Elixor.

There is a tiny, blond four year old girl tied to a bed. Her porcelain features are tear streaked and gaunt, the pale ghost of exhaustion replacing the smile lines that used to twinkle around the corners of her mouth. But she is fighting for her life behind thin, closed eyelids.

He cut into her young flesh yesterday, a blunt utensil ripping into the back of her head and scooping at her insides. Merciful blackness had already taken her so she felt nothing but a knife piercing into her dreams. She awoke screaming, a tiny, tender, vulnerable jewel torn from her home, stretched to her limits, alone as she knew it, in a raging swell of chaos, surrounded by morbid, gruesome, bleeding fellow victims.

But she was not alone. Her father had found her and rushed up the stairs, calling her precious name, blinking back the horror so she would not see it. He burst through a blurry doorway, and she watched him rush to her side anxiously; but he was just another stranger in a world of monsters. She did not recognize him.

She screamed her throat red raw and her bloodshot eyes to sleep, a grasping, snatching sleep filled with voracious, clutching hands lashing at her from the darkness, and a stabbing pain in her head.

They slit into her again that night because she was dying and they had to. They reopened the scabbing wound as she stiffened and her eyes rolled back in her head. A gleaming scythe of terror furiously hacking at the skeleton thread her life was hanging by. They removed the festering devil inside of her brain as the seconds of her life counted down and her panicked heart burrowed into her chest. They pumped as much invigorating blood into her as she could stand till she bloated and engorged with the infusion.

And then they set her gently into the white and sterile hospital bed, both her flogged and wrung out parents at her side. They tied her little hands to the edges so she could not upset the wires and tubes going in and out of her, and they left her to rest in a velvet stupor of blackness.

Her name is Carisa. And we need your prayers.

Joe.

Glacier.

I chatted with a beautiful woman the other day.
Beautiful in mind.
For one.
Thought you should know.
Look around you. Think of the people you don't like. Or, not necessarily don't like, just don't care for. Maybe you are disgusted by a part of them. Maybe they represent something to you that you want to distance yourself from. What will it take to get you to look past that, get close to them? It is surprising what you can find when your mind is ambushed and stripped of its bias.
Say something happens. I don't want to be morbid, but for example say their mother dies and they are mourning. Say you see them crying in their room one day and you roll your eyes but allow compassion to glaze your indifference. So you go in, sit beside them.
And you do not find the person you disliked. That person never existed, except in your psyche. Maybe in a facade they painted out front with two coats of forced self-assurance. Fronts are water based though, and easily swept away by a shower or a scrub.
(Tears or interest.)
But under the veneer there is a jewel. A missing part of your life.
Maybe not your whole life, maybe just a current part.
But just think if that person's mother had not died. Would you walk around the rest of your life with an ice wall of misperception? Or would you find a miraculous other way to operate on your cataracts? Does it always take mothers dying?
I found a jewel the other day. And I found I had cataracts. They were removed, I hope, and her mother is still alive. That was an example, not reality. It did take something though. And it made me think. What if the crisis had not happened? What if the piece of her that was ripped away had not been? Would I still be blind, heartless? Does it always take blood spilt to melt ice? How many other glaciers do I have?

Joe.

Pale.

I hate, absolutely detest, this time of day. It is a time from about 5:30 PM till 8:30 PM when I just sink. Will and passion and everything is entirely drained from my body and I feel like mush. That is right now.
I don't know what it is. It seems to happen every year, maybe as the days get shorter and the sun sets when it should be beaming. But for a few months I am absolutely useless inbetween 5:30 to 8:30 PM. I loathe that time, I dread that time, I am nauseated by that time. My delight, my bliss, my heart bleeds from me as the light saps from the sky.
And again the next day.
I don't know what to do. If any of you want to call me between 5:30 and 8:30 PM, you would be welcomed.

Joe.

PS from the next morning:
Fortunately a wine contact just came through with eight boxes, red and white, Chilean wine. Exquisite.

Blur.

I am not in the mood to be funny, intellectual, mean, or amusing tonight. I shouldn't even be blogging.
Our front door broke, locking us all in the house. We took it off its hinges, got the door handle fixed, put it back on its hinges, and found ourselves locked in our house again. So, we took it off, got it fixed, and once again, as soon as we put the door back on, the handle refuses to operate. You can imagine our frustration. So we ripped the handle out, and now our door does not close, it swings back and forth with the wind when unlocked.
Had a party the other night, revelling in wickedness and lust and ego. Afterwards slept on a couch fully clothed and shoed. For about two hours. Maybe that's why, my general feeling of blehness is transfering into my post, and hence into you, and you will bring it home and transfer it to others.
Don't!
Smile!
I love you, although I sometimes may not act like it!
To cheer you up, here is a video I promised you a long time ago. This is the antics of a bunch of pre-adult wild Indians left alone with a campfire. I am videoing. They got in trouble for this, by the way. Don't try it at home.

Joe.

My Ten Million.

The funniest thing...
I was just sitting here, thinking about what I could blog about. I was going to give you a stirring treatise on singleness and comparisons, when I received the strangest bit of junk mail in my inbox, which I have decided to share with you.
The depths people will go these days to get into your pocketbook.
I don't believe in signing up to online things with my legal name, even email accounts. Don't care to get a ton of junk with my name signed to it if I don't have to, plus if I make a mistake, anyway I have my reasons. Many of you do too. So I sign up for things with a pseudonym I invented at the age of 13, before I knew about the X-men: Wolv E. Rine. A childish fantasy that involves tearing into things with my teeth. Don't ask.
Anyway, I get this letter into my inbox, addressed to Mr. Rine.
My comments in... well, bright green.



FROM HON BARRISTER HENRY DURU ("hon" is for "honorable", mind you)
THE ROYAL LAW CHAMBERS LOME-TOGO (the extremely ROYAL law chambers, this is great!)
P.O BOX 158 RUE DE BUELAVAD LOME-TOGO
E-MAIL:henryduru@yahoo.ca (CA? As in Canada? Oh yeah, that would be Lome-Togo, Canada.)


Dear Rine , (Wait, I smell a rat...)

SUB:URGENT & CONFIDENTIAL MATTER (Oh, don't tell anyone. It's confidential.)

I am Barrister Henry Duru (Solicitor (emphasis on)/ Advocate) and personal/family Attorney to the late Mr Philip Rine (Mr. PHILIP Rine, heheh, now that's a good one. Oh, little Philly, my long lost brother!!) , a national of your country, who used to be assistant financial director of chevron (Not even the courtesy to capitalize proper nouns. Ya almost had me there.) petroleum company plc, in Lome Togo(West Africa) (West Africa? Hmm, must be a state in Canada), herein shall be referred to, as my client (Why? I liked the name Philly! Or sometimes Fatso Chicken Guts, if we were in a bad mood. Good old Philly.) On the 21st of April 2002, my client, his wife and their two children were involved in the Kenya Airways flight air crash (Oh no. Not Philly!) with registration number 5Y-BEN (Really? 5Y-BEN? That flight was said to be indestructible!) which departed from Nairobi to destination in Lome-Togo capital and, (Why is a comma there, Mr. Honourable Henry Duru? I'd better not get into the atrocious punctuation. Can I call you Hon?) all the family died in this fatal air mishap on 21st April 2002. Ever since then, I have made several enquries to his embassy to locate any of my client (Eerrggghh. That's it, I'm ignoring the punctuation AND the spelling.) extended relatives but this has also proved unsuccessful. Before he died, my client has (AND the grammar.) the sum of US$10.440,000.00 (Ten Million, Four hundred and Fourty Thousand US Dollars) in his private account with Eco Bank,(ECO BANQUE DE AFRIQUE) here in Lome-Togo (West Africa ) (Whoa, ten million bucks. So good old Philly made it good out there in the world? He always said he would strike gold.).Note, my client deposited these fund before his unfortunate demise (Really? I had the idea he put it in AFTER he died. Poor old Philly. He was such a good guy.), and of which I have the whole documents to the fund as his Attorney here in Lome Togo.Therefore i seek your consent to present you as the next of kin of the deceased, since you have the same last name with my client (Yippee! Ten million!) .So i decided to contact you as the next of kin. For an easy communication, i will require your private telephone numbers (Really? Why? Oh well, ten million!) and, immediately (Immediately. Getting me my ten million is on the top of your to do list.) start the neccessary step that will enable you claim these stipulated fund from the Bank, within 21 working days.Finally, every further information regarding to this fund will be disclosed to you as soon as i confide my trust in you, that you will never take undue advantage of the fund upon the claim of the money from the Bank (Who me? Oh, nope, never, I promise. I'm super honourable too.).NOTE :Percentage terms will also be discussed with you before we proceed. (What's that, like YOU getting the entire contents of my bank account, and ME getting wiser in the process? Good thing I don't have a bank account. You are conning the wrong guy. You will regret picking on a Rine.)

Awaiting your prompt response;
Best Regards ,
Barr.Henry Duru (Esq),
Principal Partner.

(I don't know.)
(Oh wait!)
(NO!!!!!)
(Go away.)

Mystique.

Consider yourself granted the cloak of secrecy you desire.

Joe.

Scorpion Celebration.

I promised fun and games, and posts that the rest of the people
in the world can relate to. How about a party? That always gets
peoples' fascination.
Yes, a party. A Scorpio Adoration party, of which there are
many here and in the Family at large, thank God. I did take a video,
but let's talk about it first.
I impulsively invited some young people from Mazatlan (a city
two hours away), in a chat late one night.
Timbrel: Oh goodie, is it a dress up party?
Now why would she ask that?
Joe: Uh.. yeah. It is.
It wasn't. Clever of me, I thought. Get a herd of exhausted arrivals in bunny outfits. It will be hilarious.
Then I repented. What about love and brotherhood, I thought?
Joe: Uh... there's something I should tell you.
Timbrel: has signed out of Yahoo Messenger.
Joe: Wait... uhoh.
Between snickering to myself and my peers, we hit on a brilliant solution: we would make it a dress up party, everyone would come dressed up, Mazatlan would feel good. Here we learned a lesson:
Don't cry wolf, wolf.
No one believed us.
Them: Yeah right a dress up party! Just like you told Timbrel?
Hahaha.
Me: But... I promise..
We banded together and eventually convinced everyone to come in masquerade. Here is what they came as: (Video file lost, sorry)
I did miss a few people but, as you saw, captured most of it. Missed the nudist. Shucks. Aren't you sad.
I will stick to mediums in this post, because the lows aren't worth saying and the highs are sometimes too explicit. We partied, we had fun, we took leaks in the grass and sang off key. We lap danced, pole danced, stair danced, and just danced.
And to whom it may concern: I have a RED RIBBON tied around my neck, and I cannot get it off. I don't believe in scissors.
I guess it kind of matches with the ORANGE B.L.A.S.T. identification band around my wrist.

Joe.

Flown.

You have Emerged.

Joe.

A Nobel Prize, Please.

I have finally figured out a solution to one of the world's problems.
Bear with me, I may wax a bit scientific.
The problem, many of you may be familiar with it, is the anti-rocking-on-chair sentiment that has recently arisen in our godless world as we race towards the end. Now I know how you feel. You can't actually SIT on a chair that has all four legs on the ground. Nonsense. What do they expect? It is insulting to the anti-equilibrists in the world to even suggest such a thing.
Sure they have a case. Supposedly rocking contributes to extra strain on the legs of the chair, contributing to faster chair decay. That is a good point, although it has never been proven. Do not let even the very chair-rocking elect be deceived.
But let's argue on their grounds.
Challenging an enemy on his own turf has never been advisable. This time though, I think I have a new weapon.
Rocking may put extra strain on the two legs rocked onto, but then puts zero strain on the two free legs. Suppose you have rocked backwards. You may have contributed to the decaying of the two back legs of the chair a little faster, but with the exact same action you have actually contributed to the preservation of the two front legs. You have completely eradicated the terrible, oppressive stress put on them by normal sitters (equilibrists) and the normal action of sitting (equibrilizing).
Therefore, by alternating the legs you rock onto--forward one day, back one day, even side to side occasionally--you are possibly preserving your chair for much longer than one normal chair lifespan. The chair may even live longer than chairs did before the flood. You can even turn your chair around (a favourite of mine), and STILL rock backward, only this time on the front legs.
Let us christen this day an International Chair-Rocking Day, and unite, regardless of race or background, in a unified worldwide drive of rocking on our chairs... uh... for World Peace. Let us bond together as brothers and show the world our love and brotherhood manifested through... uh... rocking on our chairs. All together now.
International Chair-Rocking Day is a Scorpio. I love Scorpios!
And if they persecute you in one chair, flee ye into another.
Uh...

Joe.

The Demon Conquered.

Here is my reply to the wonderful woman's letter. This should be the last you hear of the matter (it is pretty well covered), unless someone else has anything more to say.


I took exception to a few things. Know that I love you and respect you in spite of our slight differences.
Just three points.
First. "Age brings a realization that things cannot be fanciful, carefree, and wild."
To put "realization" means that ah, that's the way things were all along and I only now woke up! I believe that things CAN be fanciful, carefree, and wild--and not only that, but they were meant to be. Who stands with me here? I believe that the only chains there are, are voluntary, the rest is an illusion.
Maybe that's because I'm living in a capitalistic world. Or maybe because I believe in a spiritual one. Still, I am reading Anja right now. That woman had no end of chains yet remained wild, carefree.
Also the subtle allusion that age brings this so-called "realization". What age tends to bring is a settling, where you allow chains to be put on you--mostly by yourself, but there are spiritual forces involved. You know of these already, I won't witness to you.
I would re-write that, "Age brings a tendency to accept the chained reality/mentality of the rest of the world, and to shrug off the simplicity and the spirit of being fanciful, carefree, and wild, as foolishness. I would see that as the beginning of decay, and fight it with everything in me."

Next. "I do not claim to be mature. I have feelings. I do not claim to be immature. I do hold them in."
So, having feelings is immature, and holding them in is mature, and you wear this proudly like a medal? I am probably misreading you.
Still, this is exactly the "maturity" mindset I am talking about. This is exactly the prison that I balk against. "Let's all be mature and not have feelings, and if some do slip through, let's just not tell anyone."
I would say, "Feelings are not a necessity of life. But if you are blessed to have them, balance them of course, but enjoy them to the full. For God's sake, don't stifle them like a poisonous bug. Many in the world envy even being able to feel at all. Being heartless is a poor state/goal."

And last. "Real freedom cannot be sought or achieved. It is a gift. Some have it more than others."
Ooooo. What can I say? "If you were born a slave, heck with it, buckle down in the mud for the rest of your life. There's nothing you can do anyway." This I disagree with.
Strongly.
Well, too strongly for this forum.
There have been a number of GNs on this subject though, that I could refer you to. If you're the movie watching type, I could refer you to some good movies on the subject. I could refer you to songs if you are musically inclined. If you're the realist type..... then, I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do for you.
Me, I don't believe in reality.
Keep in mind that realism is usually just a front for the bars. If you're arguing on just a physical plane, reality is reality. Too bad. Still, you can tooth and nail. Us, we go beyond even that. I think you would agree.
I would say, "Real freedom can be sought or achieved, but you have to want it bad enough. It is a gift, but one that is dispensed freely to anyone who reaches for it, like oxygen or saliva. Some have it more than others, true, but that's their own fault. Poor losers. Know that there is a better way!"
And then I would shut up.

Joe.