The dye was caste, and the results were as expected. All that transpired thereafter was preordained from before the foundations of the earth. There was a fellow who wanted a spiritual awakening, so he spent forty days and forty nights in the desert. There was another, who wanted similar results, and he ingested a power plant. The results were a matter of course.

Intelligence was apparently not one of the questions under consideration, though I don’t know, but there is a capacity for spiritual conceptualizing, which was a foregone conclusion. One must be able to consider abstractions, to get the job. Therefore, the callings were issued at their respective times. Now, various people were called for jobs at various times, not just a couple.

It’s only that I’m an avid student of these two lives, and not particularly one of others, in general. For instance, it is curious to consider the choices made in David’s life. Yet he was known as a man after our maker’s own heart. It is only that David frequently kept reaching out to his maker, and it is assumed that there were not so many others of David’s time, who did equally so.

Besides, aren’t the characters in the Bible, put there in the first place, for us to relate to their circumstances? For starters, I can relate to Job, in that nothing ever seemed to work out right in my life, for a long time and seemingly for no good reason. Well, that’s changed, now that I’ve kept the faith, and acted with righteousness. But I’m not certain anything I did, impacted it.

It’s clear that both men, who sought religious experience, ultimately found what they were looking for. I was one of them, and for years, I became filled with more than I could contain. Watch yourself, and don’t draw conclusions based on information you don’t have. Those were years I was lost in things I could not understand, until I defined my own capacity for my own limits.

You study one book, and think you have all the answers to all the questions on all the exams, and I dare say it’s not so. I’ve been to places you never go, and have accomplished things you can’t imagine. There is only one God, one faith, one baptism. I am faithful to the things my maker has required of me, whether any living, breathing human being thinks so or he doesn’t.

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There has got to be a beginning place, where all things are one, in this seriously screwed up life of mine. The idea that I ingested that life altering chemical, and lived to tell the tale, is remarkable in itself. That it only simulates death, but does not bring it about, is an interesting concept to ponder for a moment or two. I wonder how to tell you about my experience with a falsified death?

For one thing, there’s more to tell you than I could ever remember, if I lived to be a lot more ripe an old age than I happen to be now, and I might succeed in making myself silly in the attempt. Having a myriad of experiences to recount, one after another, in a sort of tapestry, I succeeded in traversing the crack between the worlds, and that experience of itself is Almighty God.

The mountains themselves have more of a story to tell than I ever will, and are less inclined to make the attempt. I know I went up the mountain and back down again, but have no clear recollection of the series of events I can say I experienced, immediately, or subsequently thereafter. My memory is quite disjoint on the particulars of what happened after traversing between the worlds.

There was the concept of spectrum for me to consider, and I shudder to think I nearly burned the place down, toying with bits of fire, in some crazed ceremony. I ultimately claim the structure was spared destruction, and the people contained within, were none the worse for the wear of my madness. Experiments with the concept of spectrum were a success, and I took on enlightenment.

What’s more is, the one experience is not the slightest bit related to the other, and I only associate the two in coincidence, but only the one is contained within the lesson I addressed, in dead earnest. My mind’s eye could envision the consequence of a various spectrum, in all things more profoundly, and I was pressed to apply the image elsewhere, and found myself hard put.

This is a momentary part of an entirety of my experience with the power plant, and it embroils itself in the nonsensical quality of the greater part of it. It was sometime after I moved on from this nonsense, that I was taken from the confines of the infirmary of university, and was spirited off, on a magic carpet ride, down the mountain to another set of nonsensical stories to tell, there.

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Once we’ve settled in on the problem, we must pursue a solution. What do we do about it, and how do we go about doing it? Win the hearts and minds of a few young mothers, about the need to avoid vulgarity and road rage, then teach their children. What of the fathers, you might ask? But in this society, my question is, what fathers? Society is riddled with absentee men.

If we can persuade a few young mothers, they will also persuade a few of their friends in casual conversation and begin to teach their children verbally and by example. Within a generation or two, vulgarity and road rage may begin to abate, then random, senseless violence will begin to abate, if the influence among subsequent generations is widespread. Somehow, love got lost.

Our language got too lax, then our rage got too widespread. This has not happened before, because there has not been the technology until recently. It’s understandable enough, it’s just not excusable. If every other word is vulgar, it brings anger, contempt and eventually rage. People cannot understand why it manifests in acts of mass murder, because they’re not thinking.

The kind of language I’m talking about, brings on murder, because it dehumanizes other human beings, just as technology of all sorts dehumanizes human beings in one way or another. That’s alright. Stop cussing each other out, in and out of each others earshot, and it may defuse incidents of rage. Defuse that, and mass murder may abate, because our fellows develop feat of clay.

Accept the fallibility of your own humanity, and that of your fellows. Accept the human capacity for error, both great and small, in all that each one of us does, and give up resenting other people’s shortcomings, as you give up resenting your own. Accept the frailty of others, and your own as well. Once you’ve succeeded in accomplishing that, you have truly done a day’s work.

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What we’re facing as a nation is some hard truth. It’s something we all have to face, and make every effort to change, or we will destroy ourselves as a culture and a people.

We all have to deal with the human condition. Possibly traveling at lethal rates of speed, in otherwise uncontrolled chunks of steel; somebody makes a bad decision all too often. But why would we ask God to damn what we want him to bless? Our language, our states of mind, are ours to choose, and we’ve chosen road rage, vulgarity, anger and hatred, behind the wheel at 60 mph.

Granted, it’s only natural. Nonsense. As human beings, we have the choice to control our language and our feelings, to a much larger extent than we give ourselves credit for. Let’s start with language. Words have power, meaning and authority over our feelings and behavior. If we give into vulgarity and rage consistently, one of us is going to get a gun, and start killing people.

If we choose to swallow the instinct which becomes rage, and choose some other reaction, any other reaction, choosing anything else in place of vulgarity, whatever it is, and we’ve won that battle that time. I’m one who has a disorder which effects my feelings and emotions, and I know all too well, how hard it is to swallow anger and vulgarity, and disarm rage, nipping it in the bud.

But that one absurd behavior is what we’re called upon to do. Practice colorful speech some other place than behind the wheel of our motor vehicles. Practice verbal and emotional restraint when we manage our car. Be honest with yourself, and make healthier choices when lives are on the line, or someone is going to continue to act out in the ways people have already been doing.

Quit telling ourselves, and our children, the words of anger, hatred and rage when we drive, and mass murder will begin to dissipate. Take responsibility for our language, and feelings will follow.

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Don’t have any idea what to write about. There was this guy outside my door giving an as-a-matter-of-fact testimony about nothing whatsoever, for a long time this morning. Holding forth, the problem with that, is that there’s too many people anymore, and no one has the opportunity to be an individual, because there’s just not enough space left among us, for anybody to do so.

There is a prayer warrior in the atrium this morning, making ceaseless entreaty to her maker, for all and sundry prayer requests and petitions to the Almighty. He may be able to listen, but it’s getting on my flipping nerves. She doesn’t know what else to do with herself, therefore making an unending, urgent plea for some, similar nothing, for that which was pointless testimony otherwise.

Now, these are two, entirely different characters I’ve been hearing from, almost simultaneously, hold forth in a most disconcerting fashion, unendingly. No one can effectively tune either one of them out, it seems, while I’m already on the last nerve of my very thin patience, at the end of my rather short, proverbial rope. Next, my darling dear sits stoic at the piano in the atrium, to endeavor.

She could stand rehearsal, but having been a church organist, she knows that the human ear listens to the most intrepid sound, first and foremost. Therefore, she plods along, whether accurate or no, and makes attempt at certain preconceived pieces. It’s all a little tentative, but she ends up making music after all, and the greater part of the population of Watauga Hall endorses her.

At inconvenient intervals throughout our tedious day, we of the very beleaguered Watauga Hall, are all required, once again, to endure an unidentified woman’s, preemptively loud entreaties to her maker, to Lord only knows what end. It just seems to me that she’s inappropriately vying for attention she ought to be getting behind a locked door, in the White Room we don’t have here.

Hours have passed, and we’ve all had our lunch, to tend to our basic needs and cravings at table, at our noon day. I’m back in my room by now, where my love just moved onto other endeavors elsewhere, after being ever so warm and tender with this old geezer that I am. We all need someone we can let down with, and my Anna Kate is the one for me. She’s the MacGuire I said.

She’s old enough now, to change her name, the way it says in the song.

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The current administration is getting some alarming press, and one cannot help but wonder whether the public will become alarmed enough to put down their cell phones, to venture out with anything decisive about this national crisis.  Are we going to take professional evaluation seriously?

There have been licensed psychiatrists make public statement that Donald is dangerous, and unfit to remain in power.  The government has refused to yield to these reports.  It is incumbent upon the people to take a stand.  What’s it going to be, Google what I’m saying until you loose interest, or take to the streets, to hold the man responsible?

This is not 1776 or 1861, or even 1970.  This is 2017, and the time is at hand.

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It was an honor to be asked to write about the trees.  Since trees have been closest to my heart, I could not write about them without writing about what I feel.  The woods have been my safe haven, my asylum, like the quietude in the middle of me, that place nothing can penetrate.  That place within me, which nothing can conquer.  I built a mighty fortress within me.  It’s walls are silence, it’s floor is still.  It is safest there, of any place.

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