Presidential Sound-Bite

"There is nothing as a nation that we can't do." (A ridiculous sound-bite by President Obama regarding the death of Osama Bin Laden today).

Dear Mr. President,

How about ending hunger and poverty in the USA -- with a quick pre-emptive strike! We can do it! Just pull out of the wars and redirect that money toward education and programs for the needy. Voila!
I want the man, not the politician.

Sincerely,
Ed

Life Before Blog.

Once again, life comes before social networking. I have been preoccupied, for a few weeks now, with an assortment of issues demanding much of my time and emotional energy. Inevitably, that state of mind annoys my muse who is undisciplined to begin with. Perhaps it's the stench of the real world that keeps her away. I can't blame her.

Another Letter To My Son -- 1990

Dear Adam,
I am the papa of two incredibly bright, precocious children. I mistakenly thought your little sister, Jillian, having such a tough act to follow, would never measure up.  My fears were unfounded. I am delighted to report, wonder of wonders, she stands tall as the ancient redwoods, shines as bright as the star of stars, and touches my heart, sending puddles of pride pounding through my veins.
Double N'iced Pop.

A Letter to My Son, 1990

Dear Adam,
In our present state of evolution we humans are extremely fragile emotionally and psychologically, so we build an elaborate barrier of defense mechanisms that render us obscure even from ourselves.  It allows us to side-step through the demands and pressures of society. By the time we are old enough to wipe our own behind, we have already incorporated and solidified a complicated, personalized method of negotiating the world around us rather than experiencing it in an objective, rational manner. We are weak, vulnerable,  un-trusting, self-imposed prisoners of our emotional baggage. This is not limited to, but is primarily caused by, poor parenting.

Equally well-defended as one's ego, the church gets up in arms when we try to give our children a rational education. The difference between religions' attitude toward illusions and mine is that one must defend the religious illusion fanatically. If it were discredited then there would be nothing but despair. I am free of that bondage. Since I am prepared to renounce a good part of my infantile wishes, I can bear it if my illusions explode in my face.

POP.

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911

Inevitably, blood fertilizes the tree of freedom and progress. It's not limited to wars. Apathy and greed run deep, a sad commentary on the human condition.

This year, we commemorate the 100th anniversary of the tragic Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911. The resulting, albeit temporary, public outrage was, perhaps, the first breath into the lungs of the New Deal—which didn't come to pass until the 1930's in response to the great depression!

Now, almost a century later, greedy conservative politicians threaten workers' rights again.

The man who locked the doors of that factory in 1911—ostensibly to keep out union organizers because there had been a massive demonstration earlier—still is representative of the thinking of the corporate world.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

St. Patrick's Day Limerick

Every year, on my birthday, I write another St. Patrick's Day limerick. Here's the one for 2011:

An Irishman dressed all in green,
had the longest wang I've ever seen.
When he peed, said his daughter,
his thing reached the water,
so the loo never needed a clean.

Many folks consider that a limerick must be obscene, or it's not a limerick. I'm not that rigid. I just enjoy the obscene ones more.
HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

TRANCE TUESDAY -- VIII

Well . . . the third Tuesday of the month is here . . . and it's way too soon . . . I  thought I'd be fine . . . with only one hypnosis-related post due each month . . . but I find myself unprepared . . . Could it really be a month . . . since I posted the last Trance Tuesday? . . . I'm beginning to realize . . . why I could never work . . . in a normal capacity . . . with writing schedules and deadlines . . . They stop me in my tracks . . .

My muse is undisciplined . . . like my dogs . . . She disappears for weeks at a time . . . sometimes, months . . . doesn't come when I call . . . never has . . . Then she appears . . . suddenly . . . magically . . . in a puff of smoke . . . with words and ideas spilling out of every pore . . . until the room overflows with prose . . .

In the haze, she smiles . . . and sits on the piano seductively . . . as I gather the pieces of the puzzle . . . and attempt to arrange them . . . in an interesting and meaningful fashion    . . . She laughs . . . and I can't tell whether it's at me . . . or for me . . .                            But as ideas coalesce . . . and the syntax begins to sing . . . and the words quick-step into line . . . and the tenses begin to agree . . . and the passive voices have all headed to the gym to bulk up . . . I finally breathe deeply . . .

She waves goodbye . . . then slowly fades away.

Relax, read, reflect. Train your muse.
Sit, Muse. Stay. Good girl!