When Your Heart Is Broken - A Work In Progress


Category:  News & Politics

By:  eat-the-press-do-not-read-it  •  4 weeks ago  •  60 comments

When Your Heart Is Broken - A Work In Progress
We cannot pick our parents, nor parents their children. But we can pick our nose and rub it on our clothes. It's a consolation.

WARNING:   Content may be offensive to Sissies, Tight-Arses, Trumpers, DumFugazies, Right-Wing Gun Slingers, Communists Singers and regular peoples.

Skip it if you are offended by words, but not deed!


When Your Heart is Broken and Your Teeth Aren't:

Do you weep dry tears, squeeze your eyes, howl feebly at the waning moon, or as I do now, remain silent, lost in a slowly retreating mind, as the woodworms from the "on-set of Alzheimer" creep, ever so closely, senility smiles, shows its gnarled fangs and repeats over and over, again and again, that I can get a Free Medicare Review at no cost, saving me millions, increasing by Social Security payment, but first I must buy "Car Shield,", Lock Guard, Safe guard, More Private Health Insurance, Home Title Protection, Eruption Protection, Crones Disease Erection Protection, Triple Fire Protection for my house, phone, car, computer, tablets, TV's upgrades, etc., or, I will have no teeth in the morning.

Who wants false teeth, when FALSE NEWS is free?

Why pay for "Falsies" when, "Free Silicone Injections will soon be free, thanks to the generosity of the caring Conservative Tight Wad Conservative Republicans who had an epiphany when they realized that they are on a Stinking, Sinking Shit Hole Ship, piloted by none other than that Crazy Lovable Clown, "Dirty Diaper Donnie," the man who made brown spots in underdrawers acceptable truck drivers and for Senior Republican Senators.

My cellphone rings hourly, text messages every freakin' second, FB ads are everywhere, account receives 90 emails per day with lies, bull chips and thing, I do not need, because me freakin', frackin' cell phone will no longer be able to receive calls, post, text, not even "tell me the truth" online, if I don't upgrade immediately.

No on-line service for days, weeks, months, years, decades, and you imagine a world without bullshit? We, you and I, Honey, will be completely isolated from our virtual world, where the majority of us find acceptance, respect, using a fake name, photo, while postings to thousands of people we never met. 

We will be forced back, shoved into "boring...boring" reality, if we don't pay for the upgrades that we all need, right this damn minute...or no soup for you, no teeth in the a.m. 

So, of course, I submitted to the Gods of Instant Communication, who, only HE/SHE, has the power, the clout, the conservative Republican clout to connect strangers to each other, and strange strangers in Outer Space. Who wouldn't want that?

So, I call to upgrade, today.

Don't wait, lose your life savings today? 

Naturally, I sold the house, the car, auctioned off the furniture for pennies on the dollar, emptied out my son, grandchildren, and incoherent relatives account to Save the World from Bernie Sander's Socialism.

"Praise the Lord and Passed the Ammunition."

Friends, and nearly nude.communists, let me ass you, Right Chere, Right Now, on this God-Given' Free Platform, the one and only true  communicator, "theNudeTalkers.communists", don't yo'll have this same compulsion?"

Come on, admit it. We all like Free Shit.

I tell myself, that no one in this, chere Modern-Up-To-Date World of "Rush-Rush-Rush, Run-Run-Run Mother Furkas," would be stupid enough to do otherwise, except "Demon-crates"! Those filthy "Monkey Pox" infected homos. What say, UHaul?

Alway, "Do Right!" Never Get Lit At Night!

Even Joel Oil-Sting, draped in his "Holy Roller", $4000 designer suits, gets "free shit!"

You, too, fellow fiends, can get free junk from your "House of Worseness" ...er..."Worship", if'n only, you believes, and make damn sure you send in your tithes. 


HE AIN'T GOT NO MONEY OF HIS OWN! - (Joel OilSteen has it all!)

Amen, Brother Ben & Sista Arse Kickers, if'n you want urine Arse Kissed, you have to wash it first, in the Holie Waters of Holly Rollers, while talkin-In-Tongue to the White-Blue-Eyed-Blond JESUS,on sale at Reverend Oral Fleeces' Church of the "How Big Is Your Wallet - How Small Is Your Mind!"

It is the Tempple, da place where yous should be right now. Where the Good/Sometimes Bad, Reverend Fleece, when not in jail, likes to sing his favorite sonnet, "Kiss My Arse You Rottin Sons of Bitches "Cause I'ma gonna beat you in the teeth if you don't send that tithe," that he penned while being in the Pen.

Can I get a "Halijah"?

Well, then, kiss my Muther FurgarTer Arse, too. After all, isn't that what da Jesus want from us all? Free shit to hoard, to show off to others who have less? 

Gods want us to damn well get the things we want, or take dem from da poor, 'cause they are poor and ain't gonna notice. Rich people do if you snatch a penny off da floor.

Like a Facebook Moroon , I fall for every promising free scam offer, and can no longer pick up my cellphone because it is load with "free offers," none of which are FREE.

Detection vs Election

Have you ever had the Mid-Term erection blues, er, "election" blues, when you were rewarded fer all your fine work with a mini stroke that ripped at your consciousness until it was shredded, or there is nothing left?

Did you experience:  Silence, no thoughts, Ok eyesight, no hindsight, no brain connection, no comprehension, no fear, nothing. except silence and nothing a toll (those are island somewhere).

Anyway, it happened to me, unexpectedly, about 5 years ago.

My wife, Misses Boomb-Ba Chick-Chick, and I, were watching TV, in our upstairs love nest, with opened window dat we love to scream through to scare are drunken neighbors Hillary and Bill, two horny, uncontrollable wife-swappers. 

You see, me, Ethel and I, are nudist, sun worshippers, and we enjoy the feel of the warm Sun was warm on our backs, and a slight, summer breeze gently caressed are naked arses.

We often smiled at each other, as we read "Melanoma's Autobiography", told by an idiot, full of Botox, and Stuffed with Silicone, sold only by "Maroon Hunter Bilden, exclusively in the former Confederate states, where there are no jobs, not even blow jobs!

(NOTE:  This is a work in progress. If you would like to see the rest of the story, put $50,000 in one-dollar bills, in an unmarked enveloped and send it to "The Bird Drooping Institute - A Think Tank for Maroons, No Idiots, Please, " % of Mildew, Ohio.

I will send it back to you in ten months, ten-folds. You, too, Trump Wits, can be as rich as Joel Olsten, who yesterday blocked be on Facebook, 'cause I wouldn't spend him any more money, Honey. Can you believe "dat" ?

STOP! (Not edited. Revised several times, but it still does not make any sense.)


as we so often do, now, still affection after 48 years, but more subdued. I was sitting on the couch, and no more than 3 feet away to my left, by wife sat, quietly reading a book. She can devour a book in a day, that may take me a year to finish.

I am visual. I like film, TV, videos, artwork, while she loves to read. We are so different, yet the same.  I am effusive, explosive, she like her father, by nature is quiet, graceful, thoughtful before she speaks.

I felt what appeared to me to be a small drop water move ever so delicately within my left ear, as it has done hundreds of times, when from a dip in a pool, I shook my head like a wet horse, leaned my head down in one direction or another, and tapped my head like a Marx Brother Maroon. It usually worked.

Not this time. Instantly, everything changed, perhaps for the remainder of my life.
I could see, but not hear, think, comprehend, or communicate with anyone, not even myself. 

Nothing, no connection with my mind, no thought, blank, no sense of time, panic, pain only blank, blank, blank nothingness.

Less than thirty seconds later, I surmised, the fluid moved again. Instantly, I could hear faintly, see, think, as all my senses returned. A panic fear shot through my mind, body, soul, and every fiber of my body. 

I turned slowly toward my wife to explain what had happened, but the word stubbornly refused to exit.

It was as if the words I wanted were on an elevator, the doors open, I could see them clearly stacked neatly in the back of the elevator on the floor. They just refused to jump off before the door closed. It was a stalemate, the doors remained open. The helpless awkwardness of frozen speech began to thaw slowly and word by word I began to speak haltingly.

My wife looked at me inquisitively, but I was unable to articulate what just happened. 

I leaped up from the couch, ran into the adjacent bedroom, immediately and called me doctor.

In those brief moments, when I was in a vegetable, completely detached, mindless, empty, nothingness state, I now realized that that was worst situation for anyone, anywhere to encounter. Alive, but totally unplugged. 

The corridors of my mind were empty, "no echoes of my mind" played sweet, poignant music, only silence, stillness, no consciousness, no thoughts, no awareness, no comprehension, no sound, no nothing.

Gradually, within the ringing of the phone, I recovered enough to be worried. Very worried, to communicate with the doctor's office what happened and got an appointment immediately.

As a sophomore in college, during my Spring and Summer break I took a job as a psychiatric aide at the NJ State Hospital during my college break. It was 1963, we, as a nation, thought of ourselves, as an Enlighted Mental Health World, but in reality, were not much removed from the purveyors of "Snake Pits," who used shock to jolt the so-called "insane" back into their senses.

Although, at that juncture in psychiatric history, Electric Shock Therapy was the preferred, modern-day therapy staff psychiatrists, aides, nurse assigned to our ward used to subdue a screaming, ranting raving patient who had deceived the health care providers by not swallowing their pills, and within a few days, returning to an all-consuming madness,

He was a kind man but spoke with a broken English/German accent making it difficult to understand. 

Witnessing first-hand the horrific, tortuous contortions caused by this brutal procedure, shivered as I looked upon a comatose, eyes wide-open patient blankly stare.

Where is their mind, I asked myself? It appeared that they, too, were mindless, unable to speak, move, hear, blink...only stare vacuously.

Gradually, they would come to slowly, calmly, and gradually, appear to regain their sense of self.

It was spooky, haunting, and troubling to me that in our so-called enlighten era, we were resorting to this bizarre, beastly apparatus, as a "therapy tool", instead of what it appeared to me to be, a form of "torture."

That vacant stare haunted me for nearly 75 years, until the moment I had that mini-stroke and entered into their world for what may have been seconds, in retrospect, seems like an eternity.

To this day, I take my medications religiously, driven by the fear that it could happen again, but, this time, permanently.

Nothing has ever frightened me, as much as that incident, nearly five years ago, which has had other lingering effects, that make be aware that, perhaps, the end is near.

I often harkened back to my memory of that summer in Morris Plain, New Jersey, when I looked into a patient's eyes and knew that their mind/consciousness was gone.

In that moment, in 1963, staring into the eyes of an attractive, lovely woman, possibly in her young forties, as I held her by her upper arms to prevent her from falling, I witness a fate worse than death. 

It was at that instant; I knew that I had Psychology was not a course of study any longer for me. That Fall, I returned to college, I switched my major to English Literature, with a minor in Theater, and never looked back.

Fantasy and play acting were more comfortable for me than reality, and much more fun. Besides, drama classes drew attractive, liberal female students who welcomed openly, even reached out to the broken, twisted, odd males, referring to them as "mysterious, brooding, intellectual, sexually attractive in a weird way"! 

I was accused, for a moment, as being, "talented, different, exciting, and potentially interest" in a sensuous way by a very attractive female theater major, who seemed so far out of my purvey, that I could only nod my head up and down as she spoke, lost in her beauty. Did she not know that I was a mini-Quasimodo, without the muscle or humpback?

Now, in this, perhaps, "Final Chapter of My Life of Little Quakes & Big Mistakes", the expected, family disease, Alzheimer, is forcing me into a slowing creeping silence.

For a compulsive talker, a gabber, a run-on comedian, would be writer the reality of silence is not something that I cherish.

I, too, often, wonder:  "Will I, too, stare for hours at a blank wall, drooling, with a protective helmet on me head, lock in a hospital ward, nursing home, or worse, at home, drain of mental acuity, every dollar my wife and I have, as it did my second oldest sister, and my mother, turning them into stoic, or in articulate best of burden, prisoners of their mind." 

Am I next?  Doomed my genetics, I cannot stop from asking myself? 

At nearly 81, my life seems to have flown by so quickly. At times, I struggle to remember it.

Then, there are moments of clarity when the floodgates open and the memories cascade like an unrelenting flood:  Details, vivid memories, childhood friends, whose names I had lost, return with clarity, their faces, voices, childhood games, places of play, rewinding the film of my youth in vivid colors, tones, feeling and sound, I had forgotten.

I can't stop writing...no matter how senseless, how vapid, or how little of an audience, and I crave an audience. I need an audience. I want an audience, to say, "Yeah, man, I know what you are saying...I feel your pain. You are not alone."

It appears to me, that my memories were never growing older, never changing, never fading, they, simply put, were never lost. I had been looking in the wrong room, not the happy, cheerful, warm one with sunshine, whispering aromas of freshly baked, homemade bread, homemade butter, a meal in itself of my hurtful, disrupted, happy at times childhood.

The images, smells, laughter, that I had long forsaken come rushing back like the wind in one's favorite tree, moments before a Spring shower. My eyes tear, I hear the thumping of my heart.

Excitement, fear open the door to my past, a past that I shuttered, nailed shut long ago, that I barely remembered it. Like the movies at the Alhambra Theater of East Third and Springfield streets, in East Dayton, a working-class, safe neighborhood.

We walked to the cinema, once per month, or, when the new movie was released. Admission was a dime for kids, a quart for adults. Kids movies were every Saturday 10 am, till 2pm. At three the adult films were shown, and only kids with adult could attend after 3:00 pm.

We walked home with our friends, or ran as fast as we could through the back alley, if it was a scary movie like "The Mummy", or the shivering triller, "The Swamp Monster"

 They were my sanctuary. In seconds I was transformed, drawn into it, all else was gone. Such a release to dream, feel, be somewhere, anywhere than here, in this dimension. I soared, sucked up within the movies. They were my respite.

Like all of us, my journey was arduous, exciting, meaningless, painful. It drew me from the Midwest to California, New York city, Montreal and eventual to Europe in search of I know not what. No matter how intriguing, how adventurous there was a nagging sense that something was missing.

My wife brought me back from the dead, revived me with passion, love, a sense of confidence long since drained. The metamorphose completed, we began a life of our own. 

Our life has changed, evolved, incrementally, over the four and a half decades we have been together. Moving from raw, sweltering, unrelenting passion to love to marriage to a home, and a child.  

Now, we spend our time, laser focused on our two grandchildren. Two gifts from God, two bundles of joy, rapidly growing up and drifting, drifting away. Embarking on their own paths, as we fade into memories.

We want to cling to them, to hold them, to never let them go, but they must for they are the future and, we are the past, the present for now, for this moment.

My son is approaching 41, still struggling with alcohol, cocaine addiction, fits of anger, possibly mental illness.  We are exhausted with his struggle. Fearful of how it will end.

Like so many modern parents, we ran the gauntlet, suffering the blows lashing against our backs from psychologists, psychiatrists, group therapy sessions, AAA's 12 Steps, "Tough Love" to "Tough Shit".

How, we asked ourselves, does a young-man with an I.Q. of 128, a straight "A" student, soccer player, our Sun of sons, with so much promise, a young high school student, who never missed a day of high school in four years, a recipient of a Congressional Award for public service, winner of numerous scholarships, a college student who spent two years at a highly rated university turn into a cocaine addict, drunk like my father, filled with anger, rage, and mental issues 

I am retired, my wife should be, but refuses. At 72, she is up at 5:15 am, out the door by 6:15, drives to her work, 50 minutes away where she is a principal of a Pre-school, supervising 8 teachers, 12 aides, and dealing with distraught, at time angry, hurting parents of disabled, mentally challenged, often abused children.

My wife, Pamela Ashby Roberts, is a bright, creative women, sensuous, compassionate woman whose innate leadership abilities, strengths, drive, tenacity has held our family, our daughters-in-law (who has custody of our grandchildren) family, and our son's chaotic life together for far too long.

---------------------------------------------WE MET-----------------------------------------

In 1974, I was in a state of funk, after returning from Hollywood, where me would of been career blew up, returning to my hometown with my tail between my legs, shattered that the "could of, would have, if only" syndrome hung over my head like a black rain cloud, ready to turn into a full-blown storm at a drop of a hat. (So, I never wore a hat.)

Meeting my wife was a God send. A gift.  I returned reluctantly to teaching, talked my way into a job that barely covered the bills, as an Improvisation Theater Teacher at a Free After School Program for Kids, Adults and Nut Jobs in search of the dreams I had just lost.

There she was...this sensuous, voluptuous, full figured, stunning woman. I wanted he right then and there. It was lust at first sight. She was assigned to Stiver High School Auditorium at 6:00 PM to teach piano, and I was assigned there, to teach Improv.

Not one student showed. It was a fortuitous moment. I could not stop staring at her, nor stop looking her up and down vociferously. I did not approach her, or advance. I was a good 20 paces from her. She stood my the piano, with her back to the stage and I was "God Smacked" at the doubled door entranced the the auditorium/Theater. 

Years later, she told me that no man had ever, so bluntly looked her up and down, and down and up again with the intensity that I did. She said it turned her on, as well.  

Truthfully, I was afraid to get any closer. I wanted her right, then. Right there, right now, and was terrorize what I might do.

So, I rattled on now stop for nearly an hour, and when we realized no students were coming... I asked her if she like Chinese Food.
I couldn't take my eyes off her. She had one a light, blue, see-through blouse, a white bra, capable to restrain her 42 D cup fabulous breast from bursting forth. White petal pusher pant, so thin I could see the color of her light, blue "unmentionable."

She has been the financial foundation for three families; ours, the grand-kids living with their mother, and my son's. But we survive to stay alive on the love of our grandchildren, and the tenacity of my still beautiful, loving, smart wife. She is the leader of our pack, not me. I am along for the ride. The rode we traveled took a few unexpected turns, but we survived, we thrived, we did not die.

I suspect that is why we went "ga-ga" over our grandchildren. I never knew how much joy a baby girl could bring into our life, until, Kaitlyn, now, 15 entered into our life and took center state.

My son, like so many of his peers, has struggled with alcohol and drugs, employment issues, a terrible, quick temper, terrible friends, and even worst, terrible women, caught up in varying degrees in their terribleness, fueled his dissent, and created 20 plus years of brutalizing pain.

Today, he is working his way out of a stormy past that hurt us, himself, and anyone he had contact with...that is what addiction does. To this day, pangs still burn even though the fires were extinguished long ago.

We, my wife and I, and our son (our immediate family) have healed, a little bit with each passing day, but the wounds are still sore, not as much, but they linger in the quiet of the night, in our dreams, our hopes for the future.

My wife made certain that our grandchildren would have had a good, exciting, interesting life, filled with more " Goodtimes " than bad, more U ps, than down, more Jingle than jangle!

To this day, to this hour, to this moment, no matter how bruised, we are grateful for the ride. 

Bob Dylan's haunting, poetic lyrics cling, for me "to the shadows of my mind", lingering like the unseen parlor dust, in this old historic, haunted house that creaks out, only at night, softly mirroring every word of Dylan's song, "The times they are a changin'".

Indeed. they are.

I would prefer, they didn't.

Is that not what our journey is ... embracing change, understanding, enlightenment?

Currently, as grandparents, we are caught in their web...willingly. But "things they are a changing"!


A Work in Progress: 

My granddaughter, a sensitive, beauty, is going on 15. Her brother, only 11 months behind are known as "Irish Twins". Their love washed over us like Niagara Falls in the Spring, washing us clean, renewing our sense of self.

Colin is 14, Kaitlyn at 15 is evolving faster than any parent or grandparents wants.  Stay still, we are not finish hugging you.

They are as different as night is too day.

Until their teens, the oldest looked after her little brother, as if he were her charge.
In first grade, she ran as quickly as she could to the playground to make certain her brother, (the little, blonde, quite by nature brother was not alone. She made sure he had someone to play with, to talk, to run like wild fawns.

Now, when I ask where is so and so, they shrug, "I don't know, as if they don't know each other, or who I am referring. They still are close, but drifting away on their own skiffs, as the seasons, interests pull them in different directions.

My wife and I have been together for 48 years, married 46, drawn to these two gifts from God, as a flowering plant is to the Sun. They brought us joy, a renewed sense of life, a mission, unfiltered love.  I never knew I could love as much as we loved the two of them.

As teenagers, their closeness is sliding, sliding away as it must. As grandparents, we understand, but the sense of loss is still there. It is incremental, as, at our age we are becoming.

I know longer have regrets, my wife, I suspect, has a few. I wonder at times that maybe I may be one of her regrets. Then she smiles at me, and my inter tears are washed away.

My wife is the anchor, the mast, the lifeboat in our life; the focus, the center of existence.

Now, they, as we were warned, are slipping, slipping away from us, as they spread their wings, mature, map out a path with my wife tender nudging.

I miss their hugs, their laughter, their crawling bodies on my lap, their joy. I feel lonely, a little abandoned, under appreciated. Although my wife has been the beacon in my life for the past 48 years, we are still close.

Over nearly a half century our relationship has grown. The passion has waned, grown into joy, understanding, conversation, trust. It is nice to be loved, and to love.

I had four older sisters, and one younger one. Growing up in the forties, sisters did their thing, and out raced out the door of 30 N. Terry Street, in a working-class neighborhood, filled with friends, adventures without fear.

Things were different. Milk was delivered in class bottles by a horse drawn wagon. " The Ice Man Cometh" via the same route, the same means. He was a strapping giant of a man, decked out with a mahogany leather apron, a block of ice resting on a leather pad atop his shoulder, secured by a sharp, sharp hook that he squeezed in his right hand balancing it every so expertly. 

He was efficient, competent, polite. He moved swiftly, adroitly, finished his job the same, as if it was one ballet movement.

"How much do you need, Mrs. Roberts?" He slammed the huge chunk on our large, wooden round, hardwood kitchen table and with a swift movement of his ice pick, cut off the exact amount my mother needed.

He glanced at me, winked, held out a piece of ice that broke off in the process. I chewed on it and watched and, he gracefully exited our grey, unpainted duplex, two story wood framed house.

On Tuesday the Vegetable vendor clumped down our brick street. His horse was magnificent. But he wasn't. He was reticent, only repeating, "Vegetables! Vegetables!" he sang, with a musical tone that lured, enticed, invited every home-bound mother, grandmother, eldest daughter to the cobbled brick street to pick carefully thorough the variety of items, as if they were precious gems, delivered to front of their home.

I was born in 1942, 5 weeks after Pearl Harbor. Vegetable gardens in the back yard's was commonplace, but the Vegetable Vendors had a variety to choose from.

We had a two-party dial phone that rang with an edgy, guttural, menacing sound, like rotators' grousing.

In the 50's with the end of WWII, death of FDR, Truman, and Eisenhower, and the economy booming. Swing was big, jazz, blues, and the rise of Rock 'N Roll promised a new world with endless possibilities. 

My world began to crumble, then crashed into sharp shredded memories filled with fear, drunkenness, abuse, as I fished out my dad from one neighborhood bar to another dragging him home for dinner.

The worst was the chaos that ensued when my father, drunk beyond anything I had ever seen, awoke the household (my mother, me and my four older sisters with the stumbling noises, laughter that my father and his lover, Virginia made, as he pushed her upstairs to our bedroom. 

I awoke to my mother's shrill, angry voice, "Get Out of my house, who do you think you are. You are not coming in here. Get out!"

I leaped out of bed, rushed to my mother side, only to see this incredibly, sensuous, drunk Elizabeth Taylor, black-haired, big-busted beauty struggle toward the top of the stair, while my father, laughed, fell and staggered to get up from the bottom of the stairs.

"I hope, Mrs. Roberts, that when I become your age...I'll look as good as you do," which to my raven-haired mother was the equivalent to throwing gasoline on a raging fire.

When the siren, a beauty passed around from one drunk patron to another, until she found one that would pay her apartment, rent, pay for groceries, and their bar tab, or she would move on.

I didn't see what the problem was. She could sleep with me in my bed and mom and dad could sleep in their metal springs squeaking bed, seemed like a logical solution. 

Then there would be no problem and we all could go back to sleep, including my giggling sisters who, as the noise, shouting and tensions increased stuck their heads out from their bedroom, which was only 4 feet across the top of the stairs.

Six people lived in a two bedroom, two story house, with no bathtub only a commode, sink, mirror, screened window for ventilation during all the season at the end of the narrow room, lighted by a single, light bulb with an off-off string.



jrDiscussion - desc
Professor Principal
1  Kavika     4 weeks ago

Remembrance, good and bad. We all have them.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
1.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1    3 weeks ago

Yep, if you mix them together you will never need Viagra, again. Even if you are a wounded, Pusey-whip whiner.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
1.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1    2 weeks ago

And some haunt us. The good fade, the bad, the ugly fester in the back of one's brain they are let loose in some form or another.  

At nearly 81, I am trying to give them the boot. But they are strong, devious, hurtful, inspiring, even dangerous.

Professor Principal
1.2.1  Kavika   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @1.2    2 weeks ago

I'm 82 so perhaps some of our experiences might be similar. In life, I believe that we are all trying to give them the boot, but they do have a tendency to hang on.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
1.2.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1.2.1    2 weeks ago

Einstein once told me that sopheric acid dipped in eye drops was always his first choice. 

Professor Quiet
1.2.3  cjcold  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @1.2    2 weeks ago

Our memories whether good or bad; real or imagined shape us. 

Had a very weird dream last night that I won't be shaking off for awhile.

Watched so many die in reality no matter my efforts to revive them.

My dreams will never be as bad as my horrible memories.

I have a talent for waking myself up from subconscious nightmares.

Professor Principal
1.2.4  Kavika   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @1.2    2 weeks ago
Your heart will fix itself. It’s your mind you need to worry about. Your mind where you locked the memories, your mind where you have kept pieces of the ones that hurt you, that still cut through you like shards of glass. Your mind will keep you up at night, make you cry, destroy you over and over again. You need to convince your mind that it has to let go…because your heart already knows how to heal.”
― Nikita Gill
Raven Wing
Professor Expert
1.2.5  Raven Wing  replied to  Kavika @1.2.4    2 weeks ago

An excellent quote, Kavika. Thank you for sharing it with us.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
1.2.6  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @1.2.3    2 weeks ago

Were you in the service?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
1.2.7  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Kavika @1.2.4    one week ago

Thank you!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
1.2.8  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Raven Wing @1.2.5    one week ago

Ditto, that!

Professor Quiet
1.2.9  Ed-NavDoc  replied to  cjcold @1.2.3    one week ago

Same for me with my PTSD. I have dreams about when I was flying as medevac Navy Hospital Corpsman on USMC Hueys and second guess myself on the ones who did not survive under my care. I wake up screaming and in tears. Scares my adult daughter who lives with me.

Professor Principal
2  JohnRussell    4 weeks ago

I think it's nice you put your memories of growing up down in words on this forum for all to see. 

Its also cool that you dropped the "Mad Magazine" style of writing for a little bit. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
2.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  JohnRussell @2    3 weeks ago

John, you have been, and continue to me a guide. Thank you!

Truth is a bone, too often overlooked. There are nutrients everywhere. (You have been a good virtual friend.)

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
2.1.1  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @2.1    2 weeks ago
Truth is a bone, too often overlooked. There are nutrients everywhere. (You have been a good virtual friend.)

Canned sardines are too often overlooked and the bones in them are easily digested and very nutritious, that’s the virtual truth

Junior Participates
2.1.2  GregTx  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.1    2 weeks ago

My Dad used to carry a can of sardines, pack of crackers and onion everyday for lunch when he was a young man. Said he loved 'em and as a bonus it helped keep the skeeters away...

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
2.1.3  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  GregTx @2.1.2    2 weeks ago

I learned to enjoy sardines with my grandfather, that and Limburger cheese.

Today, I enjoy sardines on salad, with capers and black olives, sardines in Spanish rice, in pasta and on a sandwich, bread or crackers.  

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
2.1.4  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.1    one week ago

I enjoyed eating them as a child. They were as you said.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
2.1.5  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @2.1.3    one week ago

I am hungry, and that sound wonderful.

Professor Quiet
2.2  cjcold  replied to  JohnRussell @2    2 weeks ago

As a musician/songsmith I understand how the Eater thinks at times. 

Professor Quiet
2.2.1  cjcold  replied to  cjcold @2.2    2 weeks ago

Sat on a 'loveseat' backstage with Bob Marley once. A few years before he died of melanoma. 

He didn't pass his big spleef to me or anybody else.

His guys knew to just toss joints back and forth between them and us. It was a game of catch.

Didn't take long for us to figure out the protocol (us being the Blue Riddum Band).

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
2.2.2  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @2.2    2 weeks ago

I wrote poetry in college, and when the loneliness was so intense, I couldn't sleep, or understand why.  

I would write out my feelings, well into the night, correct the phrases, then, with a weight lifted from me, I would fall to sleep. I carried those poems, writings, etc. in a backpack for a number of years when I returned to college.

My professors would often read my work to the class, as I would in my Creative Writing. My work was rejected over and over again, so many time, that one morning I tossed the pack pack with years of my work into a dumpster.

I felt an instant release. But, gradually over the years, I have regrated that impulsive action. For with it with a chunk of my soul that I have never been able to retrieve. 

For years, I was able to recall, even recite some of my work. Slowly, they have evaporated. I miss them. They held me together, assuaged by sense of self, wrapped a wall of confidence about me. Now that they are gone, I have a sense of emptiness, loss that I cannot shape.

I turned to comedy, satire, political swathing, but it is not the same.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
2.2.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @2.2.1    one week ago

That is lit, man. That is pure poetry. Gifted, dude.

Buzz of the Orient
Professor Principal
3  Buzz of the Orient    4 weeks ago

Being five years older than you, your essay evoked memories of my own, although not quite so colourful, delivery of a block of ice for my grandmother's cottage ice box and getting that piece of ice to suck on, milk delivered in glass bottles with the cream risen to the top, a "Victory Garden" behind the garage, and dial phones with party lines, but not the drama that you witnessed.  In fact I'm still laughing from this line:

"I hope, Mrs. Roberts, that when I become your age...I'll look as good as you do," which to my raven-haired mother was the equivalent to throwing gasoline on a raging fire.
Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
3.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  Buzz of the Orient @3    3 weeks ago

Thanks, Buzz!

charger 383
Professor Quiet
4  charger 383    4 weeks ago

That is how life was, thanks for sharing. 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
4.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  charger 383 @4    3 weeks ago

Yes, sometimes, when my granddaughter reminds me that I am from another century...I begin to remember how different my life is from her experiences.

As a teen, my mother told me about her family leaving Minnesota on a Cover Wagon to get to South Dakota and qualify for 160 free acres and a mule. 

I was embarrassed, humiliated! "Why would she tell me about her destitute, primitive life?" 

Now, I wished that I had listened more closely.

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
4.1.1  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @4.1    3 weeks ago

I still remember my daughter asking me why I use the phrase "dial a phone number'.  Fortunately, I had an old, phone in the basement to show her.  She was surprised at the size, weight and of course, the rotary dial.

Professor Quiet
4.1.2  cjcold  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @4.1    2 weeks ago

My great, great, great grandfather built the first wind powered grain mil ln Kansas.

My great, great grandfather opened the first Chevy dealership in Kansas. 

My grandfather brought electric power to our county.

My father owned a bank and a whole town.

All I do is flaunt a $100,000.00 Rolex and a few fast cars.

My college degrees involve environmental science and saving the planet.

Seems I'm letting my ancestors down and have no idea how to remedy that.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
4.1.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @4.1.2    2 weeks ago

cjcold, you are an artist, a writer, that is your gift.  There is no need to follow in someone else's footsteps. You are walking in your own.

We are not the same as others. It is difficult to accept the fact that we are talented, want different thing, see and feel the world differently.

Your ancestors did their thing, and they were good at it, successful, contributed to humanity, but we do as well, in another soulful way.

Your journey is calling you to a different path, take it. No one that loves you expects you to follow in someone's else shoes, if they do, then, they do not know you. 

You are not required to emulate your ancestors, or anyone.  
Do your own thing, and fuck 'em.

People build empires, a poem, or a song is just as strong.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
5  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It    3 weeks ago

I have more editing to do, but grow weary after a short spurt, need a nap, a dictionary break and a snack.

Professor Principal
5.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5    2 weeks ago

Keep your strength up, "old-timer!"  I hope you got that editing completed. As I am 'bout to start reading any 'minute' now! :)

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
5.1.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @5.1    2 weeks ago

The strangest thing, CB, as I start to edit, I am carried away in a burst of energy, rarely get it done, jamming up the keyboard with another preamble.

At times, I do try to re-edit my work, but the effusion will not allow me to look backwards, it forces me into another incomprehensible rush, and such, I feel is the power of bi-bolar storms.

I have stopped taking my mood meds and started howling at the Moon.  Can you hear me, where you are?

At nearly 81, I know not how much time I have to ramble...I intend to do so until the end.

Professor Principal
5.1.2  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5.1.1    2 weeks ago

Well, I did note the edit process was. . . 'stalled' a bit. All is forgiven. Age is a factor for which you have earned all your proportioned laurels. Sit by a stream, watch the children laugh, and put on some good tunes and read and write what is in your heart as often as you like! :) Who cares why elephants are fat? And anyway-why can't donkeys fly?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
5.1.3  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @5.1.2    one week ago

You have been a good, virtual friend to me. I rely on your replies. I know not why. But, they are like manna to a parched man. Thank you, CB, for being a friend.

Finally, I feel like I am slinking in, every so softly, into the inner den surrounded by a growing glow of friends, even if they are virtual, they feel like real friends, maybe, even better.

Professor Principal
5.1.4  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5.1.3    one week ago

Yeah, well we can't get 'looted' by donation scams in the virtual world! jrSmiley_34_smiley_image.gif   All those, 'Feed the polar bears, tigers, elephants, cows, cats, dogs, babies, lions, ->breathes<- are just too much already!

You like me because people like us we don't give in and we don't give out! We can't lose! We got this! Life, at any age, is as good as it gets, because we accept nothing, I mean nuthin ' less! Whatever I am, whatever I got, whosoever I am holding on to. . . they're mind and I ain't letting go of any of it! Because I'm, we're, giving it the best that we got!

Cheers, sir!

Now,. . . how about some mayonnaise on your fish sandwich or are you good?!

Junior Participates
5.1.5  shona1  replied to  CB @5.1.4    one week ago

Morning CB... forget the mayo, I can send some Vegemite...that will have Eats firing on all cylinders in no time.

Professor Principal
5.1.6  CB   replied to  shona1 @5.1.5    one week ago

Morning Shona!! Send extra Vegamite in a 'care package' to CB! I might like firing a few cylinders too!

Professor Quiet
5.2  cjcold  replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @5    2 weeks ago

I also make a living editing the mistakes of others. Some folks just can't write.

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
5.2.1  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  cjcold @5.2    2 weeks ago
Some folks just can't write.

Victims of our public school education?

Perrie Halpern R.A.
Professor Principal
5.2.2  Perrie Halpern R.A.  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @5.2.1    2 weeks ago

Or they didn't take advantage of what was offered to them... 

I saw a lot of that when I was a public school teacher.

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
5.2.3  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.2    2 weeks ago

My wife is a public school teacher and complains of the same, parents, what can we do?

Perrie Halpern R.A.
Professor Principal
5.2.4  Perrie Halpern R.A.  replied to  Drinker of the Wry @5.2.3    2 weeks ago

It's a story as old as time. Just think back to when you were a kid. There were always kids who were underachievers. Positive reinforcement maybe?

Drinker of the Wry
Freshman Principal
5.2.5  Drinker of the Wry  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.4    2 weeks ago
Positive reinforcement maybe?

Like participation trophies?

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
5.2.6  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  cjcold @5.2    2 weeks ago

That is a gift. I have a manuscript that I wrote in a heat when my Best Friend died, ten years ago. It begs to be edited. I cannot return to it.

Professor Quiet
5.2.7  cjcold  replied to  Perrie Halpern R.A. @5.2.4    2 weeks ago
Positive reinforcement maybe?


Professor Principal
6  JohnRussell    2 weeks ago

What a heartfelt reminiscence. !!

I hope everyone here reads it. 

Professor Principal
7  CB     2 weeks ago

Okay, my dear and adorable friend you may deserve to get in as much trouble as Eddie Murphy found himself when he joked about AIDS being on the lips of women after kissing their homosexual friends. (Take that blue-joke-out of your line-up!)

Now, turning to other things. . . how about that peaceful and beautifully landscaped garden of color image you supplied us to indulge our eyes upon? PRECIOUS.

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
7.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @7    one week ago

I am in the mood to vent me anger.

Professor Principal
7.1.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @7.1    one week ago

Oh-oh! Lighting bolts and thunderclaps in dark clouds are breaching the horizon. . . and then the warm, cool, radiance of your sunny disposition burst into full view of the stage of your existence and the lights came up. . . and we all sang a celebration song around you before we broke up to go back 'home'!  :):):)

Masters Expert
8  Veronica    2 weeks ago

It is very good....and I love how you get the memories in there.  I know some are sad and some are happy... We have to live through the sad so we realize there are happy ones.

Childhood memories can color our outlooks so much (or at least I have found that to be true).  I have tried to do better than my parents with my kids, but I see the mistakes I have made.  

I will be back to read more when you continue (you did say a work in process).

pat wilson
Professor Guide
9  pat wilson    2 weeks ago

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."

                                                                                                                              Kahil Gibran 

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
9.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  pat wilson @9    one week ago

I just missed the joy train, not for running...put for the pain, the fear that held me back. The next time it rush by I shall jump aboard with confidence.  Thank you for helping me look up, rather than always down.

Professor Principal
10  CB     2 weeks ago

Gulp! Lots to digest there. I will need a minute. . . but before I take the specified amount of time. . . I am reminded on something I recall: The milk delivery man. Lordy! That man had some of the richest tasting buttermilk in a jar money could buy! Hmm mm.  Now here is the 'thang': Is there even butter in buttermilk?!

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
10.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @10    one week ago

Yes, he did. What struck me was his size, strength, his calmness, efficiency, and quiet manner. I liked the ice, his kind gesture, but, always wished that he would linger longer. That image lingers to this day.

I never was much of a milk drinker. I do not remember its taste, I remember the feeling, although fleeting, of safety I felt with him near.

Professor Principal
10.1.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @10.1    one week ago

We always got the buttermilk and chocolate milk delivery. Oh my I just had a memory: taking off the paper tab top pressed down and sealed around the top of the bottles. :)

We got our ice blocks from the ice facility 'up the street' a ways. We drove for it.

Sophomore Guide
11  Thomas    2 weeks ago
It was as if the words I wanted were on an elevator, the doors open, I could see them clearly stacked neatly in the back of the elevator on the floor. They just refused to jump off before the door closed. It was a stalemate, the doors remained open.

This describes my speech aphasia. 

I get the sentences all lined up and ready to go in my brain, and then sometimes the words make it all the way out of my mouth and sometimes they get lost in the translation between thought and the spoken word.

Thank you very much for sharing.

Professor Principal
12  CB     2 weeks ago

Those Were The Days My Friend - Mary Hopkin -Lyrics On Screen

I remember going to the Ice House and using an ice pick. . . but what I do not remember is. . . the purposes of buying blocks of ice. . . my family was not the 'party' type back then!

"We'd sing and dance forever and a day!"

Eat The Press Do Not Read It
Senior Expert
12.1  author  Eat The Press Do Not Read It  replied to  CB @12    one week ago

Thanks, I remember that song, but, never was it more meaningful that when I played it hear.

Professor Principal
12.1.1  CB   replied to  Eat The Press Do Not Read It @12.1    one week ago

She has good 'wind' to sing that song!  Aah youth - those were the days, eh?


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