Thursday, October 27, 2016

Saint Trump

We’re all getting a little worn-out on this 2016, election for President of the United States, with Trump and Hillary and according to the press, Hillary would be the saint, and Trump the devil, so it would seem.  Yet if Trump is guilty of anything, it is nothing in the political arena because he’s only been in it 15-months in comparison to Hillary who has been there for 35-years, she’s gotten rich off the political system, the tax payer. And quite the reputation to go with it. On the other hand, Mr. Trump has gotten rich off the system too, but in building things, and producing jobs for people,  although he has had a pretty active sexual life some 12 to 30 years ago, but not quite as sexual as Hillary’s husband, Bill, whom we’ve all forgiven. But here is the point, and it is pointed at all the insincerity, frauds, and hypocrites, out there. St. Augustine, whom was a scholar of his time, liken to Pope Benedict XVI, had a pretty notorious reputation before he became a saint.  Augustine, 354 A.D., was likened to Cicero, in his intellectual studies. At a young age he began an affair with a young woman in Carthage, she remained his lover for some 13-years, and gave birth to a son. Then he abandoned her, changing his life for better. Thus, God called him to be a Bishop of Hippo, and now he is one of the Fathers of the Church. He like Cicero, and Pope Benedict XVI, had won the most visible academic position in the world. Now we can jump back to the year just after Christ’s crucifixion, Paul, now a saint, has even a more macabre reputation, he killed his enemy without remorse, until God called him and he changed likewise. Bringing out the most dynamic letters in the New Testament (Bible). Now let’s head onto Trump, perhaps God is calling him, he is the only one who will fight for our rights, and Christianity, he will fight for the Jew likewise, and I believe Save America! And who knows, perhaps someday he’ll be a saint, for are we not all called for this destiny!


Tuesday, October 25, 2016

The Demon’s Fruit: Abortion

The Demon’s Fruit:

(In part, a Minnesota Story)

Women who have had an abortion are now protesting that our Federal Government not provide more funding for it, it’s about time, and they should stop it.  When I worked with women in prison as a counselor, back in the ‘90s, every woman who had an abortion, regretted it. One of the questions they’d ask, and per near all asked it, ‘Where did my baby end up, in heaven or hell!’
       It sounds strange to get such a question like that, I explained the biblical heart of the question to them concerning the child, and I had credentials to do so; even if the BOP didn’t like it. And that gave them some comfort.  Melissa Ohden, I give her credit for standing up to this horrific practice.  When my oldest child went for an abortion, I heard about it within hours of her having it.  I called up the abortion clinic, asking to talk to her, you can guess which one I was at, the most renowned, and this was over 30-years ago, in the 70s; anyhow they said they’d not let me in to talk to her because I’d talk her out of it, she was 16-years old.  I was paying child support at the time, and demanded to be allowed this right, and I even went to the Minnesota Governor’s office, to no avail.  And then went back to the clinic, and they said she was now in the process of having the abortion, so it was of no use for me to disturb the process. I have long believed these clinics are on a one-way street, a profit making business, — with a liberal coating to say the least.  Women have their rights, but what about the innocent children’s rights! But children are owned by the government, that’s plain and simple: my daughter was not a woman, but a barely a teenager (Just pay the bills daddy).
       When another of my daughters was with child, the youngest, —in the 90s, a social worker ask me to allow an abortionist-nurse to talk to her on such a procedure, she was also quite young and under my care, and I said not before I do, because I knew of that one way liberal street, I had learned the hard way.
        And now that child is twenty-two years old, and loves his mother dearly, thank God she didn’t make that mistake, because someone, one afternoon wanted to take her down a one-way street, and lock the door before I entered. This Planned Parenthood is right out of Hell’s deep abyss, Satan’s backyard, and Mr. Obama just gave them another billion dollars to kill another million babies this year; to tear them out by the roots, chop off their legs and arms, and heads, use their spare parts to run the engines of other folks who are wearing their parts out, or whatever they do with those parts, this Planned Parenthood is worse than the Ed Gein story,   to whom my babysitter’s girlfriend back in 1957, got meat parts from Ed himself, special delivery in brown bags, and she ended up in the hospital in the psych ward when she found out who he was (“Psycho” the movie being an extract of the Ed Gein Story): Ed was born 1906, died 1984, at the age of 77.  Ed was apprehended in November of 1957, and I still recall Mrs. La Rose telling us the horrid story of her friend, Ed had just been apprehended, she had tears in her eyes. Thus, like Ed Gein, Planned Parenthood is no more than a body snatcher.
       We all know the Pope is against abortion, that the Obama, Hillary bunch are for it.  Most everyone I know who had one, regrets it, why do we fund it.  In Peru where I live now, most of the time these past years, it is unlawful, and they still have Crosses in their court rooms, what is happening to America?  In 1970, there was close to 200,000 abortions, now in 2012, there was 700,000 abortions in America, more abortions in one year than the whole death count of the Civil War; between: 1970 to 2012 some 42-years, there has been nearly 52-million abortions in America. That’s 20% of our present population. In the year 2015, there was 10,000-abortions just in Minnesota alone, my home state, I’m ashamed of that. In 1980, there was 19,000 abortions in Minnesota. Between 1973, and 2015, Minnesota has had close to: 620,000-abortions, that is twice the population of St. Paul, and the state is proud of it.
        Over a half million abortions a year now, God forbid, will America ever be purged from its reckless behavior! And what will be her consequence?

#1196/written 9-10-2015/updated, and reedited, 10-2016 

Monday, October 24, 2016

Flight over the Nazca Lines (2000 A.D.)

At the end of this short story, “Flight over the Nazca Lines,” of Peru, in 2000 A.D., of which I lived through, otherwise I’d not be writing this, there was a nice big soft lounge chair, painted white, as they carried me shoulder to shoulder all the way over to it, I was so sick as a poisoned dog, and who wants to be sick on a beautiful summer’s afternoon.  I’m starting this story backwards it appears, not sure why, perhaps just to let you know I lived through it, from beginning to end; and for me, the sooner it ended, the better.

       I don’t know his name, we can call him Juan, it’s a common name in Peru, the airfield lay in the shadow of a plateau stretched out, in front of what looked at one time to be, a desert. My wife and I had taken a bus up to the small airport, to catch a flight over the famous Nazca Lines, in south Peru, having gone through Ica.
       The plane was a small prop aircraft, these airplanes are powered, fix-wing aircrafts, used for transportation of guests, one in the front with the pilot, and two guests in the back (often times just one guest, because of weight); thus, we have a total a four persons in the plane. Hence, I was up front with the pilot, my wife Rosa in the back with another woman. To be frank, this plane looked to be one of the Wright Brothers, who flew back in 1903. A classic.
       And so here we are, in flight over the Nazca Lines, I can see the propeller in front of me, and I can hear the reciprocating engine (or piston engine) all such engines produce a low noise, and mush thrust, I’ve been in several before this one. We are inside the fifty-mile radius of the lines, snarled among some manmade hills, more like mounds (so they look), and the long plateau.  It is like giants carved their itching’s into the ground and alongside the high mounds, more like the tops of icebergs. We must be flying 100 to 500 feet above these lines—at different times, and the pilot is starting to zigzag, trying to find his instruction manual, and his bony hand reaching here and there. The amount of thrust the propeller creates is determined by its disk area, in which the blade rotates, and I’m no plane mechanic, but I know, he doesn’t know completely what he’s doing, and the plane is rocking and rolling, and I’m getting sick, my wife is in the back doing fine, for all I know she could be drinking a martini. Maybe the blade is too small for this weight, not sure. His hands leave the controls. I command him, demand he get his act together, and put those hands back on the controls, and if he doesn’t know how to land this beast, do his best, but forget the manual.
       Thus, he stops fumbling about, says: “I’ll figure it out later,” whatever that means.
       Now we are seeing the so called outdoor Un-museum.  The lines of Nazca, what we paid for.  Some of the figures are 1200-feet long.  The Nazca culture dates back to about 500 B.C., and much of what we see are simply geometric lines, as if they were once alien runways for aircraft. The other giant figures are: birds, fish, hummingbird, monkeys, jaguars, trees, flowers. I can see everything, and I’m taking pictures, but I’m sick as a poisoned dog, yet I’m holding it together.
       After 45-minutes in flight, he lands the plane, and you know the rest of the story.


A Foolish Thing to Do! ((St. Paul, Minnesota, 2003, Albemarle Street)

Dr. Siluk in Havana, Cuba, at the Ambos Mundos Hotel, 6-2002, in E. Hemingway’s   
Room, his chair and desk and typewriter at hand
 It’s a hard reminder for me, one of the most unpleasant I ever had to express. And it all came about through my own foolishness, too, and I don’t use that word ‘fool…’ lightly, very seldom, it is one word I think the Lord hates man to use, unless worthy of it. Even yet sometimes, when I think of it, I want to beat the shit out of the guy, I swear I nearly got on the airplane and journeyed off to someplace in England, I never heard of, perhaps, even now, if I was to look through my files, after all this time, couldn’t find it, and that was thirteen years ago. Possibly, even now, after all this time there will be a kind of consummation, or fulfillment, in making myself look bargain-basement cheap by telling of it.
       It all started in 2003, I had read all of Faulkner’s books, all of Fitzgerald’s books, all of Mary Renault’s books, got signatures, or first editions of them all, and one book signed by each of those authors but F. Scott’s, and now I had finished Hemingway’s books, all of them. When I went to Cuba, I even went to the hotel where he had wrote “For Whom the Bell Tolls” The Ambos Mundos Hotel, and sat in his chair, June of 2002, paying the lady in the room, where he lived in 1932 (Ernest Hemmingway being 39-years old at the time), $5 dollars, to lock the door as I sat in the chair, so no one would come in to bother me. To tell the truth I felt a little foolish that I should be sitting in the chair at all, which of course was forbidden. So now back to Minnesota, I’m looking for a signed book, letter, anything signed by Hemingway that has documentation to its originality. All my signatures have such authentication.
       All this running around inspires me to write, I even went to Greece because of Mary Renault’s writes on Greece. I’ve read nearly all of Sherwood Anderson’s works, and I could go on and on, I have perhaps 30-special authors I like, and 30-poets I enjoy, and out of them a handful, I consider worthy of mentioning twice in a sentence.
       Well, I searched high and low, the books were too expensive, and his letters were even higher. Then I found a letter, I believe it to be original, one written about a boy, who Hemingway met in Cuba, and he sent him some money, and it had something to do with baseball, it was on blue paper.  And I made some search of it, and even copied the letter. It was on, and they are usually pretty good, and the guy took the letter off.  And I wrote him, I wanted to buy it, but he’d not put it back on, yet in inferred I could buy it threw him. Well, I didn’t see any guarantee.  But a letter like that for $1100-dollars was a good deal, my motto has for the most part been: when in doubt, don’t! But I wasn’t listening to my senses (later on, after this deal, just his signature would cost me $1000, with a guarantee, ten-years later).
       So this fellow who kept writing back assuring me in Northern England I’d get the letter I wanted, if I sent him a Cashier’s Check made out to his bank account some other place, so I sent it to him, and he never sent the letter. I wrote him about it, he wrote back, as I lay awake nights thinking up ways to injure him without being found out.
       But this place in England was some small town, in Timbuktu (metaphorically speaking), and he told me blank, “You’ll never find me,” (and he’s lucky I didn’t, I’d be in jail for what I was thinking) and I reported it to the FBI, gave all the information to them, and they were useless, lazy sprawling like beach bums, and never even wrote me back (had it been Hillary Clinton, they would have jumped on it, like white on rice).
       Well, I never really talked about it since then, what’s the use I figured. Such fellows grab every opportunity, thieves, they are just thieves.
       What I could say, my wife looking at me, I said to myself, ‘Gosh darn such a big fool—that’s what I am.’  I even thought I’d stop working be a bum like this guy earning money, why be a boob as myself. Well, after beating myself up some, I’ve learned to go treat one’s self, you always feel better, and I don’t drink booze or smoke, gosh darn what can I do, I went to Paris, purchased a Dali print, signed by him, then once back home, I bought a document signed by Benito Mussolini, the old Italian Fascist dictator, and signed by the King of Italy; Mussolini I have a lot of history on hand ((the document being: Cat.  No. 123, Lot. 105, Ref: 69519) (out of Pacific Grove CA)). In any case, nobody took much interest in this document, for $240-dollars to which they were originally asking $1500, at the time, at the auction, the natural going price; today if you tried to buy it at any reputable Historical Signature Gallery the cost would be $5000-dollars and up. So by and large, all learning lessons cost. And all bad lessons, you got to treat yourself, and become wiser.

#1196 (10-24-2016)