swell the coffers.

The witch doctors now decided that some of that money should be spent on research to aid in longer longevity. And so it was.

And for some time, it almost worked.

However, there came a time when the research out performed the finances and because death dwindled, there came a gigantic swell of folks known as boomings. As it neared their time to settle into the golden times (from earlier fables) it was judged that the security deposit was inadequate and that it had been divided into so many pies that the actual amount was lost under the shells.

It came to pass that boomings could not reach the golden time without taking other jobs at the same time the job market dwindled. Even very elderly women served espresso from donkey carts while waiting to pass.

But the research was not all in vain. A new pill came into being and enabled booming grandpas the opportunity to start new families with very young women.

Alas, the pot grew even smaller and it was against the law to grow the pot.

And so it was.

fractal by Sue

California, New York, Iraq

I was so afraid this wouldn't happen.

California finally passed a law, effective January 2007, which makes it illegal to drive a car containing a body in the trunk. Apparently nine people have died from this trick.

It brings to mind Gov. Pataki who signed into law a requirement for cigarettes to be self-extinguishing.

I am grateful that we are finally getting a handle on the obscene activities that create a death here and there due to a total disregard for sense.

Is there hope that the huge US embassy (known as George's Palace), the only task on track in Halliburton's Iraq, might be disallowed and turned over to the Iraqi's for their use while we beat feet and quit freeing those people by death? And is there hope that the additional forty-five bases being constructed there will be discontinued? Or could they be converted to the surplus FEMA trailers from Katrina?

Is there any hope that common sense will replace the incredible in-your-eye legislation that has taken place since 2000?

Artful Grunge

Long ago, there was a clan who regaled themselves with fad starting. Huddled together in one small glade, they practiced clothing pranks until they stumbled upon the next trend for unsuspecting commoners.

These oddfellows changed their heads to backward so their helmet front flipper was in the rear like a sun protector and their necks became very whitened. And, not only that, but they halted knotting their very boot thongs. At the same time, they put gores, or add-ons, into their mails until the armor was very big and it cracked so low that it practically protected nothing at all.

Alas, it was only a matter of time until hundreds of other tribes for fear of falling out of peering favor reached right out and embraced this fad by turning, unknotting and upsizing their wearings, also. No one could see, which was all right because no one was observing much at that time.

The ladies in waiting for their next dress saw how clumsy the knights were because both their hands needed to remain unencumbered to act as surrogate suspenders. And because of their backward heads and flapping-tongued boots they fell for almost anybody.

Lo! Feminines retaliated and took huge seams in their already tiny clothings until it became like another skin except it didn’t have piercings. They were dressed, but they weren’t.

It came to pass that many were distressed to see the gawky baggy hind-sighted knights trying to find a damsel because at a time when the damsels were barely dressed the armored clans had their heads reversed and couldn’t see what was right befront of them and their necks had gone white, as well.

And that’s how it was when the grunge fad lunged from clan to tribe.

Hunting Witches

Blogs are a good thing. Thinking is a good thing. Spouting opinions off the top of the head isn't such a good thing.

While reading some blogged opinions, I shudder. These are the same people who vote. Without consideration of facts, without looking at the foundations, they type ugliness and recount rabid theories. Talk show hosts stir up one mess after another.

Recent disclosure by the first Muslim congressman stirred up a worm nest until someone noted that the hand on any religious tome is not required during the swearing-in process.

Current polarization assumes guilt until proven innocent and I'm finding that scary. Everyone is prickly, righteous and moving too fast. We need a time out. To sit. Think. Look under the surface.

I'm far more afraid of witch hunters than I am of witches.

Cyberia

Once upon a time, forward-thinking people came up with a far-fetched plan to connect all persons on the globe by netting them together in a fantasy called Cyberia.

Unlike other plans, this one moved with celerity and it did, indeed, come to pass that many people made the right connections and found answers to questions they didn’t have.

Soon, companies saw a way to increase their bottoms and became involved in outputting items which succored this idea. They became known as hot coms, part of an overly exuberant bubble.

Ordinary people gazed into a crystal screen and found books, toys, clothes. Clicking on a rodent-like device and bartering their identifying numbers for pictured items ensured the items would be on their very doorstep within three priority days. And, even, they could order food from the farms.

Alas, small brained people capable of only one thought, began sending smut and spam to righteous people who complained to their protectors. The protectors didn’t know what to do, for sure, so they passed a lot of laws that didn’t have any teeth. The sleaze continued as did the zany laws and bewildered protectors.

Kings of countries-within-a-country saw that if their subjects ordered goods from shops beyond drawn boundaries that would be bad. To make sure there would be full coffers for their golden parachutes, the big powers declared tax on Cyberia which was virtually a figment of imagination anyway. At least, it had no bricks and mortar.

Cyberia meant that the average peon could reach out and touch his friends and family without getting his hands dirty, so antiquated phone firms dipped their fingers into the pie and pulled out a lot of plums.

The Pony Express rode into the Cyberarena and charged a wooden nickle for each message sent without their smoke. The straw was added to the camel’s back.

It came to pass that because of so many governances people couldn’t afford to stay in Cyberia so they returned to watching smut and spam on their other screen and dialing toll-free numbers to buy stuff.

Thus went the best laid plan of mouse and man.

Feast of Thankfuls

A long time ago, escapees from a high-tax kingdom packed their tea and took to the sea seeking a new country in which to muck about. When they arrived they slipped off their ship onto a rock named for a heavybodied car. The males wore high-heeled shoes and short pants later known as capris while the femmes hid inside drab voluminous gowns that trailed in the dirt and broomed chips that fell from animals.

They called themselves pilgryms and claimed themselves to be good and fine for bringing their high-sightedness to heathen otherbodies. Alas, none knew whose foot the shoes were on and a lot of fighting did go on. Some people lost their hair on the end of sharpsticks while others did gain it.

Time passed. The escapees became at home, discovered themselves still alive and very hungry. They named that a good omen and planned to cook up a great deal for one historic dinner of thankfuls. Those under the heavy dresses began preparation many days in advance by swinging big birds by their heads til dead and then flinging them into fire to clarify the feathers. They dragged out huge cauldrons, dug corn and other vegetables to boil and mash as sides to go with the fowl turkeys and an assortment of animal parts. It came to pass that the pilgrymesses worked nonstop for some big period of time until they sagged, just as the table boards did sag beneath the weight of all the delicacies.

Lo! The big day arrived and the men stood around outside the cook shed sampling the vatted grain drinks and telling tales of no truth. Their revelry was interrupted by the cookers who called them to feed. The long dresses then returned to the pits where they became cleaners of the muddle brought on by the marathon cookout. The men ate all they could, then outdoored for a napping and a game of pass the pigskin.

That was on a Thursday and by the following Sunday the women’s work still wasn’t done but it was time to make trink-ettes and bead things for all the otherbodies to celebrate the next feast which would come about in 26 days.

And that’s how it was in the days before takeout.


Nitewalker, Fractal created in Apophysis by Sue

Once in the Bad Basket...

There is little within my control even though I rebel at that very thought. Several times in recent years, physical control was wrested from me and more recently I find my mental well-being is not being enhanced by the lies and ugliness that permeate the current state of our affairs. And more frightening is the fact that this is being absorbed and re-spat by people I know. Anger and division are signs of the times. (Un)Civil war could come again.



I'm puzzled that we hear so little about the planned highway through the US, the size and construction of the embassy(ies) in Baghdad, the source of and spending of political monies. So little about the faultiness of the Diebold machines. So little about the planned union of Canada, Mexico and the US.

While inundated with verbiage dedicated to this current do-little congress, the fact remains that it has been anything but a do-little. Laws passed in the dead of night with little fanfare and less input are difficult to track down but when one spends the necessary time, it turns into a scary proposition.

The herrings thrown at us have little to do with real life. Those laws that control real life are being swept under the rug.

Corruption and hypocrisy have been around since the beginning of time but never have so few been allowed to do so much.

Electile Dysfunction

*It takes less than a minute for a new hacker to do a Diebold.

*With the move from graphite to gigabyte - no lead is left behind.

*Who counts? Who's counting?

*Florida recently outlawed manual re-count of ballots.

*If you have extra Cia*lis, please hold on to it for upcoming dysfunctions.

Elephant Repellent

I was very young and asked my dad what he was spreading on the grass.

He said, 'Elephant repellent.'

'Hey, Dad, there aren't any elephants here.'

'It's working, ' he responded.

Yesterday when I heard the spin on Faux News as I shuffled past to see what weirdness they were spouting, a big-toothed blonde said, 'If Dems are elected, we'll be attacked.'

Who was on the throne when the USA was attacked last time?

What's working? With open borders, angst fusterclucked loose in the world and growing hatred of people who invade and build a 582 million buck embassy in the middle of an ancient city...

I hope elephant repellent begins to work.


Tusks of Spin, Fractal

Pork 'n Poker

Thank you, O intelligent leaders.

Our safety is assured.

Online poker is outlawed but, due to government monetizing, state lotteries, brick and mortar casinos, horse racing and fantasy sports remain unscathed at this moment.

Blind-trust Frist, celeb of video doctoring and leader of the ProFamily Movement, poked this pork verbiage (Unlawful Internet Gambling Enforcement Act) into the port safety bill (Safe Accountability for Every Port Act of 2006) which passed during this twilight of our days.

It was signed into law just before Congress and Prez departed to campaign with slick slogans like fighting 'em there.

Something about this right feels so very wrong. Why do I believe THEY are already HERE?


Stripped, Photo by Sue

A Fence or a Farce

Before building a fence, look at the laws. Trim out the excess, insert teeth and use them.

It's a fuzzy thought that illegal aliens are hard-working wonderful people coming here to help US citizens avoid doing work and to make a better life for themselves when, in truth, many of them come with drugs, sexual offense and criminal records, an embryo for citizenship or a desire to do damage. It is not all what it seems.

I liken the upcoming fence to the bars on residential windows and gated communities. Will it keep criminals out or in?

Writing a bazillion laws is unmitigated growth. Please stop. Think before writing laws that confuse black and white issues and create lifetime careers for criminals, lawyers and politicians while annihilating freedoms for regular joes who foot the bill for this frentic lunacy.

It's time to look at current laws, edit them to a workable solution and stop penning more pap until this issue is handled.



Digital Photo by Sue

Up is Down

At a recent gathering of the INWBA, I was tagged as 'appearing to be no-growth'. This probably occurred because I am in charge of my own muzzle. :) Strangely enough, a recent poll provided numbers to show that 80% of the local populace agree with me. Why then does unmitigated growth continue?

I am not pro no-growth. What I decry is growth for growth's sake. Growth for greed. Growth for the in-your-face 'see me' noveau riche. Growth without virtue.

Many towns are being destroyed by make-a-quick-buck mentality. Frenetic developers in their haste to make hay while the sun shines decimate the hay fields, overload the rivers and lakes with waste, and suck aquifers to marginal quantity.

Lack of foresight is evident in rampant stripping of green. A green zone controlled by fertilizer, pesticides and massive amounts of water is not the same as natural green.

Starter castles advertised as 'waterfront' are oftentimes located on mosquito factories of wetlands, sloughs or swamps.

Hillsides scraped to insert king of the mountain high-ceilinged glass fronts frequently give way to dump those ugliosities in the drink. The developer moved on and owners scream for FEMA (taxpayers) to replace their first, second or third home.

Flood plains overloaded with speculative construction ask for trouble. It may not happen this year, but it WILL happen.

I'm not pro no-risk. What I decry is risk for risk's sake. What I decry are frantic attempts to carve a bigger scar than the neighbors'.

Chill. Take a walk. Read a book. Find a tree. Breathe. Hug something. Laugh. Leave a smaller footprint, please.


Up is Down Watercolor by Sue Turner 2006

Elective School

2000 Mythsteries & Other Pithy Shorts #17

It came to pass that subjects wanted more say in reignment, especially those that didn't like the king who stayed for years and years. So they decided to try another way. They called it democracy. Each person would have a say in ruling otherbodies. And this worked well until there came so many people that the voices ran confused, almost like a towering babble.

Alas, someone started a school in which the votes could be distilled down to a very few so they would be less to count. It would keep errors away and besides the kingdom was growing crowded with otherworldly people and numbers became well more than a box could hold.

The wizards argued it would be easier to count fewer votes even with all the newly arriving fingers and toes. So they spun some numbers off to this school and partied them out. If you said you were one species, your vote counted only for that species and so on. However if you wanted to vote for a third specie it was unavailable.

Two kings, at different times, didn't get a throne because of the voting school but the real people did much want them. Not overly much, but it was more.

And mostly things moved along in that fashion until one day a bird flipped from the bush claimed to whisper in someone's ear that a particular bunch of people who lived on the other farm would toss their eyes into his cocked hat at school. And that would mean a biggish win for him even if the regular joes didn't want it.

But it came to pass that the bull did gore the other guy who although the most people liked him, didn't make the cut because his scholarship was nay'd in some sort of confusion during recess.

Lo! History would note that this all came from a bunch of newcomers to the area who paddled past much water to arrive. It would also note there was a thinning of honor.

And that's how it was in the days when a new king could hug the throne when majorly somebodies didn't set him there.


BigI, Fractal by Sue

Tall Little Lord Throttlebottom the Twoth

2000 Mythsteries and Other Pithy Shorts #26

Once not so very long ago, Tall Little Lord Throttlebottom the Twoth, aided and betted by nepotisms, became cock of the barnyard.

Soon after, methane hit the fan and the fox was loosed. Tall L. L. Throttlebottom the Twoth stumbled from the throne, shook his fist at the darkened sky and threatened eye-for-an-eye revenge even though he called it different.

Unluckily for the coop who had assembled heaps of gold and bonds in preparation for a gigantic croning coming, T. Little L. Throttlebottom the Twoth claimed the funds for his own and declared a private killing on distant methane makers and pressed huge monetary plums on his cronies.

Lo! Big owners from a state the size of another country panhandled kickingbacks from the nepotism and before the general inhabitants know they'd been plucked, all the gala riches were whisked into the ether and it was surely found that the fox still roamed inside the barnyard.

Forsooth, Tall L. L. Throttlebottom the Twoth kept floating red herrings in the stock pot as he plucked even though the populace was oft heard to shout that the fox was in the henhouse and that bullying otherbodies was a farce.

And it came to pass that the barnyard became the stalking ground for multi-tribes with axes to grind and the very co-op was fully fleeced from within by T. L. L. Throttlebottom the Twoth who none too soon left the henhouse to join the fox in search of otherbiddies.

That's how it was when one whole flock let wool be pulled by a corybantic insider barnyard cock.

Canned

2000 Mythsteries and Other Pithy Shorts #10 or #15

Once upon a time, when there were no wires draped from the sky and no crystal screens, it was necessary to leave your hut to find out what other humans were doing. Mostly, they were hunting and gathering, but occasionally, if you looked long enough you could enter into a barn raising or a rain dance depending upon which century you wandered in.

Kings reigned supreme but mostly in a small area because they couldn’t cover large areas on foot or horseback and still be home in time for dinner or whatever.

Then one day it was brought to the attention of those kings that with a few cans and some string made from sheep hair they could virtually call on neighbors and find out what was going on without leaving hearth and throne.

Alas, this worked so well that it became unnecessary to ever leave home and people began to develop hunched backs and feeble eyesight from staying indoors bent over the can. Many of them became quite irritable from lack of outdooring and failing to move bodily about. When, for some reason, they did go out they were quite rude and rage-ous.

And it was no wonder, they had forgotten how to interact with their faces so they kept using their fingers and squinty mouths. And being accustomed to having a can to themselves they were not inclined to share anything with others.

And, it was particularly hard on women who were just learning how to can and didn’t know so much about hunting and gathering. It was hard for them to find partners clad in mail. The can escalated into a new type of messenger and when it was first announced that ‘they got mail’, it turned into a real disappointment due to a lack of good knights.

Before long, there were hundreds of people racing about, trying to find bigger cans and the whole thing came to a screaming halt and collapsed when strangers pulled each other’s strings.

And that’s how it was in the first days of canned life.

Sex after AARP

'Sex', in hot red letters, graces the cover of the AARP magazine lying seductively in the mail box where, at first glance, it resembles my granddaughter's Cosmo. Single and enjoying my own processes of life, I cringe in terror at the thought of missing something and leaving an unearned T-shirt or mouse pad.

Inside this magazine mutation, weathly plastic seniors profess to aging as one should - with tucks, trims, sucks and stitches - and inserting those new shapes into grandkids' clothing. Taught by trainers, massaged by wannabes, coifed, colored and chauffeured to exciting careers they soon sneak into elevators for lovely lusty trysts with the next handy mate. My eyes turn green with envy.

Having sensational sex several times a day sounds like a perfect way to while away the golden years until I remember past partners and wonder if they improved with age. Shuddering, I mutter, 'Down with Viagra', and render a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Eveready.

Reading further, I learn bottled hair color should not be obvious, artificial nails should be applied religiously and I should always wear a smile on my lips, a prayer in my heart and a flirt on my hips.

Well. In the interest of saving time, money and stress, I dress in brightly colored floor-length T's that double as dress or nightie and my gray hair serves as a beacon at dusk.

I sometimes wonder who let the air out of my arms, brought my thighs to my knees and planted fanny fat in my tummy. It annoys me when I bend over and my eyes close by the lower lids, but mostly it's enough to have original hips and a beating heart. A smile is nice but not mandatory - some days hateful thoughts spill blithely from my lips.

Living, by itself, is a good thing.

Health Insurance Myth

Is Health Insurance Sick? 2000 Mythsteries and Other Pithy Shorts #1

Once upon a time in the world's richest country lived honest joes who paid agents of medical practitioners in advance for treatment of illnesses they hoped never to have.

With those monies, the agents wove personal glass and steel kingdoms until it became apparent they might have to return some funds. They ordered scribes to underwrite laws to prevent this coffer drain but, alas, the scribes overwrote until the money became soiled and was laundered in other countries. The agents continued to request larger amounts of money until regular joes could no longer pay.

One day a large group of the honest humans gathered in a small town to seek a solution. A little girl listened to their chatter for a long time before she picked up a small stick. The sky bled rage-red and transformed the stick into a powerful battering ram. Whirling, the girl bade the citizens to follow and led them to a beautiful building where with a mighty roar the girl and her ram smashed down the door of the new jail.

A cry of relief burst forth as the uninsured mass broke into the last bastion of safety where medical needs, color television, Internet hookup, law library, three meals a day and housekeeping were freely dispensed. Lo! The building's large windows were even barred to keep criminals from re-entering.

And there, thanks to the little girl, the good citizens lived happily ever after.


Between a Rock... is my original watercolor which was used as a book cover for Truth & Other Fiction 2000

JonBenet - tragedy without end

In my view, regardless of whether the new suspect is deemed guilty or not,

it would behoove the justice system to put him away, quickly and surely
it would behoove the media to forego 24/7 coverage to stay on critical news
it would behoove the judicials to write fewer laws and tighten old ones

This little girl's death caused pain for a number of people while thousands more suffer at the hands of abusive adults. Abusive adults: war initiators, bombers, genocidists, sexual predators, random killers and child-careless parents.

The suspect, whether guilty or not, increased the amount of grief and mocked human decency. No amount of legislation makes society safe from anti-people but dull-toothed wishy-washy laws could be sharpened to make earned penalties swift and sure.

Jack Paar et al

I miss Jack Paar.

I miss Dick Cavett.

I miss Johnny Carson.

It's not the men I miss. It's the conversations. Grown up talk. Not slutty. Not scatalogical. Discussions of real events in complete sentences, grammatically correct and interesting. Funny, funny skits and comments.

I yearn for bleeps and closed doors in the place of strangers' coin slots and navels. Voyeuring is not my cup of tea.

Generally, people are dumbing, no doubt about it. When I see a skit of a dog biting an anatomical protruberance and the owner of both dancing around, unlike Gene Kelly, I wanna puke. I've turned into a news junkie in order to hear sentences, mostly without humor, which saddens me.

Words have lost meaning. Several have taken away the need for descriptive sentences and for any meaningful thought process.

In the long haul, it won't matter that Paris, Tom, Jolie, Katie, Brad, Britney-burps and artificial lites are creating faux news. It won't matter that erectile dysfunction is the only treatable ailment when we can't fix electile dysfunction.

What matters is that if we don't get our minds out of the sludge, tomorrow will go missing.


Fractal created in Fractal Explorer program. Spring 2006.