Sweet Sunday

Michelle Bachman, dear readers, in my humble idea, is a twit. She wants to “save” this country. What in the name of God does this mean, exactly? Individuals can make their own decisions about “salvation,” and they don't need Michelle Bachman to pave the way. It's none of her business what individual citizens do with their own lives anyway. She's not a savior, in any way, shape, form, or quota. Maybe that's it. Maybe she has some innate insecurity about proving how good she is to God. Rubbish.   The kind of Federal Government that exists has no bearing upon an individual's spiritual state of mind.   The two are not connected in any way.  Also, there should be communities of people expounding upon the idea of building trust and social capital, but the Federal Government also has a role to play in its citizens' lives, most importantly in the realm of social programs.   Every citizen deserves to be honored in that way.    Just because the Federal Government is honored to provide for its citizenry does not mean that churches should not be "stepping up to the plate" and helping people.   There is place in this Western society for people to love one another and for the Federal Government to spend money on its citizens through Social Security, Medicare, and through other programs like Health insurance.  This will not cancel local communities and groups, it can only enhance them.  Money is purposeful and so is local social capital.

Solemn Sunday

I've neglected my blog, which leaves an unsettled feeling.

I recently returned from a road trip to West Virginia, and what an adventure that proved to be.  More to come.   I was hoping to snag a picture of the Arch in St. Louis, but since traffic was snarly, I had to pay close attention to road signs and traffic.  Cars zoomed on either side of me, and daylight was ebbing.  I loved this adventure.  I recommend activities such as this that will stretch one's boundaries, character, mind, body, and limitations.

I am now in Oklahoma again, after the nice visit with my folks, and I ponder being so far away from my family; 1,000 miles seems so far.  I miss them.  How does one reconcile the facts and the lonliness of one's heart?   I hear the phrase, "making the best of it" as the situation is.  Well, that is all well and good; but, being the conflicted person that I am internally (I tend to be melancholy), this concept does not ring true for me.   The emotions will just have to be made right on their own.    The more I force myself to be jolly, the more despondent I grow.  Why is that?   Chemical makeup too? 

Oklahoma has served its purpose in my life; time to wander and ponder, I muse.   An excerpt from my memories (book?) follows:

Every summer when I was a kid, fried pattypan squash inundated our lives. Fresh from their garden, along with White Half Runner Green Beans (let's be very specific about this, because this was the only green bean that I thought existed as a child), and we never bought green beans at the grocery store, carrots, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, and numerous other vegetables, undoubtedly, that I have since forgotten about, graced our dining table along with basic meat cuts like pork chops and roast beef. I loved the treat of spaghetti, for my Mom, although not the best cook, concocted a killer homemade spaghetti sauce with onions, tomato sauce, tomato paste, and tons of spices. I relished it. My Dad was emotionally bereft, but his love trickled down to my brother and me through the massive garden he planted each summer and treated as lovingly as a baby; he hoed and weeded and sprayed and killed big fat tomato worms that clung stubbornly to the vines so that we would have enough food to eat. Ray Moore was not a farmer, per se, it was just the garden that occupied his summers, but as a young family man he took his role as provider seriously. The garden thrived, and I don't recall that there was ever a summer when the garden did not produce. My favorite was carrots. As I look back, I can not believe that I ever grew sick of garden food, for I would give my molar teeth to have fresh vegetables such as this on a daily basis.

Whimsical Wednesday

My male cat is a burglar; he robbed a cricket of its leg yesterday. 

My soul is lighter today; my essence is liberated more.

Oh. my. goodness.  I guess I was on a date last night.  I think of it as a "friend excursion," however.  The conversation was intellectually stimulating, full of some humor, thoughtful, insightful, interesting, and about a mix of subjects, even the heavy ones like religion and politics, all without rancor.  Imagine that.   I was impressed at the lack of emotion conveyed.   General discussion without feeling a need to prove anything.  Nice. 

Sometimes I hate the state of Oklahoma so badly I can taste it.   I'm scorned.  I loathe Mary Fallin, which is numero uno on my list, and then I despise the unwieldy conservatism that rears its unrealistic head.  Sickening.   The best value about Oklahoma City is its diversity of people and the storms that occur sometimes.  That is all.   Ugh.

I wrote a little on my book.  Yay for me.   The thoughts of my grandmother's cooking when I was a child are making my mouth water.    Aaaaaah.  Good memories.

Melodious Monday

The laugh is a cover for inner screams.

I live, laugh, cry, love and know that soon a new semester will begin.  

I treated myself today to a little breakfast at Cracker Barrel.  

I enjoy who I am, despite the fact that there seems to be a lot missing, just not sure what is at the root of the lack of total satisfaction.   I feel this more keenly today.  I'd rather just have reasons to stay at home and putter the remainder of my life.   I want to travel, but not just in my longings, in life, to explore, to discover, to meet new people, to thrive everywhere, to not just dream about through books and in my own mind.   That it has come down to a mere scraping to survive.   Futility.

I look around, and I think, "is this all there is?"  Life is so highly over rated.  I hate life sometimes.  There's just not enough experiences.  I want to see my folks more frequently.   Not enough money for that even.  How can I prevent?  The answer is that I can't.  I must suffer through right now and muster courage.

I know I've penned these thoughts repeatedly, and I may write a sad and boring refrain, but this is what targets me at this stage in my life.  The bright side is that I do have fodder for writing, and bright times burst forth like fireworks silohuette; but also like firework sparks, the hues fizzle quickly into blackness and dissipate into the night.

Sometimes there just aren't enough swearing words to depend upon.