Mamamontezz's Mental Rumpus Room

Welcome Home, Sirs...

Three Hoosiers returned home today. Members of the Indiana National Guard's 76th Infantry, they were in Afganistan when the vehicle they were in hit a mine, killing them and one other Guardsman with ties to Indiana.

Capt. Michael "Todd" Fiscus, Master Sgt. Michael Hiester, and Spc. Norman "Kyle" Snyder, God Speed and Fare Well.

Sadness

It is over. God rest her soul.

Given the circumstances, perhaps it is now time for the state Attorney General to take possession of her remains from the county coroner and do the exhaustive autopsy that needs be done, rather than the minimal one I'm sure will be done at the county level.

At the very least get it out of that county and into another. I would personally prefer that it be done at a university medical lab, where there (hopefully) would be no political motivation to find evidence to support either side, only the truth.

We can only hope.

Surrender

In silence and trembling in Nature's dress,
Impatient yet still, I sit here and wait
With tender white loins longing for their fate.
My deep carnal thoughts lead to sweet duress,
Anticipating your firmest caress.
Dark, animal, deep and driven to mate
Primordially, in wild bestial state,
The primitive hearts deep within our breasts.
Yes! With the arrival of my desired
I'm consumed in blazes by absence fired.
Please come to me before I can falter,
And take me upon your linen altar.
Release me, Sir, from earthly contrition
And liberate me through my submission.

__________________________________

Doggerel Pundit has been my poetry mentor and teacher for several months now, and has helped me immensely with the technical aspects of my poetry. As part of this, he has given me the assignment of writing twelve sonnets. Honestly, I bridle under the strict structure of the sonnet, but I'm trying.

One sonnet down, eleven more to go.

Once again...

As in many things, the anticipation has been delicious. But schedules and responsibilites seem once again to have set themselves up as impediments to time spent between friends.

All dressed up, and nowhere to go... Story of my life. At least this time, perhaps when things slow down a bit and desks clear, we'll have a chance to do lunch. The weather is warming nicely, and Spring teases us with one nice day followed by a cold day. But each time she does, the cold one is less brutal by contrast than the one before, so Winter is surely losing it's grip on us completely.

Perhaps on a warm day, lunch al fresco would be nice.

I look forward to it, Friend.

Okay, so it's not an Easter Story...

A long time ago, back in the 80's, I had a very good friend who lived across town from where I lived. Jane is a pistol, was then, and I'd venture to guess still is. She was the closest I ever had to an older sister, and I love her deeply for it.

One day, on my way to her house, I was driving down the interstate and approaching the bridge over White River. A horrible smell entered the car, and my first thought was that some poor animal had died in the area and was rotting near the road. It was a wet, dank smell, algae and rot, stagnant and acrid. And it was getting stronger.

After a moment, I felt something. I felt something against the backs of my legs, like a cat rubbing its greeting. I looked down and saw nothing. Then I felt this "nothing" slip up between my knees to sit on my lap. Then the pressure of paws walking up my chest, as cats do, to sniff my face. The sensation was unmistakable, my cats do this to me now. After feeling little puffs of that dead smelling air on my face, it lowered itself back onto my lap, stepped back onto the floorboards, and was gone. The entire experience only took a few seconds, and no, I had not consumed any mind altering substances.

I arrived at Jane's house in a complete state of freak and amazement and shared my story with her and Barb, another friend who at the time worked with me. Ah, such fodder for humor, but I was sure it had really happened.

A few days later, it happened again. And on the subsequent trip, it happened again. The smell lessened, but the other sensations remained the same and sometimes were even stronger, more intense. I could feel whiskers now, and the form was more defined. Finally, Barb could stand it no more, and asked me to pick her up on the way to Jane's so she could "see the cat."

She was not disappointed. At the same spot where I first was found by this cat, it entered the car and stroked Barb's legs. She froze, leaned back in her seat as far as she could push herself. "It's here, isn't it?" I asked. "Yes," was all she could manage. It stroked itself on the backs of her legs, climbed onto her lap, sat down, walked its front paws up her chest, and sniffed her face just as it had mine that first day. Then it came to my side of the car, rubbed the backs of my legs, and settled in. It took several miles for it to finally fade away, and Barb was properly unsettled. I would have expected no less.

Now at Jane's house it was Barb who talked about the cat in my car. Jane, still a skeptic, just smirked and nodded, secure in her own skepticism that we were "full of it." After a while, we got down to the business at hand, which was our little "arts" sessions in the back room. When it was time to go, Barb and I went out to the car, and opened our doors.

From the front step of her house, Jane called out "Here, kitty kitty kitty." When I asked what she was doing, she said "Calling your cat." Sure, I thought, very funny. The cat had faded miles before arriving at Jane's house.

The next drive to Jane's house did not produce the cat. She asked if it had gotten into the car, and I said that it hadn't. No smirk this time.

A few days later, I get this very funny phone call. From Jane, I might add. "Come over here now and get this cat. It's driving me crazy." Seems she had started seeing shadows and movements from the corners of vision, dashing into the hall, around corners, into the kitchen. All of them was, well, cat sized. Dark little shadow with a tail. And apparently it liked it there. I never was able to coax it back into the car.

I miss that cat.

He is Risen...

Put aside the chocolate bunnies and the jelly beans and spend this day with your families. No basketball, no tacky 80's movies on the local channel, just time with the family. We don't do that enough these days, and what better opportunity to resurrect the love in your family than the day of resurrection.

The chocolate bunnies will still be there tomorrow. It's not like they're going to run off, you know.

Letters, oh we get Letters...

I reached into the old mailbag tonight and found this comment to a post I wrote ages ago on pop culture and it's negative affects on society. Now, after all this time, someone decides to comment.

Judy, who's email and such shall remain confidential, had the following to say:

People like you frighten me. Images in music and art are reflections of our society, not exhortations for the masses to act upon. There will always be those troubled souls searching for some sort of justification for their violent nature. Believe me, if musicians weren't around to blame, these folks would be finding another "explanation" for their psychosis. Who knows? Maybe they would be saying that Jesus made them do it. (the Crusades????)

The images that these icons promote appeals to young masses simply because they are human -- and young adults. Sex speaks to them, because their sexual identities are just coming into being. They glorify violence because they are conflicted inside, and regardless of what they might say, all human beings feel angry and violent at times. Better that these young people seek their release vicariously through these musical artists.

I understand the need to look toward pop culture as the problem, but I believe there are worse demons in the world. How many are killed by war each day? How many women are subjugated throughout the world, and even in our own country through domestic violence? Why are there such racial and cultural divides in our society? Artists, poets and musicians (at least, I believe, the great majority) produce some truthful messages...ones that uncluttered minds embrace.

Well, I just couldn't resist responding. After mailing it I decided (at the prompting of the Spousal Unit) that it really needed to be posted:

Interesting train of thought, claiming that I frighten you, since I am also a musician. I have been a vocalist for years, as well as a graphics artist, a painter, a sculpter, have worked in pen and ink, a poet, an essayist, and an actor. I have experience in many aspects of the arts, performing and otherwise.

Now, that said, let me also add that in every medium, in every art, the artist has to be responsible to his audience as well as to his own self _expression. Irresponsible self _expression is nothing more than masturbation with a price tag. Irresponsible self _expression which negatively impacts an entire generation is obscene.

Now, since I've tossed that word into the ring, let me qualify its use. I also write and draw much using erotic themes, some dark, some not. It has been called pornographic by some, and tame as milk toast by others. The most important thing, however, is that I understand what is art and what is merely pornographic.

So let's examine your premise that this music appeals to the young because they are young. This music appeals to them for exactly the same reason Deep Purple, Alice Cooper, The Doors, Vanilla Fudge, Steppenwolf, and Lou Reed appealed to my generation: our parents hated it. Not the sex, not the exortation of drug use, not the anti-war propaganda contained within, only that our parents hated it. Pure and simple. And we delighted in our rebellion, as impotent as it was. And in the ultimate act of rebellion, we sometimes emulated the lyrics to piss off our parents.

We looked at "free love" and "tune in, turn on and tune out" as a means to an end. It was Cult, Counter Culture, and cool. Now what does the youth have today in it's place? Mysogeny. Violence. Objectification of persons by race, religion, and sex. Class envy. Is it a symptom of where these kid were raised? Hardly, as the largest part of the gangsta and violent metal movement are pampered upper middle class kids looking for the danger of rebellion. Indulged children in adult bodies with little or no impulse control, sexualized by their own parents' irresponsibility, and pandered to by a media who recognized a gold mine when they saw it. They have never been taught a fundamental sense of discernment, either in the home or in the school, and society as a whole now pays for the lack of genuine guidance they needed as children.

There is no need to look at "pop culture" as the problem. It flings itself in the faces of us all on a daily basis. Slutwear in the little girl department at any department store is both a symptom and a cause. Barebacking is both a symptom and a cause. Rainbow parties are both a symptom and a cause. And all of them will affect the next generation negatively as they engrain themselves into popular culture.

But the best part of the entire comment left is that it completely missed the point of the entire original post. That I find both amusing and sad.

There, I've said my piece. Now discuss.

Goodness and light... goodness and light...

I realized the other day that I had lost a little bit of weight. When shopping for pants, I found that I no longer needed the size 26's I'd been wearing, but fit quite comfortably in a pair of size 24 Gloria Vanderbilts that were on sale at the local Meijer. Talk about thrilled. So I dug deep and bought two pair, one khaki and one black.

I needed that.

Even more future...

SlagleRock, the much beloved nephew, has looked at the future through a slightly different lense than I did...

I am saddened and very frustrated with the direction I see our nation hurtling, with people wrapping up their politics in false caring and smuggly refusing to consider anything which contradicts their own predetermined agendas on many extreme issues.

Volumes of information have released over the last several days, information made available to the courts years ago by nurses and other care givers which completely contradicts what the courts decided was "The Truth" in this case. And even with this mounting evidence, graphic and disturbing as it is, there are many individuals and institutions which refuse to consider any of it. They chose instead to cast dispursions on those persons who came forward, discounting and dismissing any evidence.

"Why didn't they come forward before now?" They did. There are sworn afidavits from 2003.

"They're just using this to further their fundamentalist [fill in denomination], neo-con, pro-life, closed minded cause." And that dragon has two heads, both of which can leave a nasty bite.

"Well, no one should be forced to live like that." Conversely, no one should be forced to die like that. This is not the gnawing emptiness you feel from skipping a meal. This is the agony of feeling your body disolve as it desparately consumes itself in a futile effort to survive.

"I'm sick of hearing about it. It's all they talk about over and over on the news." Listen now, or no one will be there to listen when it's all about you.

We find ourselves on Good Friday immersed in a whole new passion. We have screamed ourselves hoarse, either demanding the death of an innocent or pleading for her life. And as that day almost two thousand years ago, the corruption of the judges in upholding the Law has made the decision.

In our future?

"Darling, I'm home. Anything interesting happen today?"

"Oh, not much. Talked to your mom today."

"How's she doing?"

"She's fine. She was a little worried about your dad. Seems he forgot where the car was parked at the mall again today."

"Yes, poor old dad's getting a bit forgetful. How's he doing now?"

"Much better. She found out he didn't have an advanced directive, so the nice people from the little clinic at their retirement village came to the mall and deprived him of oxygen for a few minutes. Oh, that reminds me, don't forget your good suit's in the cleaners."

"Thank you, Dear. Yes, poor old Dad. Well, at least he's not suffering any more. How's Mom doing?"

"A lot better now. Seems he was the one who drove them to the mall in the first place, and she ended up having to call a cab to get home. But she sends her love."

"I'll give her a call later. And the kids? Any problems with them?"

"Well... yes... I... had to put one of them down today."

"Oh... Well, which one?"

"Little Bobby... Now dear, I know he was your favorite and Little League was getting ready to start and all, but I really didn't have much of a choice..."

"If you say so... How'd it happen?"

"He was out having a catch with the Whitfield boys down the street, and took a pretty good lick to the head. That Petie Whitfield's got quite an arm... Anyway, he dropped like a steer at Uncle Ferd's farm on slaughtering day."

"Ouch! What happened then? He didn't suffer did he?"

"Oh, no Dear, not at all. He laid there for a while, and that nice lady down the street, what's her name... something Gomphers... anyway, she came over and looked him over and decided he was just too far gone to save. She's a certified hospice discharge planner, you know. She does this kind of thing every day."

"Well glad to know she was there to help out..."

"Yes, she was very sweet about it. She tested all of his responses and everything. He was just limp as a dishrag, and even nudging didn't bring him around, so we just let him go. Took a few minutes, and he started to struggle and push the pillow away, but she said that it was all involuntary and happens all the time... he wasn't really feeling it."

"That's a comfort. Yeah, I'm going to miss that boy... Bobby, right?"

"Yes. Bobby."

"Yes... So, what's for dinner?"

Balancing on the Edge.

Have you ever walked on an edge or along a beam, one foot in front of the other, balanced yet not completely? You continue on, comforted when the edge is clean and smooth and straight, concerned when it seems crumbly or unsettled.

When you reach a solid spot, the urge is to hurry along, to complete quickly what is easy. But when you reach a span which is compromised, where the footing is unsure, the temptation is to slowly move an inch at a time, fearful of the fall, stiff and stilted with overbalance and over compensation.

In reflection it would seem clearly better, as a man or a woman, a wife, a friend or a lover, to reverse that pattern. Linger in the smooth areas to enjoy them, and not dawdle in the rocky and difficult ones. Often in midst of difficulty is the most beauty, the greatest reward, even the greater chance of finding a serenity never before found and never experienced before.

If you find yourself forced to leave that path, you find warm grass and cool water just inches from your difficulty. As is also the case, often the smoothest stretches are through the most dangerous environs, craggy and rough, with tempests which pound below and seek to pull you deep and far from your path. The path is constant, and the way may seem easy and well traveled, but in fact it is a deception.

Look at your path and how you are walking it. Then take a moment to stand at the edge and open your eyes to what surrounds you. If you fell, or if you decided to step down, where would you find yourself? Even what looks like a dark abyss can be a beautiful moon shadow concealing warm arms and a good heart. And what seems a safe harbor can be riddled with tricky tides that push and pull you mercilessly.

And so now I stand here, with the crosswinds picking up and the gusts causing the pebbled and sandy path to shift, one foot on that fragile edge with a great unknown beyond it. Decisions must be made involving choices with enormous potental for both good and bad, impacting far more people than just this one tormented soul.

To go or to stay? To remain in a personal stasis or to push myself toward greater potential personal expansion? To stay safely in routine or break loose into uncharted seas? To continue to accept the pain and and frustration with which I am intimately familiar, or to gamble with what lies hidden in the shadows, be it happiness or a different kind of pain? Regardless of the decision or the action taken, whichever direction I go the decision cannot be for me alone.

I am not simply one person: mother, wife, employee, co-worker, friend, lover, counselor, rock, feathers, rage, and warm softness, all of these and more. Each of them is either an extension or an opening around the well worn edge of a single puzzle piece depicting on its surface a fair-faced and red haired woman with a fatigued soul and a need for direction. And on each jig-sawed extention, within each opening about the circumfrance of that piece are others, many others, inter-connected and inter-dependent, and all affected by what happens to that single piece, as they would be with any piece in the complex web of this life.

This decision is within reach of my fingertips, just over the edge of the path.

Moments from the Weekend

Texas is beautiful, and didn't meet a single person down there who wasn't courteous. For the most part, they were beyond courteous and actually so very friendly that I could see myself living there and fitting in easily. I loved it. The people, the cities, the shops, the variety... It was like heaven.
**********

I heard Terry Schiavo's voice last night on "Coast to Coast AM" and heard her say "Hi Daddy." I was stunned. No, I'm not one of those people who can hear hidden messages in recordings, or see subliminal messages in ads. I'm not that gullible. But I know what I heard and it was devistating.
**********

HumbleDevilDog can now legitimately lay claim to my "Single Malt Scotch" cherry after providing me with two wonderful examples. I had never had a single malt before, and believed that I actually hated Scotch, based on a bad experience with what must have been a very cheap bar-blend. The Dalmore was light, fruity, slightly sweet, a spring evening. The other, the name escapes me completely, was dusky, dark, smokey and sultry, a night of pleasure and ardent, risky sex in a bottle.

So, HDD, thank you for taking that cherry and doing it with such finesse and elegance. And I know how you feel...
**********

If it is considered humane to "allow her to die" by refusing her food and water, then why don't we change our penal codes to allow that as a method of execution? Take Scott Peterson for example. Strap him to a bed, give him a medication which renders him partially paralyzed and incapable of speaking for himself, and deny him food and water for as long as it takes. Obviously it's not cruel and unusual to do to an innocent woman who's only "crime" is being handicapped, so what's to keep us from using it in the state and federal prisons as a method of execution?

Works for me.
**********

A kiss can be the perfect act, with absoltely nothing else required to delve into the dimly lit, sensual places I keep secret, fed by want, yearning, and promise. Aarrggh.
**********

You know, I'm rather sick of being called a Nazi because I believe in the rule of law, that life is sacred, that people need to be responsible for themselves, that people should be able to spend their income as they see fit. Hardly a Nazi philosophy.

Well, let me tell you who the real Nazis are. The real Nazis are the ones who are currently acting to cleanse the population of those they see as unfit to live. It started with the unborn. Now it's the intellectually and communcatively disabled. Next? Perhaps the elderly, maybe the mentally "deficient" or maybe the irreparably mentally ill? Sound familiar? It should. Sounds like 1936, doesn't it? But I'm the Nazi. Go figure.
**********

I want to move to Dallas/Ft. Worth. I want to be surrounded by the wonderful people I met there, and live in a place a wonderful as that pair of cities. Yes, I know. Want in one hand and...

Spring

Today is one of those beautiful days that lull us and lead us to believe that winter is finally over. Deep down, we all know this is not the case and that there will be more days of cold, rain, perhaps even snow before Winter finally accepts the conditions of surrender to temperamental Spring.

Still, when we look out on a day like today it is not difficult at all to throw all logic aside and suspend belief, if only for one beautiful afternoon.

The sun touches places that have not felt it’s warmth in months, the breezes tease and toy with hair too long covered by hats and scarves, and the soul is serenaded by the few brave songbirds which have ventured north well ahead of their flocks. Even the most jaded of observers cannot deny the green sprouts and tender buds emerging from their wintry graves.

It will not be long before the golf courses are emerald again, or the parks a riot of color. Soon, too, the pools will be open and screams and squeals will fill the air as children splash and play under the endless sky. Families will set out feasts in open shelters, and lovers will steal away for moments of sensual bliss on blankets of soft, green grass.

Today is merely a promise that winter will soon be subdued, and such a lovely promise it is.

The Pacifier

Let me preface this entire thing by saying that I am not a big Vin Diesel fan. His sibilent lisping speech drives me nuts, and not in the "warm fuzzy" way.

That said, I went to see the new Disney feature, The Pacifier, this afternoon with the Spousal Unit and Progeny. And after the silliness that was supposed to pass as a Navy SEAL mission in the first few moments, and the fact that a SEAL kept refering to others as "Soldiers" and never called anyone out for calling him a "Soldier," I have to say I rather enjoyed the movie.

The premise was farfetched, a Navy SEAL protecting a famly and turning into a nanny, but given that, I was entertained by how he had to adjust to his charges, as well as how they ultimately adjusted to his quirks and idiocyncracies. The kids were kids, the teens weren't entirely "cartoon teens" and the Ninjas were a hoot.

You want a move that puts a man in a good light? Lets him be a man and not look ridiculous? Shows him being strong and a good influence, vulnerable but not stupid? Well, this does that. He makes the best of a very bad situation, and does it on his own terms.

Yes, it's light family entertainment. But I'm so sick of buffoonish charicatures of "father figures" that this was refreshing.

Matinee material to be sure, but worth that. Just be prepared for a hysterical performance by Carol Kane in a small role in the first half of the movie. Just delightful. And Scott Campbell from Kids In The Hall was every pretentious amateur theatre hack director I have ever seen, rolled into one very funny package.

Pack the kids in the mini-van and head to the multiplex. And take an extra napkin from the snackbar. You'll get something in your eye during the final sequence.

Photo: Adjusted.

Roni, the photo artist I have linked a few posts down, gave me some ideas for making a photo look better, making less a "snapshot" and more something a little beautiful. So I had to try. Something mundane, something uninteresting, flawed and imperfect. Make it a little better.

Did I do okay?

Love?

Love's a cruel and fickle bitch sometimes.

You meet, you fall in love, you marry, "for better or for worse" seems to become a series of misadventures and small tragedies that grow on themselves... The happy times grew fewer, the sad times become the norm. Touch is nonexistant and resentments build.

Friends tire of the everpresent cloud and eventually leave. Resentment becomes bitterness.

Love never really dies, but metamorphoses into something foreign and cold.

Love's a fickle bitch. She's a tramp and a whore who lures you into her chambers with promises of things she cannot ever fulfill, then you're trapped with her, chained to her bedpost, obligated to her, enslaved to her.

Sometime she makes the torment even worse by placing near you someone you cannot have, close but unattainable, then lays languidly, cruelly on the temple of her bed to watch your agony.

She's hardcore, impulsive, impetuous, meanspirited. She takes the things away that mean the most, and passes off palid substitutions, demanding you accept them.

So much for Love.

This has been a test of the Emotional Disaster System. Had this been an actual Emotional Disaster, you would have been directed to the nearest source of Chocolate. Thus concludes our test of the Emotional Disaster System. Thank you.

A Loss...

It is over.

Please, go give your condolences if you have the time in your day or the depth of heart to do so. I believe you all do.

Friday Bloggage

Well, I just got my confirmation email from LuLu.com, and the books have been shipped. I should have them in plenty of time for the trip to Texas.

Make sure you have a little pocket change on Friday Night, as we will be auctioning one off for Mr. du Toit's Sniper Fund. I'd love to see him get a nice fat check from the Blogfest. Hell, $20 would be a drop in the bucket as those things go, scopes and such, but it all adds up, doesn't it?

Yes, I'm working on the next one, and hope to start writing in earnest tonight. I had to rework the prologue just a touch to accomodate someone's wishes not to appear, but that's perfectly fine. I respect that. I may feel the same way, especially if some strange, demented Hoosier woman tried to write me in as a domestic terrorist. But I can work around that.

The cast of characters remains essentially the same, with the addition of a few persons in other states, bloggers all. Sure, that makes it a "Niche-book" but I see no problem with that. As long as you all enjoy it, that's what matters.

While I'm on here for a moment before heading to work, I want you to scamper over to Blackfive and take a read. I want to see that movie he has posted about, Gunners Palace I believe. Also, follow his trackback to Soldiers Angels and see what you can do to help out. Those are wonderful people, doing beautiful things. And we can all use a few "brownie points" for our souls sometimes. Trust me on that.

Have a good Friday and try to have a satisfying weekend.

Beauty

One of the true beauties of the internet is its way of destroying boundaries. Not only international ones, but political, economic, and personal boundaries as well. A person can sit in their home, or at a table in a cafe, and discover people thousands of miles away. They can share something as simple as conversation, or as intimate as their souls, and almost everything in between.

Tonight I got a glimpse into a soul. And it is filled with beauty.

I encourage you to go visit his gallery and enjoy the beauty that is Roni Segoly's world. I do not think you will be disappointed in the least.

Rats Out

Skittering through unlocked door,
Making your way down to the floor,
Moving in manners rodentine,
Freedom for ratties, so divine!

Under the sofa, round the chair,
'Twixt the loose pillows, on the stair,
Into the bedroom, through the toys,
Curious wonders, steeped with joys.

Pestering cats along the way,
Pausing for naps and meals and play,
Fanciful pleasures keenly sought,
Wrestling matches bravely fought.

Ruckus and tussle, squeek and squeal,
Patter and scatter, taste and feel,
'Til Mistress sees you've run away,
Having Rat Independence Day.

Traitorous cats betray your lair.
(Felines are hardly ever fair!)
Spying you, she puts up a chase,
Capturing you in young embrace.

Another time will come, and soon.
Just bide your time. One night or noon
Fortune will smile upon you, then
Freedom will find you once again.

Spring

I heard the robins hollering
And spring is soon to follow. Sing
From slender limbs in naked trees
While snowflakes, Winter's final tease
Blanket the grass in fragile lace,
A dainty veil across her face.
Cocking his head and listening long
To hear the earthworms' silent song
From deep within the waking earth.
Seldom is Spring an easy birth.
With steady winds and driving rain
Weeping and whispering in her pain.
Yet still through labor's harsh embrace,
With Sun's caresses on her face,
Spring comes. Each year she is reborn
From winter's womb one gentle morn,
Gazing up at the warming sky
While robins sing her lullaby.

Played

It's a bad feeling, that sense of having been played, of having been toyed with, used as a trifle, a diversion. We want and need acceptance, to be appreciated and even desired, and go to great lengths to find these things. We open ourselves up to show ourselves worthy, exposing secrets and pains and joys, with the understanding that such exposure is reciprocal, a gift given for our own emotional nudity and vulnerability. We understand that is required, an act of trust and honesty sacrificed.

Knowing in advance that these are the parameters is one thing, as long as all of the parties in the social contract accept them, or at the very least are aware of all of the implications and potentials of that contract. It is quite another to obscure or deny them, especially from one's self.

I suppose most of us don't even realize we are playing ourselves. We fantasize, rationalize, romantisize, compromise, dream of thighs, grasps and sighs, and in the end we realize that the reality bears little if any resemblence to the promise, real or implied.

Call for Letters

Blackfive, one of the finest people with whom I have been acquainted online, is asking for letters to a group of Tankers. Now, I know from experience you are all amazing letter writers, and I hope you will avail yourselves for his effort.

Please, go over, write a letter, and get it to him. Mine is posted below.

Dearest Tanker,

Spring has finally arrived, albeit modestly, in Indianapolis. Three days ago a robin stood his ground just five feet away from me, listening for the earthworms' song that would signal his dinner. The crocus bulbs have begun to push their tender green heads through the loose, damp earth, and the air has the smell of fertile mud. It is resurrection and rebirth, and the change is palpable.

The beauties that are spring are everywhere. I hope that as you work your days and your nights you are able to find the signals of the changing season around you as well. Know that as you look down and see a small, sweet green shoot fighting for it's way to the sun, your family and friends and love, even a love perhaps not known to you now, look down and see the tender grass fighting toward the same sun. Know that even across the thousands of miles that separate us all, we can share the miracle that is spring.

My online radio is playing George Benson, and his songs stir the soul with rememberances of love and life. Take the time to let the music touch you and bring you home through your headset or earbuds, and let your soul be touched. The goodness of your soul needs fed, and a song can do that almost as well as the sun breaking through on a rainy day. Close your eyes and let the music caress you and know it, too, links us all.

Take care, little brother. Live well, little sister. Spring is here.

Yours sincerely,

Lila Meyer,
"Mamamontezz"

Call for Submissions

I need anyone who fancies themselves a writer to submit a small piece of sensual fiction to be included in a small book, an anthology of erotic essays, poems, or short stories.

Here is an example of the writing I am looking for. Delicious, stimulating, but not "over the top" in any way.

Send me your email addy in comments with a note saying you're interested. Or post a story on your site and track back to this post.

No one will make any money on this. Any royalties will be donated to charity.

Interested?

It's war, folks.

I only have a moment, so this will be quick.

Go to Misha's and read the post on the FEC and Bloggers and the declared war against us. Then read this and follow the links.

I will be posting more on this later, as time permits, but I want you all fired up NOW. Get reading, and better yet, get writing. Posts, letters, emails. You know the drill.

Lunch Break... I'm sitting here thinking of this situation, and what I can see in my mind's eye are people being removed from the streets for standing on a soapbox and speaking their minds. Everyone was so terrified of the Patriot Act, of the gulags filled with dissenters in a Gitmo-esque scene. But no, it will not be that big scary Bogieman that will cause citizens to be harassed and harangued, their livelyhoods and homes threatened. It will be Campaign Law.

If I cannot speak my mind on the electronic street corner, is the actual street corner far behind? If I cannot discuss the merits or shortcomings of a candidate in the company of virtual friends, will my circle of "face" friends be next?

Break's over. I'm sure I'll be even more outraged as the evening progresses.

Call for Help: Cpl. Ryan Autery

Okay. Don't buy my book right now. Do this instead.

Make checks to ''Ryan A. Autery Medical Transition Fund'' and send donations to: Bank of America, Nissan Banking Center, Attn: Mark Combs, P. O. Box 2206 Smyrna, Tenn. 37167. Please include Combs' name in the address.

His family needs your help.

And my thanks as an American, as an ex-military-brat, and as a supporter of our men and women in uniform to Mr. Tim Chavez of the Tennesseean for his consistant and compassionate support for our troops and their families. Mr. Chavez, sadly people like you are too few and too far between. I salute you.

Ah, the smell of Flop Sweat...

Ah, Academia, methinks you have met your match.

Dearest Emma, your protests have gotten to the point of being comically absurd, and I am not the only one to find them as such, laughable and pathetic in their outrage. Particularly amusing was your pretentious and incorrect use of the word "mouldy." I still laugh when thinking of that, particularly coming from an Esteemed Academic.

The Doggerel Pundit, he who's verse is consistantly delicious and wickedly on point, has found you so as well.

And if some of you have not gotten him into your blogrolls, now is a prime time to do so.

GGMR Disorder

Yes, we have a new addition to the Montezz Menagerie.

Ain't she cute? This is Beth, named in honor of Beth from Yeah,Righ,Whatever. the human version is wonderful, but this little rodent one's pretty darned cute too.

And not to worry. That's not the permanant abode. I just have to do the "Bathtub Rat Social" to introduce everyone and let the Old Timers get aquainted with the New Kids while the big cage is cleaned out and made ready. This is just for overnight.

Swamp the Strib

Hugh Hewitt has issued a call that I belive a great many of you might consider answering.

There are those of you reading this humble bit of fluff with a talent and a drive to make a project such as this a force of reckoning. Acidman, Velociman, Emperor Misha, Sir George, Blackfive, Dean Esmay, DokRussia, Kim du Toit, Stephen, all of these writers come to mind immediately when I look at this idea.

And there are more, many more of you who would be an asset to this.

I encourage all of you to go read this and consider it seriously.

I Did It!

Remember that book I've been writing? And how I finished it the other day? And how excited I was about it?

Well, I'm even more excited now!

Even his Imperial Rottiness was pleased. What more could a girl want?