Pseudo-Intellectual, Post-Traumatic, Quarantined-Instilled, Ramblings

I will mention, but not complain, about the power going off twice yesterday. It is not like I was the only one affected by this and perhaps a little perspective on the situation would do me some good, no?

No, today I am going to talk about healing, a thing I am incredibly bad at, which, in my own little twisted logic loop, makes me the best person I know of to talk about it.

Physical healing is one thing, but maybe talking about the healing of other things is more pertinent to the discussion. We all have the physical scars from the time life has kicked us while we were down, but those scars remind us that we are, in fact, healed from those physical ills.

It is the deeper hurts, the hurts of the mind and the heart, that take the longest to heal if they can ever be healed at all that is. I am a firm believer in redemption, but there are things that can be done to you that can not be, should not be, forgiven. perhaps re-categorized as something other than what they are. I suppose it is the Viking in me that wants to make sure the grudges are never forgotten and that all markers are called in at the end of the day.

I will not retell the life story, I think that is counter-productive at this point. I will never forgive for some of the things that were done to me and, obviously as I am talking about them thirty-five years later, I can not forget them.

It is this, this memory wound, that I need to heal from.

…..This is not going the way it was supposed to go, so, in the nature of the Seeker learning from the Universe, let us follow this tangential thread as it winds its way to where it is supposed to go…..

Closing my eyes on the bad nights is as bad as being there all over again. Even as I write this, the sun in the sky and the Goddess above, I can feel the whisper of the tar-black darkness of it creeping along my psyche.

The dreams are not nearly as bad as they used to be. They are more images than actual remembrances and even those things that are clear as crystal are obviously behind the safety glass and my consciousness is well aware that they can no longer hurt me despite the vitriol still contained therein.

Safety glass. I have never looked at it like that. Like it is an exhibit at the zoo and I am safely behind that which will keep me safe and away from those things that would remove my face purely for the sake of having a thing to occupy their time as their brutal captors watch with a mere scientific interest in the phenomenon.


Am I the one trying to rip the face off of the innocent? I am the one struggling to break free of the cage I have been put in/put myself in so that three can be some semblance of a return to what that part of me would call order? I am guessing being controlled by the Id is probably not the most optimal situation on the best of the days.

Now that I have your full confusion and attention, maybe I can try to get back to the point of what I wanted to say, which was sometimes we have to look outside of the normal zones of comfort to see where we can find that which will heal us from the hurts that we are so inflicted with. From the medicines of countries that are not ours to things a little farther afield than that.

Food for thought.

So, remember this, all of you.

Epstein didn’t kill Himself, Science will always top Fear, Black Lives Matter, Pride is more beautiful than Hate, Wash your Hands, Socially Distance, and wear your fucking masks.

Until next time, as always my beloved Gentle Readers, as always, I bid you peace.

I Am Pretty Proud Of My Word Choice Here

Today is a “My Own Summer” day.

I listen to this song when I need to wipe the world of my mind for a little while and concentrate on the Bear.

Physically it is a rough day, we lost power yet again last night and the humidity and the Bear have never liked one another, and the swamp-rot, water-laden, hell-cursed, skies of Western New York have apparently decided to make sure that I drink water by the gallon, and sweat like a slattern woman of the evening in the House of one of the many One True Gods

I listen to the song over and over again and try and find some balance. I can do it with a lot of songs, I just chose Angry White Boy Rock today. Sometimes I go to Radical Feminist Power Metal, but today is simply not that day. Today is angry and I am okay with feeling that way.

Sure, I am a little miffed I got absolutely zero feedback on the thing I wrote, but I am also fully cognizant of the facts that I am neither a sun despite my rather significant voluminousness and people’s lives do not revolve me and my silly little internet blog.

Mostly I am outraged that the world is a gigantic ball of shit. I mean, I am pretty sure we all are at this point, right?

I will pontificate and whatnot later I am sure until then, wash your hands, socially distance when you are not staying the fuck at home, protect yourself in the heat, and until next time, I bid you peace.

There, I Did.

Social Commentary it is then.

I want to take a moment and thank the Rochester Gas & Electric company for there prompt, ONLY three hour response time to the power going out last night about a quarter after ten. I understand I am a layperson without your vast technological training, but when your website literally says what the problem is and tells me it will be 45 minutes, guess which number isn’t going to be good for you the next day?

There, I fucking commented.


As much as I love writing social commentary, and please don’t take that as sarcasm as I honestly do writing about the contemporary machinations of man, what I am, at my heart, is a storyteller and I think today I will try as hard as I can to go back to that if only for a day, to see if I can still do the thing I love to do the most.

His fingers flying over the onyx rosary beads his grandmother had commissioned for him years before, the bishop Jacob whispered a silent prayer over and over again to simply have what he had just heard to be a falsehood, to be cleared up when he met with his direct superior Cardinal Vanmanti, in his offices in the Istituto per le Opere di Religione, the Institutes for the Works of Religion, or as it was more colloquially known around the world, the Vatican Bank. Vanmanti would never simply summon him, it had to be false. Yet, he had to go.

Vanmanti was the President of the Commission of Cardinals that was responsible for overseeing the Bank, and Jacob was a direct employee of his, a troubleshooter of sorts, although to call someone who found a missing addition sign more often than anything else was hardly what he had dedicated his life to God for.

What he had seen since his time began at the Holy See, however, how could anyone ever come here and ever want to leave? From the nearness of the Vicar of Christ himself to an entire city that was essentially a priceless work of art. Jacob may not have been the shepherd of a flock any longer, but to be in a place where the holiest men in all of God’s creation have stood more than made up for this most days.

The various laypersons and new priests nodded to him as he walked, as calmly as he could, into the offices of the Bank. He walked to the young priest who served as the secretary for the Cardinal.

“Good Day Father Stephens, is His Eminence available?” his voice was calm and he nearly felt the tinge of pride in maintaining his composure.

Father Stephens, a young man from Eastern Europe, smiled up to Jacob and nodded with a smile. “His Eminence is waiting for you Bishop, you are to go in immediately and without knocking.”

The last was unusual because Vanmanti insisted that people knock on every door in the building before entering. They handled the finances and property of the most exclusive people in creation, a sudden movement could destroy history was his favorite line to use to explain the need.

Jacob nodded once before walking through the ornate door that held Vanmanti’s offices and was waved over to the gargantuan desk the man used to keep the Church afloat financially.

“Jacob, sit and pay very close attention to the phone call that is about to happen.” There was a bead of sweat running down his cheek and Jacob was about to speak when the Cardinal’s direct line ran and after a few button pushes, a crystal clear voice came over the phone, it spoke quickly, but with no trace of panic or fear.

“Cardinal Vanmanti, Bishop Jacob, I am glad that you could attend to this business with us all. You were the last of the connections that needed to be made before we could officially begin.” There was the sound of movement and then a voice that no one in all of the Christian World could not recognize immediately, His Holiness, The Bishop Of Rome, The Pope.

“Followers and Servants of Christ, I have called you in this unique way to tell you of a development that cannot be addressed by the very small amount of people who currently know about it any longer. See this as a form of confession gentleman, and take the sanctity of that into consideration when you hear what I am about to say, outlandish as it may seem.”

“There are more than Three Secrets of Fatima.”

I am a significant fan of writing about the former Church of my Heart, so I present this as a sampling of what I hope will eventually become something more significant than what it currently is. I will not explain the Three Secrets of Fatima, it seems a little awkward for a pagan to describe the secret of secrets of the world’s largest religion.


A Spot Of Good, Yes?

It isn’t often that I am surprised when I speak to Special Education teachers, they are a rare and beautiful breed of people who get far less credit than they ever receive, even more so than the teachers of all the other kids that are not in their classrooms. They are beautiful people and I have never once met one that I did not instantly feel a connection with as a source of empathy and hope for my children.

The woman I just had a conversation with, however, my Connorface’s teacher for next year if all information and signs point to yes, blew me out of the water in every conceivable way.

She was kind and she understood things that only a teacher, and I learned a few moments later, a mother who deals with this on a daily basis could possibly understand.

Plus, PLUS…

I finally get to get my little boy out of that school that has, while being a wonderful resource for him as a student, has been the most devastatingly horrible experience for my family on a great many levels.

He will be just down the street, he will be safe, he will be cared for.

Happy Bear is Happy.