They’re Not Locust


They’re Not Locust

Desolation was only a step away. I wrote that statement about the Locust People very carefully, then spoke my mind to my Higher Power, and then to several people I happen to know are friends. My Higher Power opened a doorway to a new friendship, directly from a casual acquaintance, as I reached out for a new friend to talk to. I’ve expanded my own horizons.

My new friend understood I had a need to talk, and gladly accompanied me to dinner.

It was as natural as sitting down to eat with my late grandmother, late mother, or late aunt.

All of them are long gone by now, but my listener was willing and cooperative, as any late relative of mine would have been. I spoke fluently. I told much of the tale of the two legged and the four legged. I spoke much of the tale of the Too Many to Count, the tale about the locust people, which subject I’ve broached before I’ve posted here.

I have not held back, except to withhold self-focused violence.

The four legged have considered the two legged, and all of their running around in their suicide machines, and the four legged does not understand the two legged at all. How do they kill so many four legged, with something the four legged can’t even notice, until it’s too late? The two legged are very dangerous animals, who seem to hate the four legged, and covet even the ground they walk on.

Why do so many four legged need to die at the hands of the two legged?

It doesn’t make sense.

The four legged have made themselves as harmless as they can muster. They could not be anymore harmless than they already are. They never hurt the two legged. They never do. Why is it that the two legged have to grab the four legged, and throw them up in the air so violently, or is the suicide machine some new creature made by the Creator Himself?

The Creator won’t say.

He’s been silent toward the four legged for a long time now.

The two legged speak a different language than the four legged do. It’s not even safe for the four legged to attempt to speak to the two legged. They are mortal enemies, the two legged and the four legged. They always have been. There is something lethal about even trying to get a drink of water on the other side of the man-made stone, when the four legged has to cross it, the stone goes continuously around all over the land in every direction.

The two legged have always hunted the four legged. They’ve hunted them on all that man-made stone endlessly, every which way the four legged turn. Then, sometimes the two legged will stand far off, and there will be a loud bark. Then one of the four legged will drop away, and the four legged who survive can’t ever understand.

There is some ancient folk lore among the four legged, about the time before the two legged would even bark when they hunted, but the four legged would die anyway. The two legged are very dangerous creatures. They have powers to kill in ways no four legged can understand.

The two legged reasoning is not clear to the four legged.

The gentlewoman I shared table with this evening was easy to talk to. I made a new friend out of an amicable acquaintance. I’ve always enjoyed an entirely different and more positive mood after a little bit of supper, than all that heavy desolation I suffered before supper. I had gone downstairs here at assisted living, and found a working woman who thought my joke was funny:

“I went to Hawaii to get laid.” I don’t know how they spell it in Hawaii!

She said she would probably have laughed in front of everybody – and lost her job! Another one of the working ladies, the one whom I thought I had offended with the joke, was not at all ruffled by my sense of humor. I imagined it. She was only concerned about how some of the elderly might have reacted – if they would have even heard the comment in the first place.

Many people around here in assisted living are as deaf as a stone.

Many of them can’t hear anyone say a word in this place. They’re constantly yelling at people because they have such a challenge even hearing their own voices. She was taken off guard at my comment, but the activities director had no problem with me, personally. She even appreciated my thoughtful public apology, which seemed pointless to all those deaf people.

The whole issue was resolved with just a few casual words.

My grand dissociation was greatly exaggerated, or created by my chemical imbalance.

Maybe it was a drop in my blood/sugar level.

That’s why I do what I do: I pray. I reach out to people. I write. I fight the depression and desolation with every ounce of strength I can muster, because I’m well aware that when I fall into the depths of desolation like that, which does happen to me far to easily, my life is temporarily in danger from my own hand.

I’m learning to defuse the bomb before it goes off. I occasionally become at least slightly dangerous to myself. It’s not a game to me. It’s deadly serious stuff. It’s something my chemical imbalance does to my brain, whenever I get to certain junctures in my conceptualizing. It does happen to be a significant problem for me sometimes, like before a meal, for instance.

I’ve learned how to survive a mood like that, harmlessly enough.

People are always telling me to take it a little easier on myself.

At least I’ve learned to do all these other things, and avoid doing anything too irreversible, like yelling in public, or attacking my own body. I’ve learned that the hard way. I’ve learned to take the most severe depressions and desolation’s of my heart and soul, with a grain of salt; and avoid doing anything too drastic. I’ve learned that those moods are dangerous, and that I should do certain things which are basically harmless, until I feel better.

I’ve learned how and why to fight back against a state of mind like that one.

My Maker taught me in my heart, how to fight back with my writing and my talking, against the desolation and depression. Those concepts are very dangerous to my health. I’ve attempted suicide once before, way back in 1975, with thought patterns like the one I’ve opened this story with. I refuse to submit to my own self-loathing. I owe it to myself, as well as to my Maker, to take thoughts like that one in stride, to the best of my ability.

I can write it all down, so it sounds like a brief sci fi story. I can get into it and out of it again so quickly, but then I have to gravitate toward something and someone else, anything more positive than anything I’ve written otherwise. I’ve learned that I’m at war with a state of mind which threatens my very existence, until I give it the full treatment. At long last, I feel relieved enough to do the good work that I’ve accomplished while fighting the good fight.

My Higher Power made me individually and significantly.

He has called my name from the place where souls are made.

It’s important for me to do battle against all those kinds of thoughts, and to see them, to look at them, for what they really are. They are only bad thoughts. Those thoughts are a bad mood, and nothing more. I needed to cheer up when I think like that. I am no longer in much more danger than any ordinary man would be. By this time, the fire has gone out of my mood.

I’ve struggled to disarm the mood, and have won the struggle.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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