The Blessings and Curses of Tim "Meanie" O'tae

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        Meanie's mother divorced his dad before he could form any memories (of him).  Depending on who you asked, it was:

• Occasionally referred-to as "both a blessin'-an'-a-curse".
• Would never even be contemplateable to ever think of those circumstances in that manner.
• The foundation upon which Meanie learned how to become who he would and would-not become as an adult.

        Meanie's mother's performance of June Cleaver (at Marble Meadow's Centerfield Playhouse) was how she convinced Meanie's future stepdad (who played Ward Cleaver) to marry her.  Depending on what year you happened to talk to any of them, it was either:  The role she was born-an'-raised to play; A convenient lifeboat (of sorts); Much better than her earlier role as the clumsy, baby-trapping, waitress (at The Inn's Mainhouse on the Hill); Or, it was "just another port in the storm (for all involved)".

 

        After taking their renditions of June and Ward Cleaver on-the-road—and dragging Meanie along—Meanie's mother's new husband's character encouraged/caused/magnified Meanie's mother to develop/create/accelerate her increasingly authoritarian retinue in order to (punish Meanie for being an O'Tae) find a reason to keep Meanie in a constant state of uncertainty.  Consequently, some oddly vague things were referred-to as sins and Meanie was beaten-down for some random (other) oddly specific things.

 

        Even though those vague-specifics changed as Meanie grew, their absolute-forbidden nature was something of which Meanie's mother was always 100% certain.  Her highlight-reel included various levels of physical and mental punishments for:  riding bicycles; playing with dolls or action figures; not talking and just staring when being scolded; always asking 'why' (called talking-back); crying for any reason; accusing any grownup of deception or of being wrong; playing with 'unapproved-of' neighbors or schoolmates (within her vicinity) or (on the rare occasion Meanie was permitted to leave the yard) playing with any 'unapproved-of' toys belonging to others.  ["Hey Timmy, wanna come over an' shoot at GI-Joe's with my BB-gun?" . . . "Can't. I'm not allowed."]

         'He raped me' was the foreign-sounding sentence his mother readily unsheathed after Meanie was old enough to wonder, naive enough to expect a logical explanation, and bold enough to ask why she had left his dad before he could remember his face.  Meanie had nobody to request another explanation from.  Step-dad was too comfortably-afraid of losing his ready-made facade-family and Sunday school teacher's, pastor's, and adult neighbor's (murmuring *ask yer parents*) would always report Meanie's queries (resulting in an excuse for more or additional punishments).  And since he was still too young for elementary school, Meanie had no older kids to ask what rape was.

 

        Meanie never actually knew that was his nickname.  He thought what he did with other boys was "teasing" and that it was funny, entertaining (and felt a little exciting).  He had no idea that his behavior was called bullying (or that he was doing it to the other boys).  He did, eventually, realize—once he was privileged-enough to earn his own personal bully (who's knuckle-rap-punches to Meanie's head were never hard enough to bruise and never witnessed by an adult).

 

        In order for middle-schooler little Timmy O'Tae to avoid his mother's worst emotional-torture, he never informed any adult about the daily assaults and constant fear-of-the-next one . . . *when's he gonna catch me again?*

 

        By the time he reached puberty, Tim Cleaver (never mistakenly called O'tae because the Cleaver's were always moving to a new state, new classmates, new neighbors) was an expert at camoflaged-hiding (in a living room or a classroom) and reading the vibrations in every environment with the goal to fine-tune his 'early warning signal'.  Tim was always refining it—that was automatic-mandatory.  Primary mission (think: Captain Kirk's voice) to better-identify the hidden intent of the sharks in the water before they get within striking range.  And most of the sharks have camouflaged themselves to the point that you forget that everything is one form of shark or another.  Hammerhead to Nurse; Whale to White.     

        Jobs after school and during school-breaks (for under-minimum-wage cash) became Tim Cleaver's only way to spend every possible waking hour away-from the Cleaver home and out-of his mother's vicinity.  She punish-enforced half of Tim's paychecks into a college savings account; the blessing and curse of which (depending on perspective and when you asked whomever) was that:  He never had enough money for socializing or for himself - and - 17-year-old-Tim had compiled the ability to graduate high-school and immediately escape to the cheapest in-state college available at that time.  Thanks Mom, he never said; thanks-to-me, she always said.

 

        Late-teenager-Tim Cleaver's mask began to fit less uncomfortably once he transferred to an out-of-state university.  He could go daze or sometimes almost unmemorable weaks before forgetting to remember that he still had it on.

 

        Because the Art of Presenting a Low Profile was all Tim's every memorable experience in his entire crib-to-college existence had ingrained/trained/practiced, joining a huge faceless organization and becoming just another small knuckle-joint in the machine (disappearing) was The Best-Only Available Option, behaviorally.

Imagine yourself seeing this from Tim's perspective:  He was thinking of a mind other than his own mind.  And this other mind has the ability to run a diagnostics report of it's internal function system and a diagnosis can be made—by Tim about Tim—in a way that Tim *thinks* he is behaving/believing in an objective (switching to subjective) manner of the "good shark".  Everyone is a good shark inside of themselves.  On their own stage.  Of course, for every one of us, some form of internal regulator must be built up from a chosen "baseline" value-system (full disclosure: default-mode is the one instilled/reinforced by adult-guardians).  As awareness of the rational combines with the sometimes-arbitrary emotional—in a chaotic shark-soup of cause-and-effect—the intended-state to remain in a 'remind myself to never forget' frame-of-mind, clashes with the 'I'm now-and-forever anchored to a point of consistent evaluation of itself/myself,' which exists only in this moment.  Evaluate and compare those impressive wavelengths of qualia (in-of a *musical-scratch-sniff postcard*) to all prior un-informed states of previously-held ignorance/naivety . . . drifting . . . forgetting . . . you've lost its leash . . . is it now-feral and should it not-now be thought of as apart from chaos?  It's not simple to imagine Tim's shoes on your feet; or is it?

         All if-of who Tim has experienced to-date was aided/abetted as well as informed-formed by [list the ever-growing spectrum of consciousness disorders] . . . CPTSD/Asperger's/Autism/Personal Logic-Honor System/emotionally programmed by punishment(s) . . .etcetera . . . Tim was (still, unfortunately) perfecting the art of presenting a low profile (even though the reasons to do-so were less-necessary).

 

        Preliminarily accepting the uniform-role of follower; Encouraging people to never think about you when you were not in the room; Never blaming anyone besides yourself and your own failings:  These were a slice of Tim's behaviors (depending on who you want to believe).  And, at the same time, Tim's early warning antenna became even more finely tuned (any hint of unrest on any horizon was immediately met with fawning and acquiescent attention toward whomever caused that unrest).  This was still the case even-though he was associating with (or thinking about) his mother and step father less and less-often.  Then death.  Then estrange.

 

        Then.  Eventually, or some later when, Old Timothy O'tae changed who he was.  By legally returning to his preferred name and starting to fulfill the life he was determined to desire.  As Timothy fully embraced the truthful manner of living without hypocrisy, he recognized (for the first time in his relatively long life) that he was:

 

No longer able to fully bully himself

Shamefully shameful

Shy-fully selfish

Willingly holding-to-held himself up

To the standards required of him by himself

Dealing-to-dealt with each of the selvwe's

 And all our my me's

I know that only I kin ken

But only because I allow myself

Certain get-away-with's or -without's

Which side-step all forms

 Of need for self-recriminating behaviors

So, no longer vexing myself with shame

Or allowing any self-blame to ricochet around

And never permitting vitriolic self-effacement

Allows the bliss-happy-neutral to root

And it - then - becomes the dominant

Mood-tone personality theme-song aura

Which Emanates from the baseline level grasp

Of the areas in front of and adjacent the occipital lobe

As longer experiences rest between 8.5 and 10.5

Tempered-to (not-to) all the way to eleven

Forming unobserved-waves which enlighten while

Lengthening love's amplitude  |  Rinse-repeat

As the selves dance in every best-imagined

And the crest of a wave continues floating

Always crossing here

At some point

h e r e

      

It Matters Not The Terrain

Chosen By You Or For You

As Long As The Destination

Reached, Then-Them Valued

 

Step Up, Step Down, Crouch,

As Long As The Next Moment

Falls Within Your Future Grasp

And You Can Understand Why

Control Needs Beyond Reach

Accept Your Own Assistance

Experiment Strengthen-ing

Yourself As Long As You

Class Discussion—Related to Lecture #1

          I want to express my welcome, to all students physically present, as well as those currently online and able to interact with the class on this rainy Vermont day, and to those auditing the class in my future, slash their present, who're unable to interact with the group.  I thank you for your attention.

 

          For this discussion, I'll be acting in a "master-of-ceremonies" role.  My name is spelled: Veach Glines.  For those of you unable to see the board, my name is spelled Vee as-in Victor; EACH as in beach (spelled like the ocean-shore not the beech tree); Gee as-in Golf, followed by LINES, like the phrase: 'I prefer coloring outside the lines'.

{intermittent squeak of dry erase marker}

 

          When speaking about myself in third-person—something I find jarring to experience, so I rarely do it unless trying for cringe—I prefer he/him.  I'm comfortable with the honorific, professor, albeit un-capitalized.  Because capitalization is lost when speaking, please feel free to use any word you're comfortable with:  sir, ma'am, asshat . . .

 {audible chuckles}

 

          Let's begin!  For those present or logged-in:  if you communicate via text, your preferred name will automatically appear before your typed-words.  Languages other than English are translated by the AI and appear in English adjacent the <translated> notation.  Communicating by voice is sourced as affiliated with your preferred name and also translated automatically by AI.  If you're auditing and want to talk or text, please pre-identify with an acceptable gnome-de-plume (and, yes, I pronounced it Gnome—reasons may be explained later).

 

          The topic for today's discussion was the title of my first lecture:  Artists Are Terribly People.  Anyone like to start us out?

 {sound of collective shuffle-rustling}

          Please, go ahead; in the wonderfully colorful sweater . . .

 

          Hi, hello.  I believe, little-p-professor, that this order, of these four words is the only order they could be placed, if the desired outcome was to encourage the most confusion.

 

          I think that all possible placement-locations of the adverb Terribly, within the three-word sentence "Artists Are People," causes readers to ponder the use of that adverb.  However, in this placement: Artists Are Terribly People, readers are faced with the additional consideration of wondering if the t-shirt designer accidentally printed the letter Y instead of the letter E.  The word Terrible is an adjective.  And adjective-immediately-before-a-noun is grammatically correct.

 

{as the relatively youthful, slight Midwestern-nasal, flat-but-charming voice expounded,

their words became visible on the text-screen

| Name: "Dre" |

| Preferences: they/them/student |

  below a multicolored maple leaf with a plum-purple background

above a canary-yellow, capital letter, C}

 

          Well, Dre.  Thank you for this well-thought-out and concise interpretation.  I see you've indicated 'student' as preferred honorific.  Are you willing to explain?  I try to ask pertinent questions as they arise. 

 

          Umm, well, I, um, thought about what title a gender-less person.  Not gender-neutral.  Who's only been a student for . . . for their-whole-life, might . . . consider . . . complimentary.  To be . . . damn.  Sorry.  I should have thought about it more.  

 

          Dre, I'm not trying to embarrass or make light of a very-real conundrum.  It's just a coincidence that you were "first at bat" and, accordingly, first to admit an unability to address the honorific-issue.  I normally mention this during the introduction, but I forgot, so here goes!

 

          Any instructor striving for objectivity—who takes the job of teaching seriously—should not need to explain the self-imposed requirement to treat every person with equal respect, and especially each of their students.  I see from some of your faces that a detailed explanation may be helpful.

 

          While referring to everyone by their preferred name may be simple, now that technology automatically puts it in our direct line-of-sight, the consequence of live-grading makes encouraging and discouraging students, without my words affecting their grade, very challenging.

 

          The AI allows the optional use—and, more importantly, the non-use—of honorifics without allocating grade-weight.  When I call someone by their preferred honorific, while I am saying, "keep up the good work," I'm also setting the stage for when I do not use some future person's honorific.  Because when I avoid using a preferred honorific, that is how I informally suggest disapproval without the AI interpreting my bio-metrics and changing their grade.   

 

        Please consider my need to have a desired honorific for everyone as something as important or valuable to me, as hearing others use your preferred gender-less pronouns are to you.  Until then, I would like your permission, Dre, to utilize the non-word 'eglaf ' as an honorific?  Only after you update your profile, though, so we don't confuse the AI.

 

        Thank you, Dre, you've excelled.  

 

{the canary-yellow C became a florescent-green A 

whispers rose and faded}

 

         Ahh . . . I've received a text from someone who is auditing.  Please bear with while I read; because obviously auto-posting to class screens from unregistered auditors would be an ill advised practice.

 

{slight-whispers}

          I will read it, in a rather abridged form because of online-speak and slang.  It is from an anonymous source.

 

          It says, "The equivalent of a military rank or title of honor should suffice.  The term crew-chief is a position of specific authority which delega . . . (think they meant 'designates') a position respected by all of the crew members as well as every senior officer who heavily relies on the person with that title. They are normally only called by the single honorific:  Chief."

{murmurs and rustling}

          I appreciate the auditor's suggestion, however, if Dre had written 'chief' as their preferred honorific, we'd be exactly where we are.  I will decline to use certain words perceived as a legitimate title of honor by someone but possibly disparaging to another.  And, chief is one such word.  Similarly, I would only call someone Doctor if they were a PhD or MD.

          Moving on.  Dre's observation that Artist's Are Terribly People causes a mental hick-up with Artist's Are Terrible People.  They also pointed out that the three other placements of the adverb may not provide sufficient context to completely understand those sentences, but also that those sentences would not be cause for too much more mental deliberation. 

          Someone else?  Ah, OK.  The person standing . . .

 

          The concreteness of the words printed on the front of a shirt is not unimportant.  If it were overheard or read in a text-conversation it would be less open for evaluation or consideration.  Statements proclaimed on shirts are intended to be received like a brand by an audience.  Maybe funny.  Or ironic.  An aphorism.  Sometimes proclaimed in protest.  But always intentionally crafted.  Always created.  Just like artwork is created.  Artists Are Terribly People emblazoned on a shirt?  That's a statement made by an artist!  Begging to be evaluated.

{as the raspy voice shot-out its clipped sentences

their words became visible on the text-screen

| Name: "E F Noël" |

| Preferences: they/them/newt |

  below an image of a orange salamander on a rock

above a canary-yellow, capital letter, C which transformed into an 2+}

          Ahh.  Very good.   I wondered why you stood instead of raising your hand like the others.  Clearly, Nude, you've already read the manual.  I have nothing to add except an explanation about the grading system.  Everyone begins at the median.  Maximum is 9+.  Minimum is 9-.  Participation results in change.

          Sir? S-Sir? I'm c-confused by this gra-grading system . . . I-I've never exp erienced re-real-time class-ss-room p-par ticipation scoring . . . W-why a r range of . . .a . . . ff . . . s-something like . . . thir thirty levels?

{as the speaker navigated sentences like a old truck

veering around potholes (and hitting some),

their words became visible on the text-screen

| Name: "Susan or Sue" |

| Preferences: she/her/blank |

  below an image of the speaker in cap and gown

above a canary-yellow, capital letter, C}

         Anyone wish to answer Susan or Sue's question?  .   .   .  Someone besides the four online auditors who have been permanently blocked.  Five, ahh, six are now blocked.  I thank Susan or Sue for asking.  Some auditors are trolls who eventually identify themselves.  It was bound to happen . . .

{adjacent Susan or Sue's thumbnail image,

 the canary-yellow, capital letter, C}

became a  C+}

          A-anh ohh?!

{as her sighs and non-verbal utterances of disapproval continued 

 the canary-yellow, capital letter, C returned}

 

          Wh-wh-aA Da fff . . .

 

{the canary-yellow, capital letter, C became a hard-orange D}

 

          Someone should answer her question, if for no other reason than to save her . . . from herself.

 

          The!  Grading system is fake!  Or . . . maybe, fabricated is better.  Maybe crafted by little-p-professor, so that our attention is entertained.  Hard to look away from a train-wreck . . . and,

 

{as the roller-coaster lower-register voice almost sang-out

with a noticeable degree of over-acting emphasis

their words became visible on the text-screen

| Name: "Randelf" |

| Preferences: she/her/nude |

  below an image of a very recognizable rainbow

above a canary-yellow, capital letter, C as it snapped into a

very warning-orange D}

 

          and . . . it definitely encourages participation!  Little-p-professor said he was performing the role of master-of-ceremonies, didn't he?  Well.  Look at your emotions.  Right now!  Are you hoping I drop to an F?  Schadenfreude much?

 

 {the very warning-orange D gradually switched to bold electric B}

 

          Are you to shallow to care?  Who's able to realize that they are . . . WE are . . . All circus performers and while we desire to become so aware of our Self that we can . . . do Both things at once . . . Sit in the audience . . . and . . . watch . . . our own performance!  Simultaneously?  Well that's what I'm here for, anyway!  

 

{which became a  C+}

 

          Nude!  Well said.  If only you answered Susan or Sue's question, though.  She is confused about the "so many levels"?  Oh, and Randelf?  Keep reading.  More reading less grandstanding.   

 

          Yes, please.  With your hand up over there.

 

          Professor little-p.  The most logical reason for thirty-one grade levels is because the computer program probably allows only two digits.  Rooting the median in the center of the five-letter ABCDF normative system, allows for the addition of eight plus's and eight minus's.

{as the median-monotone voice marched

solemnly along without exertion 

their words became visible on the text-screen

| Name: "Francis 'Freak' Storm" |

| Preferences: zhe/hzr/zero |

 appended-to a white-on-black slashed-numeral zero image 

above a canary-yellow, capital letter, C changed into a

cool-electric B+}

 

          This level of deep-dive into my writings, Freak, while personally appreciated, is not specifically related to the class.  However, I applaud your use of the term 'normative system', your logic, as well as your accuracy.

          We have our first AI confusion of the day, nice!   An unregistered auditor posed a statement, which was translated by the AI, but either they are present in the room or they have the same identifying profile as someone in the room.  We'll see if the AI blinks itself.  Until then, I'll read it.

 

          <translate> Being a terrible person is drastically different than being terrible at person-ing (which is what the shirt seems to convey).   Being socially clumsy, possessing less-than-optimal charisma, as well as other traits commonly believed to be possessed by those who self-identify as introverted, are the characteristics of so many people who are creative that they are stereotypical-to-the-point-of-cliche.  This shirt draws attention to those stereotypes.

 

          I see it's still working on its hick-up, so, would any of y . . .

{as the professor's words

dwindled away, the text-screen changed

| Name: "Ted" |

| Preferences: he/him/sir |

 appended-to an image of a cowboy on a horse 

above a canary-yellow, capital letter, C as it changed

into florescent-green A}

 

          Um.  Well!  It is possible . . .  Is it possible, Ted, that you are in this room, or can hear me?

 

          <translate> Yes.  I am the person in the wheelchair at the back.  My voice program is similar to others with muscular dystrophy, only my French-English translator is old of date.  And, I did not want to shout to call attention.   So I logged in as a auditor even though I am registered.  Apologies.

          Ted, your interpretation is as correct as it's possible to be.  That said, I (and the AI) would like to discover a way to recognize the equivalent of your hand being raised.  I can not see you from down here.  Does your chair have a light?

{In the top back of the room a spotlight lit the back of the wall,

rustle of clothing, whispers, creaking chairs}

          Excellent.  I will now be able to call on you, sir.  Thank you.

 

{a dozen more people contributed to the class discussion,

which touched on some of the elements from

the first lecture (thoughts, memories, beliefs, et cetera)

however nothing further was said by any of the study group:

Dre, E  F Noel, Susan or Sue, Randelf, Francis "Freak" Storm, or Ted}

            

go on, keep it up:

art is in the eye of the mind

consider that gravity is more important than you think

 

gravity is an artist's muse

semblance of balance

 

  

    I don't know the name of the piece, or the artist, if that's what you mean.  If you meant to say, why'd I pay to stare at it - I think it's because it encourages me to try to understand visual tension.  

 

    What artsy-fartsy site have you been reading?

 

    The kind that you're lifetime blocked from commenting on.

 

    Ok, k, how'd you say it?  No.  Really.  Sincerity, now.  If you can explain that collection of pixels to MY brain, and I'm willing to giveit a try, why not?   Don't scowl.  I know I'm an asshat.  So, why not prove I'm an incurable one?

 

    Because explaining what happens in my brain when I interpret Portuguese into English requires the person I'm explaining the translation process to, to be capable of thinking in - in, analogies.  Which you're about to prove with a question.

 

    I didn't know you could speak a foreign language!  You speak Portuguese?  Ohh.  Z'a joke.  Now wha'd I say? 

 

    The background contains a smudge of clouds, tree branches in varied states of fall, and a shadowed window frame above a rain-stained sill.  Close-up.  Jewelers block behaving as pedestal for an onyx sculpture, all balanced upon a white near-sphere.  The gravity is being. . .

                                            . . .Being shown!  These real pixels show, in an abstract concept selfie way, what the abstract concept of 'gravity' looks like to my Portuguese-to-English translation subprogram.

 

    And the me you're talking to right now, understands it so well, that it thinks,"It's so obvious, of course it's gravity!"  That vibration causes tension behind my eyes because I think, "nobody understands gravity," and then I see this picture depicting gravitational results and I think to myself, "Cept this artist who hates, probably hates, the phrase artsy-fartsy."

 

 

 

graduate to the next level:

 

transliteration (of art) to granular

 

memory tool for master's

Patience Fortitude and Resignation

          This is about multiple metaphors, containing metaphorical words, images, and a fictional story so rife with metaphor that it deserves a meta-metaphoric Consumer Warning: Meta-Fives Ahead.

         . . . “Simon says, ‘Mother may I’.”

          What an odd statement to make, Pat.  I want to be bemused, but I’m too concerned at your encroachment on carelessness.  Think your words before speaking them!  Spoken words can never be taken back.  Language is too important a tool to play with.

          It was clearly not a question.  Not sure why you feel the need to berate her, Tudy.  And cutting at me with your eyes does nothing but further encourage me to point out that you know she hates that nickname.  Call her Patience, or Patty, or even Tense.  When you use that androgynous term you’re intending harm.  Calling her femininity into question.  Besides, she was only playing with you.  Yes, with language, too—but mostly just with you.

          The goddess of spring who was of three minds, of a single universal nature, everywhere at this moment in the northern hemisphere and in flux outside every window (as well as remembered to have cyclically existed before windows and even before human consciousness) was especially enjoying this—this conversation with herself.

 

          Ôstara was potential.  She was chaos.  She was the entirety of the environment.  She loved the certainty.  The inevitability.  The birth.  The growth.  She loved every moment of her existence.  And even looked forward to her solstice-respite.  But she cherished her one supreme power the most—which the triple-goddess always tried to use very, very, sparingly:  the power to call anything into question.  Because when Ôstara called something into question, the ripple effect was world-wide.  Monumental.

 

          You’re already in concession-mode, Rez.  Accepting that she wasn’t actually flippant (or careless) because it was just play-talk and not a real query.  I’m not entertained.  By either of you.  She is too cavalier and you are too laissez-faire.

          Constantly the guard-dog, Fortitude—never a smile that makes it all the way to the eyes, forever the guile that takes shit everyday to the flies.

 

          Wow, you must have kept that chestnut in cold-storage for centuries!  I certainly didn’t miss it.  But.  I also can’t say I understand what you mean by it.  Never did.

          Patience understands it.  Completely.  I suspect.

 

          A corollary of negatives.  The ‘guile that takes shit to the flies’ would be a desire to deceive strong enough to overpower the aversion to handle fecal matter.  A ‘smile that makes it to the eyes’ is a sign of sincerity.  Rez’s-sayin’ you’re just doin’ what ya always do.  Pretendin’ concern, practicin’ deception, makin’ yourself feel good by tearin’ us down.

 

          Ouch-ahh.  You will always be unable to fool yourself, Forty.  And you are me and we are all together.

 

          I am the eggman.

 

          I am the walrus.

 

          You both think yourselves sooo funny.  Weary and nearly senile to the left of me, naïvely inexperienced to the right, here I am: stuck in the middle with you.

 

          Touché.

 

          mmpff

 

          It is the appropriate point in this era for another shake-up or even another mass die-off, I think.  Suggestions or criticisms are welcome.  Not questions.

 

          Last year we began a significant Homo Sapien culling and it is still blooming.  I would like to wait and see where that domino falls before we start another.  Unless we are open to re-visiting the nefarious...

 

           No.  We are not interested in re-visiting your pet peeve.  But a double whammy IS in order.  While humans, full of hubris, struggle to protect their weakest and most ignorant, I want to remind them of our power.

 

          I’m good with whatever.  But.  Unless I get-ta frame th’ next question . . . I veto.  AND.  Before you get all indignant, understand this: I’m prepared to 1816 us.  Fair warning!  Don’t call me out on this.  Don’t cajole.  Don't even passively criticize.  If you do, I’ll cancel us and see you guys on the southern hemisphere's next equinox.  Statement.  Of.  Fact. 

 

          Two hundred and five years ago, in 1816, Ôstara called her own existence into question.  Consequently, she never arrived in the northern hemisphere in March of that year and, subsequently, she was not present to abdicate her throne in June.  Summer never arrived.  Winter retained its presence for over a year.
        

in some way related:

ÔSTARA's Mailbox

 

The Schlatter's (Osgood and Gore)

 

New Storms