Why break ground? There is nothing new to be built. Nothing new to be done. It's all just repeated mistakes. A vicious circle we can't escape. A circus ride with no end.
The torment was easy at first; we thought it'd ease,
but then came the realization that there was only escalation
we were reaping our sins at breakneck speed,
and we wanted them and invited them in
hoping they would ease us as they once did,
but they beguiled us
oh oh Oh, damn the deceitfull
Those agents of hell
They stare back at us in mirror
but breaking the glass does not send them away
we are the murderers, the rapists, the terrorists
we fight ourselves
we always lose.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
Shadows
There is no escaping the shadows
their strange, shapeless mire
we hide from them in daylight,
forgot them in the busy hours
But they come for us at twilight
and we escape them by sleep
but they wait for us in dreams
to remind us what we cannot keep
Oh, but were we not victims of sleep,
creatures doomed to rest,
then we would not weep,
we would be our best.
trudging headlong into the forest
With no knowledge of the hunt
the kill,
the blood
the thrill
It haunts us
We would wait by streams for fair maidens
with no need to protect their innocence
For they would have no shame
No secrets
No vice
No malice
No blame
Morning awaits us
But we long for night
Angels bow down in wonder
at our plight
We love the night
The doom
the death
the stench
The foul foolishness of folly is our curse
Curiousness is our slave master
and we bow in homage
But had we no need for want
there would be no boundaries
no doors
no locks
Oh but for the shadows,
we would own the night
Mitchell
Plumlee, Jr. © 2018
Thursday, January 26, 2017
The King of Limbo Land
I always knew I
wasn’t quite right. Off balance, some would say. I have never been able to
really fit in or get along with people very well. Oh, I get along just fine
with them until they break the Golden Rule, “do unto others as you’d have
others do unto you.” And when they do to me what I would not do to them, that’s
when they cross my moral border. And when they enter my country illegally I
view them as an invader and I do what any sovereign would do, I protect my
territory. My normal, or rather, abnormal weapon of defense has always been
fits of rage. My anger explodes. I’ve never been able to contain myself when
the napalm bombs start blasting. It’s like lighting an entire package of
firecrackers: I spew out a rapid-fire blast of obscenities until the last one
finally explodes and then I retreat in silence and shame. Those uncontrollable bouts
of anger plague me more than anything in life; they’ve been the biggest
hindrance to my success. Because to be successful one must network and
socialize, but my shame has driven me to retreat from others; I’ve become an
isolationist out of necessity and fear that I might have to strike out against
an illegal alien.
I’ll always wonder
if I’d have been different, more able to handle stress and pressure, if I
hadn’t been ran over by a car when I was two years old. I hate to admit to that
because it can easily be used as an excuse for every time I blow my top and
cuss somebody out. So I don’t admit it. I have never gone back and told anyone
after I chewed them a new asshole that I might’ve done it because my head was busted
open like a cantaloupe when I was just a kid. But maybe I should have. Maybe I
shouldn’t have always tried to act normal. I might’ve been better off if I’d
been in the class with the “special needs” children. Back in 1962 when I started
to school, some of special needs children rode my bus. When we got to school,
they’d sit politely while us “normal” kids got off. Someone would then lead
them to a smaller bus, which now carries the stigma known as the “short bus.” I
used to watch them board that bus and drive away. I remember asking classmates
where they went, but nobody knew. They just disappeared. They weren’t there at
the end of the day when we got back on the bus to go home. I assumed they got
out of class earlier than us “normal” kids, which made me kind a want to ride
their bus.
But as mentioned,
I have never felt like I should’ve been with the “normal” kids. It’s a shame
that there wasn’t a bus for the “limbo” kids, the ones like me who weren’t
quite right but knew how to fake it. I might’ve grown up to be president of
Limbo Land. In a way, I suppose I am. I live in sort of a continuous limbo land
that borders on the last person I alienated and next person yet to piss me off.
I’m now seeing a
therapist because my explosive temper has driven off many friends and family
members in the last couple of years. My counselor is a woman in her early 40s,
I assume. She’s very laid-back and uses the word “fuck” often, which puts her
in my “cool category.” If this were the Sixties, I’m sure she’d be a hippie.
It’s odd that a man who is just a few days away from turning 61 would be
seeking guidance from someone twenty years younger, but it is what it is. She
never really gives me assignments. She doesn’t tell me to look in the mirror
like Stuart Smalley and say, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone
it, people like me.” She’s knows that I’m too much of a matter-of-fact,
no-nonsense kind of guy to do that sort of shit, and that those type of
assignments would make me roll my eyes, so she just talks to me.
In our last
session she pointed out that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that some my
relatives and a former friends will no longer have nothing to do with me.
Maybe, she said, they were unhealthy relationships I subconsciously sabotaged. Maybe
I cussed them out when they crossed my moral border because I never really
liked them anyway.
A moment of
silence followed her analysis.
I had not
considered that I might’ve done what I did on purpose because I have felt so
guilt ridden for doing so. I wallowed in the muddy mire of guilt and shame for
cussing them out even though my therapist says that in her opinion, they had it
coming. She’s from up north, a Yankee. And everybody knows that Yankee’s don’t
take any shit. I also spent a great deal of time in the north when I was a
child. My mother used to travel to Indianapolis and Louisville every few weeks.
I had to fight with cousins who lived in the slums of those cities. They were
rough and they didn’t take any shit, either. And they taught me not to. But
that’s not acceptable in the south. Southerners are supposed say, “Why bless
your heart,” when someone pisses them off. But I can’t do that. And that’s why
I live in Limbo Land.
My therapist also
pointed that people’s tolerance for bullshit decreases as they age. And as I
said, I’m almost 61. So maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Maybe I fucking saw fit
to sever ties with those who crossed my moral border. But that doesn’t really
explain why I’ve always had such an explosive temper. Maybe I should’ve been on
that short bus. That would’ve saved everyone a lot of heartache and grief. People
would’ve known that I’ve got special needs and not to infringe upon my fragile
soil. And I would’ve had relationships with people who understood me. Or maybe
I’m like a bad George Bailey who was just born older. Maybe having my skull
fractured front and back, both legs and one arm broke when I was just two years
old took years off of my life. I suppose it taught me I had to fight to live.
And as any old battle-hardened soldier, I’ve grown weary of war. So I guess my
therapist is right, my tolerance for bullshit decreases daily. But you know
what? I’m a hell of a lot more content now that I’ve driven the invaders from
my land. I might not be “quite right” and a “bit off balance,” but by-god I’m
the King of Limbo Land.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
disappearing
I feel as though everything in my life is changing. I no longer seem the same even when I stare out a window. The world has changed, but I'm not sure how. It's as if I have entered into someone else's body and seeing the world through their eyes. Maybe someone else has entered my body. Either way, I see me caring less about living, caring less about what happens, caring less about anything.
It is so hard to navigate the paths of life, especially when others drag you into their storms, their drama, their shortcomings, their failures. They sweep you up into them, and if you voice an opposing opinion, then you are thrown overboard, cast out to sea, and they will never throw you a lift raft. They will set their sails for another course and leave you to drown. Whereas I once sought to swim, now I am content to slowly sink beneath waves and watch the last bubbles of my breath rise toward the surface. The light glistens in the bubbles like dancing diamonds across the night sky in the full moonlight. Those who cast me aside did me the greatest favor. My biggest fear now is that guilt will overtake them and they'll come back and find me. But if they do, I will not be found, for the "me" they threw overboard is now gone. That person lives only in their conscience.
I no longer care. But I suppose that could always be argued. I might once again find passion if I were starving in the slums of a great city, etching along, gasping desperately for a crumb to feed my ravaging body. But maybe not, maybe the change that has overtaken me is the first acceptance of death, or perhaps the longing for the struggle to end. And it is struggle. To contend with others, especially family, who want to mold me into their image. Who want me to love them and serve them. I suppose that's why they say it's not easy to live a "Christian" life. Jesus said to, "love your enemies." It's so much easier just to let them be. But make no mistake, it is evil. Yes, evil. Maybe I have become one with life's evils. I've accepted the gratuity for shunning those who have shunned me. And my pockets are full, my cup overfloweth.
Oh, but I digress. I had sought to tell you I have changed. But to tell you, means I must recall and recollection can bring remorse. But I have no need for recall, or remorse, for I have no care anymore. I am disappearing. In a little while, I'll be gone.
Oh, that the shores be long gone
That the waves will still
And that I shall be alone
For solitude cures my ill
It is so hard to navigate the paths of life, especially when others drag you into their storms, their drama, their shortcomings, their failures. They sweep you up into them, and if you voice an opposing opinion, then you are thrown overboard, cast out to sea, and they will never throw you a lift raft. They will set their sails for another course and leave you to drown. Whereas I once sought to swim, now I am content to slowly sink beneath waves and watch the last bubbles of my breath rise toward the surface. The light glistens in the bubbles like dancing diamonds across the night sky in the full moonlight. Those who cast me aside did me the greatest favor. My biggest fear now is that guilt will overtake them and they'll come back and find me. But if they do, I will not be found, for the "me" they threw overboard is now gone. That person lives only in their conscience.
I no longer care. But I suppose that could always be argued. I might once again find passion if I were starving in the slums of a great city, etching along, gasping desperately for a crumb to feed my ravaging body. But maybe not, maybe the change that has overtaken me is the first acceptance of death, or perhaps the longing for the struggle to end. And it is struggle. To contend with others, especially family, who want to mold me into their image. Who want me to love them and serve them. I suppose that's why they say it's not easy to live a "Christian" life. Jesus said to, "love your enemies." It's so much easier just to let them be. But make no mistake, it is evil. Yes, evil. Maybe I have become one with life's evils. I've accepted the gratuity for shunning those who have shunned me. And my pockets are full, my cup overfloweth.
Oh, but I digress. I had sought to tell you I have changed. But to tell you, means I must recall and recollection can bring remorse. But I have no need for recall, or remorse, for I have no care anymore. I am disappearing. In a little while, I'll be gone.
Oh, that the shores be long gone
That the waves will still
And that I shall be alone
For solitude cures my ill
Friday, July 29, 2016
Peace of Pocahontas
I feel like I've got my life back. I deleted both my facebook pages four days ago after Donald Trump once again tweeted a racist remark about Elizabeth Warren following her speech at the Democratic Convention: Trump tweeted, "Pocahontas bombed last night! Sad to watch."
Apparently, Trump thinks it's funny to call Warren "Pocahontas." I do not.
My situation is not that different from Elizabeth Warren's. My family's story is that my great-grandmother on my mother's side was part-, or full-blooded, Native American; at least, that's what I've been told. But I cannot prove it. Once, I did find her name on some sort of Cherokee register at a Pow-Wow in Hopkinsville, Ky., but I don't know for certain that it was her. Nor do I know any way to find out. Warren's family story is that her great-great-great-grandmother was Cherokee; but just as myself, Warren cannot prove it. But why should she have to? And why should she deny it? Why should she stop telling the family story that was told to her? There is no reason to stop telling it. Warren has never used Affirmative Action or her assumed Native American heritage to advance her career. On May 20, 2012, The Atlantic reported that Warren, who graduated from the University of Houston in 1970 and got her law degree from Rutgers University in 1976, did not seek to take advantage of affirmative action policies during her education, according to documents obtained by the Associated Press and The Boston Globe. On the application to Rutgers Law School she was asked, "Are you interested in applying for admission under the Program for Minority Group Students?" "No," she replied.
Harvard Law professor Charles Fried sat on the appointing committee that recommended Elizabeth Warren as a professor to Harvard Law School in 1995. He said there was never any mention of her Native American heritage during the hiring process. Yet despite that fact, rumors continue to circulate that Elizabeth Warren used affirmative action to get hired as a professor at Harvard Law School.
Warren is a member of the Democratic Party and a Senator from Massachusetts. She holds a seat on the Senate Banking Committee and doggedly fights to stop corruption in big banks, which has made her the target of attacks from the Republican Party, who openly wants very little regulation placed on Wall Street. But much to the credit of the forerunners to Trump in the Republican Party, they did not refer to her as Pocahontas.
I've watched Trump's followers on television laugh and jeer as he calls her Pocahontas, and I've recoiled at the sight of these arrogant, racist, bigots. Pocahontas, herself, was not a bad person. She spent much of her life promoting peace between the English and her Native American people of Virginia, the Powhatan. She converted to Christianity and married an Englishmen, John Rolfe. So, from one point of view, it could be considered a compliment to be called Pocahontas, but it is obvious Donald Trump is not complimenting Elizabeth Warren; quite the contrary, it is an obnoxious, arrogant verbal attack; in turn, he is attacking all Native Americans, and all those who have any Native American blood in their veins. Hence my anger: he is also attacking my heritage and me.
But this is what we've come to expect from Donald Trump. He started his campaign by belittling Mexicans, calling them criminals, rapists and drug dealers; he mocked and jeered and made an unflattering imitation of Serge Kovaleski, a reporter with a congenital joint condition that limits movement in his arms; he's called for the United States, a country founded upon the freedom of religion, to ban Muslims from entering the country; he praises dictators like Saddam Hussein, Vladimir Putin, and even admired North Korea's leader, Kim Jong-Un, for executing his uncle by stripping him naked and feeding him to 120 starving dogs. Just imagine what the Tea-Party would have said about Barack Obama if he had cozied up to dictators.
Rational people should ask themselves why they would want Donald Trump to be the President of the United States of America. Why would they want to elect a Hitler or Mussolini? Both were elected by a majority vote, I might add.
After Trump's tweet about Elizabeth Warren, I wrote on facebook that I was damn, sick and tired of Trump making racist comments about Native Americans. And then I went over the top, I must admit. I also wrote, "Fuck Trump, and if you like Trump, Fuck you, too." And therein I lost a moral war and Trump won. He achieved his goal: he succeeded in making me to sink to his level. Sure, I was ashamed of what I wrote, and I was going to delete it but I was in no hurry. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a strong one, because, as mentioned, I was pissed. I thought I needed a little something to knock the edge off. In my naiveté, I thought that none of my facebook friends would defend Trump for making fun of Native Americans. But I was wrong! I immediately got attacked for attacking Trump. And I attacked back. Before I knew it, I was in verbal war with an old friend, probably best described as an acquaintance. During this heated exchange, it suddenly occurred to me that I did not give a hoot-in-hell what he thought about me, about my opinion, or my comment, or anything. The man basically means nothing to me at all. And I wondered to myself, why am I verbally sparring with this guy? What a waste of my time.
And earlier that same day, I posted this silly comment on facebook:
"OMG, it's Monday. That means I have another week to witness the hatred, vitriol and vile political comments posted on facebook by people who claim to be good, decent, Christian folk. Post on, Brother; write on, Sister. God is our facebook friend."
Several comments were posted below mine. And the thread quickly digressed into an exchange about how churches abuse their tax-exempt status and openly dwell in politics and endorse candidates. Then a facebook friend of mine wrote, "I'll never forget seeing Gore in some black church in the south during the campaign. I'm thinking, how could someone do something so overtly illegal?"
This "so-called" facebook friend is a well-known conservative in our community. He and I got into a heated facebook debate several years ago that took several personal messages to mend the hard feelings on both sides. And here we are once again, back to square one, getting ready to go at it. And I thought, this is so damn boring.
So in my disgust, I responded to his Gore comment by saying, "Let's not take this thread into a mud slinging contest. You know both ( political parties ) do that. Good Lord, Trump spoke at Liberty University's chapel. Whew! This is the kind of debate I hoped to avoid. It's pointless. I'm too goddamn busy to go back and read how churches got introduced on this thread, but as a reminder, I was originally posting about the hatred, vitriol and vile political comments I see on facebook daily anymore. But, I must note that I have not seen you post those sorts of comments. I just wish love would prevail, and people would follow the better angels of their nature."
He responded and assured me he wasn't starting anything. He said he was simply recalling the first time he noticed churches abusing their tax-exempt status, and that both political parties do the same.
But then he went one step further. (Being the churchgoer that he is, I knew he would. ) He gave me the backhanded vocabulary lecture. "I purposefully do not post political posts," he said. "I do comment on other posts, but you will not see me get personal, use profanity, etc. I'd like to think I'm smarter than that and that I can, 1.) make a point without attacking the person; and, 2.) that I have a big enough vocabulary not to use the F word!"
Well, I didn't use the F word, but I did use the GD word and it was obvious he was talking down to poor little ole me, trying to teach me how to communicate with well-educated church folk, as himself. So I personally messaged him and said I hope he wasn't calling me down for cursing, and assured him that I wasn't cursing him. One thing I've noticed around churchgoers is that if you use the GD word or the F word or even the word "damn" during a debate, they immediately accuse you of cursing them. Then I furthermore explained that I grew up in an iron working family and cursing was par for the course. Thankfully, our messages were very cordial. It was obvious that he and I were both doing our best to avoid another heated conflict like the one we had over politics years before in the early days of facebook. During this exchange, it occurred to me that my conversation with him was a total waste of my time. I really didn't care what he thought of me. I barely know him. But while we were having this congenial conversation, he shared with me that some of his liberal facebook friends were causing him great distress, and that if he were not a man in a professional position, he would get off of facebook altogether.
*BING* A light bulb went off in my head. Why not? I thought. Why not get off of facebook? There are so few people on my "friends list" that are actually my "friends." And I have to be so careful what I write, careful not to state my liberal democratic views because whenever I do, I get attacked. The right-wing conservative trolls, many in my own family, come crawling out of their caves and sling darts and arrows and lash out jabs with their silver-tongued swords that probably even makes Satan himself wince. And it's a no-brainer that people who attack me for what I believe are not my friends, even if they are on my facebook "friends" list. They are just adversaries waiting to pounce, members of a social church waiting to publicly discipline me for stepping out of line, they are control freaks who want to make sure I say and do exactly what they want me to say and do, they are a lot of goddamn things but one thing is for certain, they are not my friends.
But my rational side kicked in and I didn't delete my facebook account that day. I do enjoy some of the things of facebook. I like people's travel photos and I love The Peter O'Toole Appreciation Page, the Keith Richards page, and many similar celebrity fan pages. So I went on about my business that day and forgot all about the temptation to delete my facebook accounts.
But as mentioned earlier in this text, later that night I fired off some nasty comments after Donald Trump called Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas again. Then I once again found myself in another useless heated, nasty facebook exchange, this time my adversary even brought up the fact that I once openly stated that I like Jane Fonda, suggesting that was equally as bad as liking Elizabeth Warren. I quickly wrote my rebuttal:
"WTF does Jane Fonda have to do with Donald Trump calling Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas?"
But I did not post it. Instead, I sat and looked at it, and read it over and over, thinking this is just a total damn waste of my time.
Suddenly the congenial conversation I had earlier with the other "so-called" facebook friend came to mind. He had said he'd get off of facebook altogether if he were not in a professional position. And it occurred to me that I am no longer in a professional position. I don't need this shit. I could care less that a brainless idiot is defending Donald Trump for calling Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas. And besides that, I don't want to be friends with someone who defends an arrogant prick's right to make fun of Native Americans. And if I wasn't on facebook, then I would not get drawn into these needless, useless, mindless, senseless, wasteful wars that wreck havoc on my soul, steal my time, my life, my emotions, my sanity and my serenity.
And that's when I did it. I deleted both my facebook accounts. And I have Pocahontas to thank for the peace that has once again returned unto my life. The peace she brokered between her people, the Powhatans, and the English only lasted for eight years. So my peace may only be a temporary one. I might succumb to the darker angels of my nature and return again to the land of the trolls. If only there were a way to get back on facebook without the trolls ever finding out, that would be a beautiful thing. Then I could keep up with the Peter O'Toole page. But I've tried that before. They always find me. But thank God for Pocahontas. She set me free this week. I'm so thankful that I even wrote a blog about it.
Bernard Mitchell Plumlee, Jr.
http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2012/05/is-elizabeth-warren-native-american-or-what/257415/
http://www.alternet.org/video/cherokee-nation-chief-schools-trump-calling-elizabeth-warren-pocahontas-racist-put-down
Apparently, Trump thinks it's funny to call Warren "Pocahontas." I do not.
My situation is not that different from Elizabeth Warren's. My family's story is that my great-grandmother on my mother's side was part-, or full-blooded, Native American; at least, that's what I've been told. But I cannot prove it. Once, I did find her name on some sort of Cherokee register at a Pow-Wow in Hopkinsville, Ky., but I don't know for certain that it was her. Nor do I know any way to find out. Warren's family story is that her great-great-great-grandmother was Cherokee; but just as myself, Warren cannot prove it. But why should she have to? And why should she deny it? Why should she stop telling the family story that was told to her? There is no reason to stop telling it. Warren has never used Affirmative Action or her assumed Native American heritage to advance her career. On May 20, 2012, The Atlantic reported that Warren, who graduated from the University of Houston in 1970 and got her law degree from Rutgers University in 1976, did not seek to take advantage of affirmative action policies during her education, according to documents obtained by the Associated Press and The Boston Globe. On the application to Rutgers Law School she was asked, "Are you interested in applying for admission under the Program for Minority Group Students?" "No," she replied.
Harvard Law professor Charles Fried sat on the appointing committee that recommended Elizabeth Warren as a professor to Harvard Law School in 1995. He said there was never any mention of her Native American heritage during the hiring process. Yet despite that fact, rumors continue to circulate that Elizabeth Warren used affirmative action to get hired as a professor at Harvard Law School.
Warren is a member of the Democratic Party and a Senator from Massachusetts. She holds a seat on the Senate Banking Committee and doggedly fights to stop corruption in big banks, which has made her the target of attacks from the Republican Party, who openly wants very little regulation placed on Wall Street. But much to the credit of the forerunners to Trump in the Republican Party, they did not refer to her as Pocahontas.
I've watched Trump's followers on television laugh and jeer as he calls her Pocahontas, and I've recoiled at the sight of these arrogant, racist, bigots. Pocahontas, herself, was not a bad person. She spent much of her life promoting peace between the English and her Native American people of Virginia, the Powhatan. She converted to Christianity and married an Englishmen, John Rolfe. So, from one point of view, it could be considered a compliment to be called Pocahontas, but it is obvious Donald Trump is not complimenting Elizabeth Warren; quite the contrary, it is an obnoxious, arrogant verbal attack; in turn, he is attacking all Native Americans, and all those who have any Native American blood in their veins. Hence my anger: he is also attacking my heritage and me.
But this is what we've come to expect from Donald Trump. He started his campaign by belittling Mexicans, calling them criminals, rapists and drug dealers; he mocked and jeered and made an unflattering imitation of Serge Kovaleski, a reporter with a congenital joint condition that limits movement in his arms; he's called for the United States, a country founded upon the freedom of religion, to ban Muslims from entering the country; he praises dictators like Saddam Hussein, Vladimir Putin, and even admired North Korea's leader, Kim Jong-Un, for executing his uncle by stripping him naked and feeding him to 120 starving dogs. Just imagine what the Tea-Party would have said about Barack Obama if he had cozied up to dictators.
Rational people should ask themselves why they would want Donald Trump to be the President of the United States of America. Why would they want to elect a Hitler or Mussolini? Both were elected by a majority vote, I might add.
After Trump's tweet about Elizabeth Warren, I wrote on facebook that I was damn, sick and tired of Trump making racist comments about Native Americans. And then I went over the top, I must admit. I also wrote, "Fuck Trump, and if you like Trump, Fuck you, too." And therein I lost a moral war and Trump won. He achieved his goal: he succeeded in making me to sink to his level. Sure, I was ashamed of what I wrote, and I was going to delete it but I was in no hurry. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a strong one, because, as mentioned, I was pissed. I thought I needed a little something to knock the edge off. In my naiveté, I thought that none of my facebook friends would defend Trump for making fun of Native Americans. But I was wrong! I immediately got attacked for attacking Trump. And I attacked back. Before I knew it, I was in verbal war with an old friend, probably best described as an acquaintance. During this heated exchange, it suddenly occurred to me that I did not give a hoot-in-hell what he thought about me, about my opinion, or my comment, or anything. The man basically means nothing to me at all. And I wondered to myself, why am I verbally sparring with this guy? What a waste of my time.
And earlier that same day, I posted this silly comment on facebook:
"OMG, it's Monday. That means I have another week to witness the hatred, vitriol and vile political comments posted on facebook by people who claim to be good, decent, Christian folk. Post on, Brother; write on, Sister. God is our facebook friend."
Several comments were posted below mine. And the thread quickly digressed into an exchange about how churches abuse their tax-exempt status and openly dwell in politics and endorse candidates. Then a facebook friend of mine wrote, "I'll never forget seeing Gore in some black church in the south during the campaign. I'm thinking, how could someone do something so overtly illegal?"
This "so-called" facebook friend is a well-known conservative in our community. He and I got into a heated facebook debate several years ago that took several personal messages to mend the hard feelings on both sides. And here we are once again, back to square one, getting ready to go at it. And I thought, this is so damn boring.
So in my disgust, I responded to his Gore comment by saying, "Let's not take this thread into a mud slinging contest. You know both ( political parties ) do that. Good Lord, Trump spoke at Liberty University's chapel. Whew! This is the kind of debate I hoped to avoid. It's pointless. I'm too goddamn busy to go back and read how churches got introduced on this thread, but as a reminder, I was originally posting about the hatred, vitriol and vile political comments I see on facebook daily anymore. But, I must note that I have not seen you post those sorts of comments. I just wish love would prevail, and people would follow the better angels of their nature."
He responded and assured me he wasn't starting anything. He said he was simply recalling the first time he noticed churches abusing their tax-exempt status, and that both political parties do the same.
But then he went one step further. (Being the churchgoer that he is, I knew he would. ) He gave me the backhanded vocabulary lecture. "I purposefully do not post political posts," he said. "I do comment on other posts, but you will not see me get personal, use profanity, etc. I'd like to think I'm smarter than that and that I can, 1.) make a point without attacking the person; and, 2.) that I have a big enough vocabulary not to use the F word!"
Well, I didn't use the F word, but I did use the GD word and it was obvious he was talking down to poor little ole me, trying to teach me how to communicate with well-educated church folk, as himself. So I personally messaged him and said I hope he wasn't calling me down for cursing, and assured him that I wasn't cursing him. One thing I've noticed around churchgoers is that if you use the GD word or the F word or even the word "damn" during a debate, they immediately accuse you of cursing them. Then I furthermore explained that I grew up in an iron working family and cursing was par for the course. Thankfully, our messages were very cordial. It was obvious that he and I were both doing our best to avoid another heated conflict like the one we had over politics years before in the early days of facebook. During this exchange, it occurred to me that my conversation with him was a total waste of my time. I really didn't care what he thought of me. I barely know him. But while we were having this congenial conversation, he shared with me that some of his liberal facebook friends were causing him great distress, and that if he were not a man in a professional position, he would get off of facebook altogether.
*BING* A light bulb went off in my head. Why not? I thought. Why not get off of facebook? There are so few people on my "friends list" that are actually my "friends." And I have to be so careful what I write, careful not to state my liberal democratic views because whenever I do, I get attacked. The right-wing conservative trolls, many in my own family, come crawling out of their caves and sling darts and arrows and lash out jabs with their silver-tongued swords that probably even makes Satan himself wince. And it's a no-brainer that people who attack me for what I believe are not my friends, even if they are on my facebook "friends" list. They are just adversaries waiting to pounce, members of a social church waiting to publicly discipline me for stepping out of line, they are control freaks who want to make sure I say and do exactly what they want me to say and do, they are a lot of goddamn things but one thing is for certain, they are not my friends.
But my rational side kicked in and I didn't delete my facebook account that day. I do enjoy some of the things of facebook. I like people's travel photos and I love The Peter O'Toole Appreciation Page, the Keith Richards page, and many similar celebrity fan pages. So I went on about my business that day and forgot all about the temptation to delete my facebook accounts.
But as mentioned earlier in this text, later that night I fired off some nasty comments after Donald Trump called Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas again. Then I once again found myself in another useless heated, nasty facebook exchange, this time my adversary even brought up the fact that I once openly stated that I like Jane Fonda, suggesting that was equally as bad as liking Elizabeth Warren. I quickly wrote my rebuttal:
"WTF does Jane Fonda have to do with Donald Trump calling Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas?"
But I did not post it. Instead, I sat and looked at it, and read it over and over, thinking this is just a total damn waste of my time.
Suddenly the congenial conversation I had earlier with the other "so-called" facebook friend came to mind. He had said he'd get off of facebook altogether if he were not in a professional position. And it occurred to me that I am no longer in a professional position. I don't need this shit. I could care less that a brainless idiot is defending Donald Trump for calling Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas. And besides that, I don't want to be friends with someone who defends an arrogant prick's right to make fun of Native Americans. And if I wasn't on facebook, then I would not get drawn into these needless, useless, mindless, senseless, wasteful wars that wreck havoc on my soul, steal my time, my life, my emotions, my sanity and my serenity.
And that's when I did it. I deleted both my facebook accounts. And I have Pocahontas to thank for the peace that has once again returned unto my life. The peace she brokered between her people, the Powhatans, and the English only lasted for eight years. So my peace may only be a temporary one. I might succumb to the darker angels of my nature and return again to the land of the trolls. If only there were a way to get back on facebook without the trolls ever finding out, that would be a beautiful thing. Then I could keep up with the Peter O'Toole page. But I've tried that before. They always find me. But thank God for Pocahontas. She set me free this week. I'm so thankful that I even wrote a blog about it.
Bernard Mitchell Plumlee, Jr.
http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2012/05/is-elizabeth-warren-native-american-or-what/257415/
http://www.alternet.org/video/cherokee-nation-chief-schools-trump-calling-elizabeth-warren-pocahontas-racist-put-down
Thursday, July 21, 2016
American individualism is dead.
American individualism is dead. Just look at how all the Republicans are reacting to Ted Cruz not endorsing Donald Trump. Republicans tout themselves as the party of "individualists," people who believe in personal freedom. Ha, that's a load of crap. Individualists respect others who stray from the pack; individualists don't give a shit what someone else does as long as they don't tell them what to do; individualists respect someone who has the balls to go against the grain, to live by their own code and say, "fuck you," to anybody who tells them not to. The last individualists in this country were probably the mountain men. I'd like to see Americans have the balls to be individualists again, being able to "be" without belonging to a church, a fraternity, a sorority, a political party, a civics club, a country club, etc. We've been brainwashed as children that we have to "belong." Bullshit. Everybody's down on Cruz ... well, in my opinion, he should've said a hell of a lot more. If somebody called my wife ugly and accused my father of plotting to assassinate a U.S. president, I'd have gone on that stage and challenged the SOB to a duel.
Individualism, my ass. This country can't stand individuals. Me, I can't stand people who have to follow the herd. To be truthful, I can't even stand Ted Cruz. He's too much of a "party man" for me. My party is the wind and the earth that I will return to.
All these fuckers saying that they're individualists and they don't have the guts to stand up to someone who said John McCain wasn't a war hero because he was captured. I'm a democrat but I can tell you with certainty that if Hillary Clinton said that about John McCain, I'd have to balls to tell that bitch to fuck off. But you "party people" can't do that. You have to stay true to your school. Well, fuck you and your school, too.
All these fuckers saying that they're individualists and they don't have the guts to stand up to someone who said John McCain wasn't a war hero because he was captured. I'm a democrat but I can tell you with certainty that if Hillary Clinton said that about John McCain, I'd have to balls to tell that bitch to fuck off. But you "party people" can't do that. You have to stay true to your school. Well, fuck you and your school, too.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Write on, Right on, Write on writers ... Equal opportunity has arrived
The great thing about living in the post 9/11 world is that
you no longer have to fear obscurity. Rest assured that somebody, somewhere, will
read whatever you write. It doesn’t matter if it’s the next great American novel or if it's so damn boring that your
friends have to scroll past your posts in order to stave off another suicide attempt; either way, somebody will read it. There once was a time when even the best of writers
couldn’t get anybody to read their stuff. But now everybody has equal
opportunity. Every thing anybody writes will be read: it’ll probably by some poor
sot working the midnight shift in a ran down, three story row house in the
worst end of Chicago that’s being used as a covert operation by a shady company
that secured a Pentagon contract to screen certain criteria of internet
bloggers and facebook posts, but rest assured it will be read. Prior to 9/11, you
could write about your secret desires to draw pictures of the Prophet Mohammad with a broom stick size dildo stuck up his ass and all it did was reinforce the fact that your mother repeatedly warned you that you might be a pervert as you
were struggling through those years of budding hormones. But if you share your
perverted, racist, sick wacko shit today, somewhere, somebody is going to have
to read it and decide whether or not to send the FBI knocking on your door, or some crazy, ideological rag-head fanatic claiming allegiance to the latest psycho crazed Islamic cult will send 10,000 jihadist to assassinate your stupid ass; but either way, it will be read. So,
if you want recognition as a writer, just go ahead, let the world know all the sick thoughts that swim through that cesspool mind of yours and
before long, you’ll either be on the world news as the latest fool that has been martyred for freedom by some soon-to-be forgotten group of jihadist or you'll have a free computer in the prison library to practice your
craft and a certified security guard to edit every damn word you write. But at
least in this day and age you have a guaranteed readership. So write on brother,
rant on sister.
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