It's about Time

I'm sure you've learned that the Earth is mostly water. We've adapted to this quite well.
Learning how to sail (sale) on the Complacent sea, all of us are searching, wandering, floating or steering, flotsam, jetsam, breadcrumbs and footprints. We are biodegradable and unstable, when we break down we put up a fight. This is sometimes called resistance, or a rip current.
Currently, some of us are lost and some found a map, but nobody can translate it accurately. Symbolically, some shipmates glasses are half full with doubt, they'll never figure it out.
Whirled peas, Alumni from Dumbguy U., Co-Exist, lofty liberalism I insist is the same as Righteousness, with Tolerance thrown out. Left to fend for themselves, a baby learns to dog paddle with or without apparent fear or trepidation, fitness survives. A baby lightly bobs between water and air, suspended and unweighted by heavy social lead.
Why do we listen to all the positively negative nonsense we call news? There's nothing new about hatred, it has not evolved to date, not even in the last Google algorithmic update. Malware.
Why can't we all get along? We'll never agree. Reducing the problem down to its LCD, the lowly ones are singularly stoic. Grounded in futility, they stand unmoved by any urgency.
As the clock ticks by I remember pennies and seconds, those disappearing dirigibles that go up with inflation before remembering, like an elephant in the skyroom, we can all see it.
The solution as clear as the sun.
What time is it where you are? It's almost three, here. Somewhere else its eight right now.
There it is, one anomaly on which we both agree. Except when we are trying to save daylight, or leap around, rounding off the edges of time. Even or oddly if its early or late, we both somewhat have the same date, or season, for understandings reason.
We should start there, or here.
Synchronizing our watches and fine-tuning our ears, recalibrating our empathetic monitors and juxtapositioning our consciousness, realigning our common ground.
Discovering, recovering our sense of equilibrium we will succumb to worldly agreement.
It's about Time
Eddie, the whirled doesn't revolve around Us.
But over all earthly territories, we have already proven we can agree,
This is our Time
we created,
adrift
ego's lost in the Legas Sea.

Suffocating in stone

Our mass is felt most awkwardly oafish, obtrusive, repulsive, ugly, misshapen and completely wrong while in small spaces, be it a room, a car, a tent, a body.
That is how we are made to notice the significance of our every strand that so easily can become unravelled but shows how thick and tightly we are woven, braided, knotted and inextricably tied to others.
Our bed is how we like it, it should be-at least our side anyway, modest maybe, it is our humble hibernation space, a comfort zone, annuity fund.
We spend a fortune on thoughts tossed into the well of dreams while on the ledge of our beds between reality and fantasy, or nightmare. We frivolously spend our sleeping habits like worthless pennies that add up over time.
We properly adjust and situate and simulate our habitats.
A pretty bed, a California King bed, a four poster canopy bed may look inviting, but that doesn't guarantee comfort, losing sheep among the folds of the blinding mind.
It's cumbersome to be limited by the locale, character descriptions, steep and slanted arch-types with mis-matching labels, formalized by titles and rules.
Starting with an idea to edit one's reality, conclude with a change of your circumstance. You already have the tools you need.
One should heed Michelangelo and let the stone be freed from its misshapen form, it's mask of labels, loud stereotypes blur the fine lines and wrinkles.
You as the sculptor must start by manipulating, manually, your minds eye, adjusting your vision to take aim, instead of seeing life through rosy colored blame.


Image By Bain Collection (Library of Congress) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hungry, Hungry Hypo

Hunger is rampant, even in fat America.

Empty calories do not nourish.  I can imagine licking the wallpaper glue like they had to do in Russia during the 90-day siege of Leningrad.

When I put sweetener in my coffee I often think it could easily be arsenic or sugar. A spoonful of sugar IS the poison going down. 

How many of us were given the moral ultimatum about cleaning our plates at the dinner table (clean-plate club or no dessert-dessert has two s's because you want a second scoop) and yet this seems like feeding torture to kids-why must we eat more than we are hungry for? 

Almost 100 years ago, around 1920 a woman named Kitty Marion was imprisoned in London at Halloway prison for giving a gentleman who had come to her troubled about his pregnant wife, and his too big of a household already- with his not enough to go around, and what to do dilemma-she gave him a pamphlet on this new concept called 'birth control'.  For providing her voice she lost her throat. The gentleman turned her into the authorities and while imprisoned she was forcibly fed 233 times, permanently causing severe throat damage (a record of some sort). Stubbornly consumed with her cause of not biting off more than one can chew, she was arrested 9 times in 10 years for her advocacy of birth control, a suffering suffragette. 

I was born when my mother was on birth control.

I'm thankful for the small percents, perseverance, chaos, chance and determination.

As a mother, I was not a good cook until the beginning of the Food Network. 

I became an excellent home cook and began writing food and dining critiques for a decently known news group (corp.) until gallstones rolled in, but really the problems started not long before that when my appendix exploded. A couple years and multiple hospital visits later it was no longer "safe" for me to eat out anywhere. I stopped writing the column. I still eat my words every day. 

Nowadays it's not just empty calories, following recipes and painting by the numbers.

I changed my diet, I thought I was always hungry, I was just not understanding what I was hungry for. A craving always finds its fulfillment.

Eating out is a luxuriant cultural tradition. Eating more than you need is a luxury every American takes when they eat out or eat any one of our three prescribed dietary recommended daily meals. 

Most American's no longer speak the same language as their own bodies, a communicable barrier, a language gap, the thigh gap? That's still a thing, the thigh trap for teenage girls. My daughter told me no young attractive females like the fitted t-shirt, mid-drifts and booty shorts and they were all designed by pedophilic men, she may be right. Aside from the washing label stating 'wash delicately', it should also say made with less than 1% of self-esteem. Why don't women get pockets that actually hold anything? Women are expected to hold everything because we are used to carrying weight, not just ours, or our children(s). 

Women have a stronger sense of smell and a higher pain threshold than men. If only I could smell fear like bees and dogs.

American's enjoy denying the joy of eating. Morality is the condiment of the 'new world'.  It's an acquired taste. Many countries I have learned spend hours eating a meal, and I admit I don't love food that much anymore to spend that much time 'eating' and mincing words about alphabet soups and umami. American's eat wrong, weigh the evidence. I'm not one to write about it however.

When I was little and my grandmother shared with me memories about the spread of 'consumption', I thought she meant over-eating, eating everything from paper to plastic, from primer to paint.

She meant the TB kind, which was first thought to be a disease confirming vampires prior to the Industrial Revolution, but really humans have been getting this disease since the beginning maybe we were born with it even latently. This is not just an old affliction or a thread of my grandma's yarn, in 2012 alone 8.6 million cases of consumption were confirmed around the globe. Consumption can also mean ingestion or to utilize economic goods and bads for the satisfaction, wants, desires, whims in the process of 'production' with the likely result of destruction, deterioration, and/or total transformation. An appetite for destruction. Some people allow television to consume their time. I let books consume me.

Feasting your eyes on art is a guilty pleasure that will add positively to your total weight, but don't worry, you can never over eat creativity. Like water, it goes right through you. 

America chose corn over art. Sugar over poetry. Fast food over brain food. Controlled manipulation. Famished Nation. Inherited ignorance in a state of bliss. 

Meanwhile, my stomach growls, I understand what it's telling me, I am sated with food for thought. 

Image By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.