NO . . . ONE WAY . . . only
FUCK YOUR POLICE LOYALTY
go YELL OW! Mother...
more:
image excerpts by Austin Granger (austingranger.com), Alex Bamford,
Essential Apostrophe
Whacha been doing since we last talked?
A decision tree bloomed in my head.
I considered, for approximately .07 of a second, replying with a brief explanation of the various philosophy books, video-synopses, websites, and—subsequently formed—logical insights I'd come up with on aesthetics, fallacies and personal politics... and how all that related to the ongoing pandemic from my point-of-cloister; which caused me to focus/trip over how pretentious that-all might sound if it were dumped into my unprepared ear-brain.
So I shifted to considering (for an additional .14 of a second) a nutshell-sketch of my recent art collages: how I'd created them after perusing thousands of images—over scores of hours—for just the right fit to tell just the right story, to engage my viewers for an extended moment of their lives and (hopefully) cause them to think about what that specific image is asking them to feel, which is the same as what I, the composer, am hoping to communicate. Which, unfortunately, caused me to realize; a conversation of this magnitude would require visuals, and a friendly talk was not the place for a PowerPoint presentation.
For the next full second I thought about the things I'd done since we'd last talked: I'd gone to a drive-in theater with four screens to choose from (two films at each) and each screen had it's own audio over a different FM radio station. But. It was just a drive-in. It was just Empire Strikes Back... Also, I'd: hiked with my cats a few times, gone picnicking, had a campfire, gone to a museum filled with hundreds of hand carved birds, and explored parts of the Green Mountains as well as the islands in Lake Champlain with my wife. But those were just special things to us. It was just sightseeing.
Same-old same-old. Tryin' not to catch it again. Or spread it if I'm still contagious. Keepin' busy. You?
Not much different. Can't wait for this to be over so I can go back to work. Back to normal.
I wondered about asking: what if that's never possible - if wearing masks and staying separate was forever - if the education paradigm was going to become 90% online/virtual and the 10% hands-on requirements were going to be held in sterile environments with 14-day quarantines whenever someone entered - if full-body spacesuits were going to be a thing - if . . . nah . . . too pessimistic.
I thought you were an essential worker.
Who're es..essential workers.
The preferred term's sex worker; I'm pretty sure they aren't.
Hunh? Now I'm confused.
Asked if you were essential and it sounded like you said whores are essential.
Oh. The apostrophe in who-are is essential. I'm not.
comprised of photos titled apostrophe by:
use yer werds ews-yur-wurdz
aka: floating heads and already deads
US Federal personnel wearing military uniforms without insignia (except a POLICE patch), driving unmarked rental vans, have begun arresting/detaining people in Portland, Oregon. In one video, the protester-camerawoman repeats the phrase: use your words towards the mute authoritarian federal law enforcement officers who are in the act of snatching-and-disappearing an alleged protester.
collage-art in the same vein:
The Luck Dragon
Swansong cloudy ride - must you always land?
prolong! vow thee bide, thrust to take a stand.
right/wrong soundly snide trussed beforehand.
ding-dong ciao deride; just th' rue as planned.
Falkor might come back. He's not forever lost.
give yer kite sum slack, 'tis but weather tossd.
lots more shite-n-frack, xpect untethered cost.
old lore, setback - read
mending wall
by Frost.
obviously animals got harmed (during the creative process)
This composition was created by searching down the
flikr favorite rabbit-hole:
my discovery of a subjectively relevant image in
a photographer's 'faves' leads to searching that
photographer's faves for another image,
which resulted in - all of the above.
eye am knot
you give Me A wood
ICH BiN NiCHT (I'm Not)
This is not a good place.
Cops Set the fire
more pareidolia related art:
image excerpts by Austin Granger and Paul McFarland
Haiku 道路標識 5-7-5 俳句 road signs
inhospitable
avoid groups stay home save lives
this moment deserves
more:
image excerpts by Austin Granger and Ansel Olson
Covid Diary - Chapter 2
About ten weeks ago, I wrote about my wife and I catching what we could only assume was Covid19. I updated that article for a month, until our symptoms disappeared.
In the two month interim, I have experienced three slight recurrences of the symptoms and she has experienced one. Each were/are identical to our first symptoms only milder in both intensity and duration.
I added 'are' to the last sentence because I—as I type (7 July 2020)—am, again, symptomatic.
It began yesterday with sore long muscles in my arms; as if I had done too many push-ups the day before. As the day progressed, I tested my muscles. Other muscles began to feel unaccountably fatigued after very little activity. Newly notable, was, when I entered strong sunlight, my iris's failed to contract as if an optometrist had dilated my eyes. Today, every muscle is just slightly sore, which I notice most in my fingers, neck, abdomen, and thighs. Slight headache. No other symptoms.
For the last three months we both have practiced social distance and/or stayed home; we wear masks and gloves if going shopping (which is the only time I went out recently: grocery shopping four days ago).
Obviously, antibodies are only effective for a short period of time and then the antibodies, which may be still present, helped to reduce the severity of our symptoms from massive, can't-get-out-of-bed whole-body, 48-hour exhaustion (Chapter 1, for us) to a few hours of slightly tired muscles.
This is my opportunity to pass along some funny-albeit-apropos words I heard from my daughter yesterday: after all the shit I've done in my life, if I die because I touched my face...
lighter or informative Covid19 stuff:
Orangemen's Mailbox
 |
| Orangemen's Mailbox - 12 July (Orangemen's Day / 'The Glorious Twelfth') |
Mailbox artwork - ALL
Santa Claus' Mailbox - 25 Dec (Christmas)
AULDLANGSYNE's Mailbox - 1 Jan (New Year's Day)
Sommerzeit's Mailbox - 8 Mar (Daylight Savings Time 2020 / 'Summertime' in Germany)
Avril Poisson's Mailbox - 1 Apr (April Fools Day / April Fish in France)
St. George's Mailbox - 23 Apr (Feast of St George)
May IV's Mailbox - 4 May (Star Wars Day)
Serling's Mailbox - 11 May (Twilight Zone Day)
image portion by Jamie Wheeler
Laundromat Pantograph
 |
For those interested in a game of Seek and Find: I compiled this collage from the photographs of Oregon artist Austin Granger (flikr link below). - Good luck determining exactly how many - |
continue viewing composite artworks:
image excerpts by Austin Granger at austingranger.com
BFR in the ROK (Big Fuckin Rock in the Republic of Korea)
As I entered
the platoon office, Staff Sergeant Colwell gestured with his chin in the
direction of a soldier standing in front of his desk at parade rest.
Without looking up from the documents on his blotter, SSG Colwell squinted
the left portion of his permanent wrinkles in my direction—which was either
a smile, sneer, frown or grimace—and said in his quiet rumble (indicating it
wasn't a sneer or frown) “Sergeant, this is Private Wiznewski.”
I turned and
extended my hand. Wiznewski didn’t even move his eyes, let alone his
hand. I smiled and said, “At ease Wiznewski. Pleased to meet
you.” He slowly brought his eyes to meet mine, almost smiled and
returned the handshake like this was his first-ever. I glanced down at
his terrible handshake and murmured, “We’re gonna work on that.”
Before I could
say anything more, SSG Colwell interrupted. “Private.
This is Sergeant Glines. The squad leader for
second squad. He’s your squad leader. Which means you are
in the second squad. Got it?” I wondered about what had
been said to make SSG Colwell think it was necessary to hammer the numbers
and titles.
“Yes. . .second
squad, Platoon Sergeant; pleased to meet you, Sergeant.” Wiznewski
replied to both of us; his voice was average—matching his build, height and
hair color and contrasting with his apparent age (he looked about fourteen
years old).
SSG Colwell then gave us both some brisk
parting words containing a full complement of threats and ultimatums.
No matter that Wiznewski graduated from Military Police school last week,
arrived in Korea yesterday, only assigned to us this afternoon, and had not
been issued any equipment yet—he was to be ready to go to the field for
training with the rest of our platoon in four days.
As my squad—the
second squad, of the second platoon, of the 142d MP Company—departed the
platoon’s tactical operations area the first morning of the field training
exercise, we traveled in a convoy of three HUMMWVs. My driver was PFC
LaMott; in my opinion she was the best driver in the company. And,
with newly-issued equipment and (now) fully trained on how to correctly
shake hands, PVT Wiznewski rode in the turret as my M60 gunner.
Behind us, my
other two HUMMWVs contained three occupants each: SGT Tinley was my second
team leader and SGT Lee, a KATUSA, was my third team leader. CPL
Yoon, also a KATUSA, was SGT Tinley’s driver and PFC Witherspoon was the
gunner for vehicle two. PV2 Smith drove vehicle three (he hated being
called Smith or Smitty and somehow ended up with Robert as a nickname, even
though his name was Darryl—I think it was because of Robert Smith of The
Cure—it was 1989, but it still makes very little sense.) I don’t
remember the name of vehicle three’s gunner, we called him Joe; he was
either from California or talked about living there.
We parked the
vehicles near a roadside market, purchased snacks (which in the late-80s
usually meant 16oz returnable bottles of Pepsi and Choco-Pie brand moon
pies) and then I explained to my eight squad members how the week of
training was supposed to go and how it was actually going to go:
“Every day, all week,
we’re supposed to drive our entire assigned area in a tactical three-vehicle
convoy. Our platoon is conducting battlefield route recon. Our
squad has the area marked on these maps. The other two squads have
different areas, different maps. We’re tasked with comparing maps with
actual terrain and making corrections on the maps as we discover them.
For example, if a bridge is marked on the map as having an 18 ton weight
limit, but a sign on the bridge says 8 tons, we’d make a note. We have
many hundreds of miles of crisscrossing roads to cover.
“The way we are
actually going to accomplish this—much faster and more efficiently—is to
separate. Each team will drive an area, or a section, and make
notes. Before returning to the campsite in the evening before dinner,
we’ll meet and I’ll update the main map with your notes. That way
it’ll all be in my writing.
“I don’t know how
much you all heard this morning when he was talking, but SSG Colwell has
directed us to never change our radios off of the platoon frequency
and also he said we aren’t allowed to stop and buy any snacks or
local food.” I said this as I raised a Pepsi bottle over my head,
which got chuckles and laughter.
“He thinks he can
monitor us if he can always hear us, which would prevent us from
separating. But we will do it this way: I’ll give you each a
section. We separate. Drive different routes. When we need
to talk to each other without him hearing, say something on the platoon
frequency about an animal, then immediately switch your channel over to
696969.00, say what needs to be said—like meet for lunch at the market at
blah-blah grid coordinates—then switch back quickly to the platoon
frequency. Questions?”
And that is how it
went for three days. Smooth. Almost all our recons were already
complete and we still had four more days left.
On the fifth day, as
we were departing the platoon camp, my vehicle’s engine got an electrical
short. Melting plastic, smoke, flames and several fire extinguishers
later—we were down to two vehicles. No one was at fault. No
matter, SSG Colwell wanted to find someone to blame and hated that he
couldn’t twist this into someone doing something he had forbidden.
Because of this, his threats become more venomous.
My two vehicles were
now full with four people in each. I said to PVT Wisnewski, “Hey,
sorry man, you’re still a member of the second squad. It’s just that
I need you to ride with first squad for the rest of the week. Not as
an M60 gunner, just as an extra team member. Shit happens.”
And that was how it
went for two more days. Still smooth. Our recons were now 99%
complete, so we mostly fucked off and swam in a creek and relaxed in the
shade.
On the last day we
had only two roads to finish (which was expected to take no more than an
hour) and then everyone was ordered to meet with SSG Colwell and the
Lieutenant at a central area before 1700 hrs. Late? Expect to be
punished.
We finished the road
recons, took lunch—Pepsi and Moonpies, and then leisurely headed south along
the most direct road which the map showed connected to a highway leading to
the meeting area. About noon we exited the area we were responsible
for updating. An hour later, the road ended at the edge of a rice
paddy. The highway, which we wanted to be on, was about 200 meters
away. . .on the other side of the mud-filled paddy. A dirt track,
which appeared to be just wide enough for a HMMWV, had replaced what the map
showed was a two-lane gravel road.
“Sergeant, this is
exactly what we are out here to find! To correct on the map, right?”
“Yes LaMott.
And I’ll make sure it's noted on the map first squad was responsible for,
but, more important at the moment is deciding if we can slowly creep across
this dirt berm or if we turn around and make the full loop back to where the
road connects to the highway.”
“If you ground-guide
me across, I can make it. No problem. Driving that loop will add
an extra two hours of bumpy gravel roads. We’ll be fine crossing the
dirt-berm if we go slow. These are hummvees!”
I began to walk
backwards (signalling with my hands if tires got too close to the edge) and
she slowly, carefully, drove forward. The second vehicle crept behind
us with SGT Tinley ground-guiding it.
Half way across, the front tire on the
passenger side slipped off the dirt edge of the berm (my fault for not
ground-guiding further away from that edge). Four-wheel drive began to
churn loose dirt, but there was an obstruction catching the bottom edge of
the front bumper. It was preventing the truck from climbing back up
onto the top of the berm. We couldn’t reverse back up onto the berm
because the loose dirt on the edge began to erode, which was causing the
angle of the HMMWV to increase—too much more and it looked like the truck
might roll down onto its side in the deep rice paddy mud.
“I’m looking at what
seems to be stopping us from making it back onto the berm, Sergeant.
It just looks like a tiny sharp rock.” Said SGT Tinley from under the
front bumper.
“OK, get a shovel,
pickaxe, and the muscles of Joe and Witherspoon up here to clear it.”
I replied.
I began to
calculate. There were plenty of hours. We could do this.
Thirty minutes later
the hole around the “tiny rock” was now almost a five foot circle and at
least eighteen inches deep at the outside edge. We had all spent time
with shovels and various tools of destruction to no avail. The four
inches of rock jutting out of the edge of the berm was connected to a
massive bolder which sloped away in all directions like a wedding
cake. When LaMott drove forward, the front bumper came to rest against
the top few inches of the bolder.
Another thirty
minutes and I watched as Robert, shirtless, stood over the rock and
bludgeoned it with a ten-pound sledge hammer, sending shards of granite
splintering with every blow. Tinley and I stood back as Robert
shouted, “Fuck me to hell, Sergeant, this damn thing goes all the way to the core
of the Earth!”
“Ok.
Stop. STOP. Take a break Robert. LaMotte, begin unwinding
our winch. I want to see if it will reach that metal telephone pole at
the edge of the highway.” As she began to un-spool the cable, I got on
the radio.
“This is
DeltaTwoLima, warning anyone driving along highway eighteen-alpha near grid
coordinate SC189543, there is a cow loose in the road. Warning: cow in
the roadway. Drive with caution in that area.”
I switched to
696969.00 and waited. Two minutes. Three minutes. Come
on. Come on. Come on.
“Hello Veach? This is
Dan.” (SGT Dan Primock, the first squad leader.)
“Fuuck it’s great to
hear your voice, Dan. I was worried Wisnewski wouldn’t remember.
I owe him one and I will owe you double if you can help us out of a
jam.”
“What’s with this
secret squirrel shit?” He asked in a laughing tone.
“Got stuck at
SC432476 and need a vehicle with a winch at the edge of the highway where
that secondary road meets it. Can you do that without talking on the
platoon freq?”
“Umm, let me
look.” His pause lasted forever. “Yeah, we’re only 30 minutes
south. See ya soon.”
LaMotte came back and
pointed out that the cable was short by about ten meters, which was what I’d
assumed. I told them to continue to dig around the boulder, pry with
the pick-axe, and attempt to break chunks off with the sledge while we
waited for the first squad to arrive. I said, dejectedly, “Hopefully,
guys, you can find the edge of it. If not, I’m counting on Plan B:
connecting two winch cables together and them dragging us over that
motherfucker without damaging the undercarriage. Colwell is going to
broil my ass over his personal hell-fire. He’s someone who’d fuckin
love to ruin my career—I want to do everything I can to avoid
making him that happy.”
First squad showed up
and began to spool out their cable, connect them, and winch them
tight. Now, the hole around the boulder was deeper—about two feet at
the deepest—and, accordingly, the bumper came to rest about five inches
below the top of the rock. Try as we could (and did) there was no way to
winch/drive it up and over that BFR.
“Ok, guys. I was afraid of
this. Start winding up your winch, Dan. Everyone else!
Climb inside first platoon’s vehicles. You’re going to have to sit on
laps and climb into the bed with the gear. I’ll stay here with the two
vehicles. You’ll all make it to the 1700 meeting. That way, I’m
the only person who gets in trouble. . .aaannd. . .What. In.
The. Hell. Could. This. Guy. Want?”
As I was talking and soldiers were re-winding winch cables and putting on shirts and beginning to store tools, a very, very, old and extremely well dressed—in traditional white suit, hat, and booties—Korean gentleman slowly shuffled toward us along the berm, leading a large beige cow on a hand-braided rope. The cow had a wooden ring the size of a dinner plate thru its nose. The man was so stooped over that he seemed to only be able to look at the ground in front of him. He stopped. I said, “SGT Lee? CPL Yoon? Please tell this farmer that I, we all, are so very sorry for damaging the berm of his rice paddy. And ask him what we can do to make up for it.”
While the two
KATUSA’s talked in hushed and respectful tones with the great-grandfather, I
went to some of the other soldiers and asked them to examine their wallets
for Korean money, and to please kick-in what they could (I assumed he would
want to be paid for the damage). I promised to repay them all if they
would give it to him. As they all began to check their wallets, SGT
Lee approached me with an odd almost-smile in his eyes but not near his
mouth.
“What did he say,
Lee?”
“Sergeant he...
He wants to help. Help us with the rock.” Lee was struggling
with keeping a smile away from his voice. I stared at Lee to see if he
had snapped in the heat and, somehow, thought that now would be time
to crack a joke. It didn’t feel like a prank.
“How would
he...?” I asked as I looked past Lee at Yoon, who was not having any
difficulty with laughter because the gentleman was handing him the rope to
the cow’s nose ring and beginning to untie the front of his white linen
jacket.
“Does he think that
his bull is going to have more success than the truck winches?” My
voice now had a bit of a giggle in it. Lee could hear my breathy
giggle and that caused the smile he was fighting off to reach his mouth.
“I do not think he
wants to use the cow, Sergeant. He only asked if... he... could... use
the sledgehammer.” The word broke out of his mouth with many more
chuckles than he wanted. He tried to stuff them back in.
But I had no similar
compunction. I laughed and said, loudly, “The fuck are you telling
me? Lee! Is this a joke? This old guy, dressed in his
Sunday best, can’t even stand up straight. You just watched four
strong soldiers fail to break that fucking hunk of Korea with a sledgehammer
and a pick-axe for over an hour—are you, seriously, telling me that
this dainty ninety-year-old wants a go?”
“Yes. He said
he can help.” Everyone, from both squads, were now standing and
chuckling and smiling. I looked at my watch. It was 1530 and the
drive—for them—would not be more than 30 minutes.
“Ok.” I shook
my head with laughter and shrugged my shoulders, “Joe, hand him the
sledgehammer.”
The man said
something. Lee translated, “He only needs the top part. The
metal.”
Joe turned the sledge
over, tamped the handle, the head slipped to the ground, then he picked it
up and handed it to the farmer, who was now hat-less. The cow seemed
inpatient and pulled on the rope a little. Yoon tugged back.
The man slowly, gingerly, lowered his
legs into the hole we’d dug around the rock and then picked up the head of
the sledgehammer in both hands, leaned forward toward the point of the rock
and then tapped the rock with the metal. He licked his hand, rubbed
the rock, and then . . . tap tap tick tap. He bent
closer. Looked at it from a slightly different angle, tap tick
tap. As thirty seconds became a minute ..tap, tap, tik.. and
then a minute became five ..tap tap.. the spectacle wore off. The
funny died down. Sure, there were still some giggles, but they were
becoming snickers of embarrassment. Someone said, with too much
volume, “A diamond cutter!” ..tap, tic, tap.. “This
farmer is going to find the vein in the granite!” ..tap, tick,
sloooooog.
The top tier of the
rock-wedding cake, the size of a basketball, slid off and settled near the
right foot of the diamond cutter. Everyone burst into shouts and
applause and shocked awe.
I glanced at my watch—and began barking
orders as I realized SSG Colwell may never get a chance to be happy on my
account. “Lee, get him out of that hole. LaMotte, get behind the
wheel. Dan, Joe, Tilwell please pool all the Korean money you can find
and give it to Yoon (I gave him about $20 worth)—Yoon, make a list of how
much everyone gives and I want that list. I’ll pay you
all back. Help him and his cow beyond the back vehicle and make
sure he understands how much we— I —love what he was able to do. I
think we just witnessed a miracle! Please explain to him why we
need to go so quickly. Thank you. And thank him!”
The HMMWV climbed
over the topless-boulder like it wasn’t even there, made it down the berm to
the highway in a few minutes, and we all drove to the meeting point.
We arrived before most. SSG Colwell asked about the dirt and mud on
the vehicle. I said, “We had to veer around a cow in the middle of the
road and went thru a mud puddle. We called to warn others who might be
driving in that area.”
“Sounds like you were
driving too fast for conditions. I told you to insure everyone drove
safely or I’d give you an article fifteen. Sounds like you didn’t
listen.”
“We weren’t going
fast. Hardly moving at all. But we didn’t hit the cow, just a
little mud.”
THIS STORY IS 100% FACTUALLY TRUE. IT IS AS ACCURATE AS MY 30-YEAR
OLD MEMORY CAN RECALL, BESIDES MOST OF THE NAMES (CHANGED TO PROTECT THE
GUILTY) IT HAPPENED EXACTLY IN THIS MANNER AND IN THIS SEQUENCE. I
THINK IT'S THE BEST TRUE STORY FROM MY LIFE.
Haiku ライトニング 5-7-5 俳句 Lightning
bat - break·fast sha·dow
fore·gone heat - thun·der ec·ho
fire·fly - sem·a·phore
more 5-7-5 syllable haiku:
How I Spent My Summer CoV-acation
There are a few interesting things to see in Westford, Vermont. Besides a 180 year old covered bridge, there is a 700-pound (318 kg) carved wooden 'fuck you' gesture on a lighted pole and a 30-foot (9 meter) boat painted like a shark with a hand-painted sign: 'THIS VIRUS SUCKS...I WANTED ZOMBIES'.
The reason I rarely permit myself to be photographed and, subsequently, don't publish photos which include my likeness, or visage, is because a UW-Milwaukee professor who taught me watercolor painting in the early 1980s said (as an explanation for why everything he wore, or owned, consisted of shades of grey):
I believe the most successful artists are the best observers. To be a good observer, one must strive to always blend in. Nobody pays attention to some grey-haired old guy in a grey suit, wearing a grey tie and driving a grey car. Like a scientist preventing their research from becoming contaminated by his or her own DNA, artists should be observers; not the observed.
more snap-photos of me:
shun the fleck in my roar
Looking at myself in the grungy mirror of who, what, where and when
For the first time in my privileged life, I hate the world today times ten
Things I have no control over which nobody has control over but then...
Some may cure others elect and twelve may incarcerate those bad men
Frame of window glare in tunnel awareness focused switch-plate the ken
Train of thought: removing all untoward distraction, until everyone is zen
I want to cry, I want to yell, I want to teach, I want to bash n bash again
Please empathize, listen, engage, delve and then agree to quit only when
continue contemplating art-poem combinations:
image excerpts from Chad Abramovich at Obscure Vermont
Mailbox Philosophy - Jainism
The foundation of Jain philosophy is based on three intertwined thoughts and behaviors which they have determined to be correct:
- Faith
- Knowledge
- Conduct
Adherents to the Jain way of living strive to avoid:
- Violence or harm to living things (which includes food; most are vegan and intermittent fast)
- Deception or lies (if speaking truth might harm someone, a Jainist chooses silence)
- Stealing or misappropriation
- Passion or lack of chastity
- Acquisition or possession of material goods
My artwork, Mailbox Philosophy - Jainism (Now in letterbox and living color) depicts an ascetic Jain (possess no clothing) wearing a traditional mouth cover (prevent inhaling small insects) while carrying a feather whisk (to remove insects from the path). Strict followers of the Jain philosophy do not have residences or mailboxes (an octopus has, instead, camouflaged itself as a mailbox); above which, the octopus's stretched skin bears the Jain's motto, in Sanskrit, Parasparopagraho Jīvānām, which translates approximately to: All Life Is Dependently Inter-connected. Although self defense is permitted, the Jain's posture is not one of fear (from the Japanese Spider Crab) rather, she appears to be glancing at the Jain flag while she takes advantage of the water (Jains do not waste water by bathing).
more philosophic musings:
...on stoicism...
...on studying philosophy...
...on death and fate...
...on stoicism...
...on studying philosophy...
...on death and fate...
PARSE (Philosophic Argument Relating to Socital Emblems) The Thin Blue Line vs Black Lives Matter
Police officers unjustly killed another black man. This time it was in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Protests—ranging from peaceful sit-in's to destructive riots—are currently happening worldwide.
If you want to learn why you should never display the "thin blue line" flag, patch, or banner as well as why you should never say the words: Blue Lives Matter or All Lives Matter, read on...
Driving thru the Oregon countryside in 2018, my wife pointed to a pickup truck flying two large flags and asked if I knew what the black and white one represented. Although I'd never seen an "American flag" with: black bars instead of red, a black field behind the stars instead of blue, and a horizontal blue bar thru the middle—I was able to make a reasonably informed guess (because the other flag in the back of the pickup was a confederate battle flag). 
There are a few variations of banners with these blue lines. Even though they range from those with solid black backgrounds, or are combined with the stars and bars, or the union jack (as well as with the aforementioned stars and stripes) I've discovered one strong common denominator: all appear to have been created after 2013—when the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement began.
If someone wants to show police solidarity and also wants to display their support in the form of a banner (on the back of their Ford F150, as an example) they should consider a emblem from the Fraternal Order of Police (FOP). This organization is over a century old, advocates for the safety of law enforcement officers, and the FOP logo contains no words intended to usurp the message of another group.
There are a growing number of flags, banners, and signs which bring universal scorn to those who publicly display them. The Blue Lives Matter banner is now joining with the signs of the "Church" from Westboro, Kansas; the flag of the National Socialist German Workers' Party (the Nazi Swastika); and variants of the US Confederate Battle Flag (Confederate Southern Cross).
Specious claims of "pride in one's heritage" are no longer palatable and displaying one's racism proudly is less and less tolerated every year. But still, there are many who feel a need to display an emblem decrying their hate, so the white supremacists have recently adopted the thin blue line flag, which provides a superficially plausible explanation (claiming to support the police) while actually displaying their hate-filled message (which is that black lives don't matter to them).
- The Thin Blue Line Flag is equivalent to the Blue Lives Matter banner.
- The purpose of stating "Blue Lives Matter" is to oppose the "Black Lives Matter" movement.
- The primary "Black Lives Matter" message is to stop police violence against people of color.
Keep following the logic...
If someone declares Black Lives Matter (by banner, statement, or flag) they are protesting police violence on black people by sharing that organization's slogan.
Any replies similar to: all lives matter, or blue lives matter, or everyone's life matters, are contrary statements made by those disagreeing that black people have been and will continue to be unjustly targeted with violence by law enforcement personnel (which is what the Black Lives Matter movement wants to stop).
After posting this article in 2018, I received a few proudly ignorant commenters claiming they were unaware the blue lives matter banner meant black lives don't matter, but rather than accept this rational argument, they all seemed to prefer keeping their emotion-based ignorance.
Hate is a strong emotion.
Nobody ever likes to think they previously made a wrong-headed decision—at the same time, we all like to hear others admit when they discover they made a mistake in judgement; we consider those who are able to recognize their mistakes (and are "big enough" to admit it) to be leaders who possess mettle, strong character and emotional intelligence.
When was the last time this was you? Could this be you in the future?
Maybe a change, which we all can contribute to making, begins with your awareness that racist police violence has to stop. If you change your apathy today, tomorrow maybe you'll be big enough to tell the ignorant multitude around you that they are part of the problem.
are the same as continue reading these topics:
...on narcissistic sociopath's...
...on inability to think abstractly (story)...
Recommended Products
(unsponsored)
I provide this small list of items I wish I'd discovered when I was younger, don't know how I got-by without previously, strongly recommend now, and would immediately replace if lost. Although approximate 2020 prices are included, I suggest using camelcamelcamel to know if the current price is high or low (relative to previous prices). The links to Amazon are for ease of identification and are not sponsored links.
This CGEAR ground-cover/mat is not only for camping and picnics, but can be staked down in high winds with attached eye-rings. It was designed to be utilized as a beach blanket, to prevent sand from being carried back to the vehicle, but I use it primarily as a base for stargazing (keeps clothes / top blankets dry) and as a 'home base' when exploring the forest with my cat.
Available in several sizes; the 8' x 8' is between $50 - $80.
The DURALEX Unie glass has a perfect heft, volume, shape, and size. It holds 20oz (560ml), weighs 9 ounces (250g) and is made of tempered Duralex, which is the same material as vehicle glass. If it breaks it shatters into tiny square pieces and not into sharp shards.
There's only one perfect size: French pint tumbler goblet $10 - $15.
Having a favorite bar of soap is a first, for me—but I am so dedicated to the smell, creamy texture, and longevity of these triple-milled Wavertree & London (lemongrass and lemon myrtle scent) bars, I keep a "back stock." (It's not hoarding if you only keep a 6 month supply is it?)
Large bar, made in Australia: $9 - $10.
This Ibiyaya double-compartment backpack is sold as a pet carrier (definitely great for cats) but—as a backpack—it is durable, ergonomically-comfortable, and luxuriously outfitted with great details (which you weren't even aware you'd appreciate, until you discover them in this fantastic piece of high-end luggage).
Overall size: 22"x15"x11.5"; $145 - $160.
A Flatter Curve Means...
- People not wearing a mask or social distancing (until 2021 or 2022) are more-than-probably narcissists, sociopaths, or fools.
- In the narcissistic sociopath's mind, everyone else is either insignificant or unimportant; their dysfunction causes them to only focus on their own convenience and comfort. It's uncomfortable to breathe your own exhale. It's inconvenient to maintain awareness in order to keep your distance.
- Psychopaths try to blend in, so they'll not be as easy to spot.
- Governments have begun to loosen restrictions because their hospitals are below capacity.
- Fools take this to mean: "it's all clear, we can go about our normal lives."
- Narcissistic sociopaths never wore masks or kept a distance. They are just glad to be able to blend in with the fools now.
- Doctors and historians say this will not go away until at least 80% of the entire population contracts it (if antibodies prevent re-infection, which is still unproven).
- I had it and don't want it again. I (and scientists) don't know if I'm still contagious. I still wear a mask and keep a distance because empathy causes me to not prioritize my comfort and convenience over other people's life.
continue covid19 creations:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
