Tuesday, May 31, 2005


What do you call an old shoe worn by The Terminator?

.........................................Robo Bobo

Monday, May 30, 2005


"The kingdom of heaven is within you."

"Our Father [our divine self], who art in heaven [within us],
Hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come [let us realize ourselves],
Thy will be done [and do what we know is the truth]....
and lead us not into temptation [instead of the untruth],
but deliver us from evil [save us from our egos]...."
~ The Christian Bible IN A NUTSHELL: "I dont want to mess up again today, because I'm sick of suffering the consequences of my actions."

Humans pray to themselves to save themselves. They speak of themselves in the third person. They separate themselves into parts that are entirely different entities; the good, the evil, the divine, the innocent. Doctors call this multiple personality disorder. It is a coping mechanism. Religion is a coping mechanism. A buffer to soften the blow of our evil. Own your evil. Own your good. You are in between like a river between life and death. Without you these lands do not exist. Recognize these lands and yourself for what they are. Grasp the truth, and you can move to the next level.

Every time a person makes a choice to follow the untrue path, it sacrifices itself to evil. Something in this person feels unworthy of what lies at the end of the true path. It feels it needs more time to remember the experiences of the untrue path. It cannot remember the truth or the untruth. That is the problem. A person would do well to concentrate on remembering before chosing its road.

Giving in to temptation leads to self-distrust.
The tempted can't be trusted.
They are literally alone and a slave to the ego.
Their hearts hold no justice.
They are weak and without respect.
Walk on.
Lower beings are satisfied with temporary gratitude.
Karma will never give them pleasure until they find the right path.
Sin is sadness and pity and anger felt
for those who won't rise above it all for centuries.
It is just the way.
What is so great about the dirt?
Suffer the little humans.
They feel safe in their misery.


* I watched a fair-haired child of about 5 years holding a pistol aimed at my face. I heard the shot. All went blank and I felt like someone had poured warm water on my face and upper body. This is the first time I've not awakened before the actual shooting. I've only had a few dreams about being (or anticipating being) shot. It wasn't so bad.

* I walked down the old street to Renata's house to visit. She mentioned it was her birthday. When I went back home, I decided to buy her a gift. She's a house-cleaning nut. I purchased one of those automatic vacume cleaners that runs around like a dog and even knows when to re-charge itself. I took it down to Renata's. She wasn't home, but her door was unlocked, so I went in and turned it on, then I left it running to surprise her. When I returned to her house later on, she seemed unimpressed with the gift. I haven't lived on the old street in almost five years. I just saw Renata the other day, though, while stopping by my ex-'s with our son to pick up a child support check. Yeah, he got to keep all the friends. He needs friends more than I do. Renata came out to the car to talk with me. She was nice, as usual. She wanted to see the baby, who was not with us, but home with his dad. I told her the baby would be three years old in a few days. Time flies. She really is a clean nut. You could probably safely eat off her floor. I prefer a clean house myself, but have no energy to clean it. I think my ex- sapped all my energy. I am just private (and distrusting) enough not to hire anyone else to clean for me. So we live with clutter and dust. The important areas are clean. If I were more of a gold-digger, I'd have more time and money. I may even be like some women who squeeze all the money they can out of their ex-s so they can drive SUV's, work part-time and shop a lot. I am not a gold-digger, and my conscience wouldn't let me do that. I'm still thinking that what is right will win. My ego is never satisfied. Beware the ego.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

our house in the middle of the street Posted by Hello


The woman stepped from the bath and dried her hair and body with a towel. She felt each worn board beneath her feet as she walked to the front door. The sun reflected off the dirt all around her home in the desert, temporarily blinding her. A gentle breeze entered the house and refreshed her clean, pale skin. Two wavering specs appeared over the horizon and were headed in her direction. She stepped all the way out onto the front poarch and waited - her arms crossed over her chest, holding up the towel.

The two men rode their horses at a trot toward the house. They could see a well out front, and the blonde-haired man swore he could smell the water just waiting for them. "Yes, but lookee here," interjected the red-haired man, chewing the end of a twig he'd picked up at the last town - two days ago. There on the poarch of that house stood a ghostly woman. Her hair and eyes were dark and serious, but her skin was white as a sheet. "Where you reckon her old man be?" he asked the blonde man. "Le's find out," the other replied. As they neared, she never moved, and the two began to wonder in earnest if she were one of those manequins they'd seen in the taylor's window back east. They stopped the horses not ten feet from the poarch steps, and the red-head dismounted and walked slowly toward her. She watched him in a waiting way. She didn't smile or make a peep. She had no expression whatsoever, but looked him straight in the eye. He smiled and tipped his hat, "Afternoon." She was still. "Are you deaf? Can you hear what I'm saying to you?" Her left eyebrow rose a fraction of a centimeter. "Where your old man?" No response. He turned to his friend and laughed, then said, "Look like we got more than just water here, Buford. Look like we got some sugar too!" The blonde man smiled, "Weeeelll, alright then," and tipped his hat to her. Red-head turned back to her with his scruffy, yellow-toothed grin, and he moved his right arm toward her left shoulder. Like a cobra, her right arm shot toward him, and her open hand slammed into his adams apple, crushing his throaght. She casually put her arm back over the other where it had been before and continued to watch red-head as he gagged and coughed and his face turned from red to purple and finally he sank to his knees and then forward on his face and gagged no more. She turned her eyes to blonde-head, who had stopped his dismount and was still frozen standing with one foot in the stirrup and the other draped over his horse's back. He fully mounted and began to slowly turn away from the cabin. Her hand shot out again and she snapped her fingers loudly once. He turned back to her, and as she held his eyes she pointed her finger down at red-head. With the heal of her foot, she kicked his hip and he rolled down the poarch steps and into the dust. She waited patiently while blonde-head dragged his friend up and over his horse and mounted it, turned and rode away forever. She looked at the remaining horse for a moment, then walked back inside, leaving the door open to catch the breeze.

The next morning when the sheriff arrived, her door was still open. She was sitting at the table in a white cotton frock and bare feet so she could feel the coolness of the floor. She'd slept with rags tied in her hair and now her hair was soft and wavy. Small strands would tickle her cheeks in the breeze. She sipped her coffee and watched the sheriff walk up the steps and remove his hat.

"Naoma, you know there's a horse out here?"

She cocked her head and smiled with half her mouth, "Yeah, I know."

"What'd you do? Why'd you kill that man, Naoma?"

"He was trespassing, John."

The sheriff did not reply. He only shook his head slowly with a resigned look about him.

"You can have that horse if you want, John. Seems I get more visitors lately. I don't need him. Anything I need I guess I can get off one of these people that come around here. I can't feed a horse." She paused. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Ok, then."

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Alison Dream

Alison and I were shopping for I don't know what. She had purchased or signed up for some sort of service after being newly married. Back at her place, she had received and opened a box from the company that she'd signed with and was suspicious of its contents. She said something to me about keys and that she was unsure if this was for real. I began perusing the contents of the box. There was a small sort of plaque for keys, with grooves carved out to place your keys in upright like you would put pencils in a pencil holder. There was a leather sheath which contained a cast iron fireplace poker. I looked at Alison and asked her if she had a fireplace, and at the same time remembered she did have a huge one in her basement. There was another smaller leather sheath that contained another rod-shaped instrument, but I can't recall what it was. The best present delivered alongside the box of things was a clear refrigerator case containing cookies that were three dimensional and covered in frosting squirts to look like characters. One was Winnie the Pooh. Somehow I knew this particular cookie contained a banana and would be delicious. I offered it to Alison and she declined with a sour look. "You don't like banana's?" I asked. She replied in the negative. I glanced out the window and noticed that part of the sky was black and churning. There was lightning striking all around and I knew the tornadoes were on their way. I was flustered and didn't know what to do or where to go, and then it occurred to me after a few seconds to go to the basement. That is all I remember. It would seem with keys, pokers, rods, bananas - all in their respective "sheaths" - that this would be a sexual dream. Why Alison? Because she is a newly wed and sex is probably still prominent in her life. Receiving random gifts and shopping is all a part of being newly wed. A tornado represents chaos. All relationships eventually encounter chaos. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon for Alison. Or perhaps my psyche is using her situation to remember my own, since she is the most newly wed person I know. In any case, the solution is to go to the basement, which is symbolic of the subconscious - or Universal - mind. The answers to everything are already there. Accessing it is totally possible. Perhaps it is a message to get back to ourselves and not pay so much attention to the material world as we know it. This works, but the ego isn't conditioned to using it. The ego is worldly and is what Christians call "Satan" or the devil. It is only one half of our makeup. I am finding more and more that it is the half that makes me unhappy, angry, uncomfortable, disappointed, etc.

Friday, May 27, 2005


Rambo wiped his greasy chin. His night was not wet - but whetted his ideas. As he stood, he licked his lips and tasted the salty butter, and he rolled his eyes toward the heavens and spoke, "Ah, you've not seen more glory than this, Rambo, ole boy. How'd ya ever get here anyway? Not by your mam's teet. She never did offer ya much. And your pa was a good-fer-nuthin sonuvabitch is all he was." He lowered his head just enough to take in the ground as he lumbered across the grass. His dark tresses swayed over his forehead in time with his steps. If he could make it from the farmhouse to the barn, he could sleep the night away like a baby in the hay. But white likker had his brain by its tail, and seemed to be playing pendulum with him. If he hadn't had cornbread with his beans, he'd have lost his dinner. Yet, this was his own little show, and the circular motion of the ground was just a backdrop for the main story. It was important, too. Watching Flossie's bottom shake her skirt while she worked at mixing the ingredients for dinner. Watching right over that pompous ass farmer's ear as he spoke on and on about a subject Rambo couldn't recall. That dinner - well, boy. He passed on the offer of collards and onions, but drank the milk and ate the pintos and cornbread. Then after, the farmer needed to show off his stock of mash likker - unofficially stilled on the property, unbeknownst to the law. That was when Rambo realized his advantage. If a farmer's going to tell you about a still on his land, why can't you comfort his wife for him while he's out in the field all day? If you can feed and muck the animals quickly, you can pretty much get a dig in or two between some soft legs in a cozy bed with fresh-air-dried cotton sheets. She'd looked at him once or twice at dinner, oh yes. "Here's the hay," he said, and fell into it like a dream already. His sleep was black.