Day one of my cochlear implant's sojourn: Sitting as I'm looking around the room, I live here; I know the room. The problem being is this: I can't pick up more than five(5) lbs. Doctor's orders. Now! I have a nice room; it's laid out so that it is free of walls other than the outside walls of the house. My coffee cup is sitting right here beside my computer as I look up wishing that I could spend some time on my bow-flex resistor. It gives a good work out; you know. So all I can do is sit here eating my Bon Courage Truffles. Yes! The box is much less than five(5) lbs. But those little truffles just melt on your tongue; they are quite naughty, if you know what I mean? Now! my bowflex is still calling out to me. I can't get away from it because it sits up in my loft over looking the living area of my room. The loft's rode iron railing raps around the loft and down the thirteen(13) steeps as it decorates the staircase. Like a black bow on an auburn colored box sitting under the Christmas tree, yet to come. This is my house. I'm sitting in it. My bedroom is up in the loft with my bowflex; I'm sitting at the dining room table; the kitchen is open as is the rest of the house, except the bathroom of cause. Now, since my left ear has this cochlear implant, the head set for the TV which is sitting next to my computer, is of no use to me because of the way in which my left ear has been bandaged to protect the new cochlear implant. Still! There is one caveat: when those sensors of yours start copulating with the drippings from those chocolate truffles swimming throughout those titillated juices of yours, you too could find somewhere deep down within your psych for offering up understanding due to chocolate truffle syndrome.
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
I just got a cochlear implant in my left ear. Now! As of this moment, and for the next thirty days, I'll be going down the up staircase. My hearing is 75 years in the making with all of its circuitry going from neuron to neuron as it gets sound sifted through language, music, nature, etc. etc. etc. for understanding. In the world of one hundred percent, my handicap is eighty two (82). This means I'm getting eighteen(18) percent right when interpreting what you might have said. So! Over the next six months my cochlear implant will put me on the pathway for regaining my losses due to sex, drugs, and rock & roll. Therefore, I'll be better at interpreting your projection's vocal expression. I'll be able to recognize what you articulate, not necessarily understanding its meaning because it's convoluted or incomplete. I'll hear your letter string, handicapped only by your accent, if any. Meanwhile, my brain has to adjust itself to the pieces being implanted within it. Just like a good soup, it's best when you let it mature over night in the refrigerator allowing the ingredients time to coalesce. If you want an excellent stew, you allow it thirty(30) hours to commingle in the refrigerator - whereas it takes your brain thirty(30) day to habituate to the cochlear implant. Than I will hear sounds long forgotten from those who were out & about with me as we flirted with our aspirations -dreams forgotten because it was just too difficult to put up with their or my idiosyncratic natures. So now with this new technology my dreams to interpret your uniqueness has given me hope to understand the patterns of integration, new dreams to fuss over.
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
We all have fantasies that we live with daily while looking out the window. I had one come to fruition just last week; it lasted for about a day and a half. And then! I was like a balloon without a string, again. My fantasy of having my own slip on the Ashley River, for the boat yet unattained, came out of one of the tragedies brought about by Hurricane Irma, 2017. This is the situation: I'm living in my condo & my neighbor is living in his ten million dollar home next door. Yes! we are side by side with a 10ft wall between us; it's very friendly. Well! His one thousand foot long dock on the Ashley River was destroyed by Irma. I had been looking at his dock, with regret for my neighbor for the past couple of weeks; yet, it did appear to me that there was an opportunity for me in this situation. So I jumped the gun by attempting to put together a group of my neighbors, each contributing twenty thousand dollars to this venture to rebuild the dock for the neighbor with no cost to him so that we could build into the dock's reconstruction five boat slips for our own fantasy of "outing and about-ING" on the Ashley. In my fantasy, he would have to be insane to refuse such a serendipitous offer of neighborly comradely, helping one another in our time of need. He would take the deal, he had to take the deal because I convinced my neighbors that it was a done deal. All they had to do was give me their money; and that I would give them their fantasy of having their own slip for their fantasy boat on the Ashley. I went to bed with my first "hard on" that evening, it usually happened in the morning when I woke from my night's slumber, still raging from my fantasy of having a slip on the Ashley for my fantasy boat yet attained. Than it occurred to me that he would have to be a fool to take this offer because he was selling his ten million dollar home on the Ashley and of course anyone who could afford to purchase a house on the Ashley could afford their own expenses as far as restoring their own private dock not encumbered by neighbors like me. Holly shit! I messes up again.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
Fear is a 'fickle nickel' when one is attempting to taste the unknown. You Know! What is a nickel worth in the overall balance of the moment, not to much. But! When its a 'fickle nickel' brought on by some errant thought seeping up from the murk of your understanding. For example, I spent five(5) years of court-ordered probation living at 22 Bennett St. My job during that probation period was boarding house manager for 22 Bennett St. You see, 22 Bennett St. was a boarding house; it had as many as 10 to 15 occupants at any given time. Charleston is a college town where people come and go and all they need is a safe room to occupy while on their temporary side of the times. You know! Cheap housing is the difference between being able to do some thing or not. 22 Bennett Street was black market housing - therefore it did not exist in the mind of the judge who said it "can't be counted if its not on the books" If it's registered as a single home than that is what it is even if you say differently. It's a 'fickle nickle' when the judge makes a senile decision because off her ebbing mind, as she did in my case. My 'fickle nickle' cost me sixty thousand dollars because of this decision. OK! it's a 'fickle nickle' when it causes you so much stress that you attempt suicide.
Monday, November 6, 2017
If I were to tell the truth: the processes from which I witnessed this resurrection, its failed attempts of acceptance, has left a very great divide in my psyche . You know! think, dysfunctional socialization. Yet! they are still one of the fastest growing populations in society. The way in which a felon is treated: It's society's slave class like the cast system of India, the untouchables. They are contagious through association. It is sort of like this comparison: in prison it is said "once you go 'black' you never go back. Now! out in society it's sort of like, once a felon, always on their way back to being black on the inside again. This is because our society has to many new members coming on each year, swelling the 'rank and file' out of balance. There for, society does not want to have to pencil in anyone who has been subject to incarceration because of the vicarious learning experiences of torture being witnessed between other inmates within each others shared space. It's sort of like living in the town mall where its population is never allowed to go home. So! All of the bartering is going on within its system's prejudices. For example, I was denied entry into England because I spent time incarcerated in the US. prison system. I'm just another felon caught up in the spider's cell.
Saturday, November 4, 2017
I have a new opportunity: becoming Mr. Gabriel Allon out of a Daniel Silver novel by restoring a painting by using the paint by number and letter system stenciled on the canvas. It's a beach scene for Granny porn on the banks of the Ashley river. or maybe it's Folly Beach out there at the end of the great divide. The painting will require 12 unique colors as well as colors made up from those basic 12 colors. Yes! As you may expect, I have a dozen unique paint brushes to apply those colors to the stenciled out painting. And just like Mr. Allon, I'll hope to give it my everything. But! I too have my divergences. For you see, unlike Gabriel Allon, an Israeli super character, I'm the underdog out to create a labor union for felons...so that, I can sue the states of NM & SC whereas Mr. Allon is out to defend Israel against its union with the Middle East! We try to prevail even when we go up against "our self best interest" because of the situation at hand. For example, I had a problem with the contractor who is refinishing the interior of my condo. All he had done was to escalate the problem into a much more outrageous 'flimflam' scheme to take money under false purposes, fraud. He lost his contractor's license because it was in his wife's name and she split. My wife says, "he is broke and lives in a trailer ;" there is nothing to gain in her mind other than the emotional cost to her psyche if she chooses to take court action. Now! I say sue the his wife and she will find a way to punish him.
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
It's life's 'Trojan horse' that is living among yesterday's fallen saints: we are a population of fallen saints, waiting around to be saved. You thought it was a gift, some fxxxing gift. That's right, all along there were hidden layers tethering its acceptance; this gift of a 'horse with no name.' As for myself, the horse keeps giving it to me right up my Hershey highway. Truth! I was on my way to my next failure in life when I had an unfortunate run-in with the "horse with no name;" they're all so full of their own 'shit,' waste unfurling from the folds of their time. yes! Their droppings are a nuisance to one's mental health. This is why I never fit in with the in-crowd; you know! It's that our differences are so different. Yes! just because some of them had a moment of despair where you were required to be the fodder of their consumption. You know! They are yesterday's saints because you have moved on leaving them without an audience. Sort of like the landless reactionaries watching their Syrian environs dissipate under the strain of ideologies born out of demented hopes that Saladin will emerge from the ashes of time, or maybe Suleiman's (1200) taking back the advancement put out by the Crusaders trying to save the Pope's idea of spirituality. The thing is this: the Middle East was all of Suleiman's domain to rule as he wished until, its morphing through many generations came into the power of leadership; these leaderships were all Sunni in nature. the last leadership in the middle east was Ottomans(1924) It was governed as a Sunni would govern on behalf of the tribe. The Ottomans were their own tribe; they ruled 'the middle east' for hundreds of years and lost their power because they backed the Germans in WWI, and lost their bet. You Know! " when you are on a horse with no name...." it's still Trojan by its nature.