Deleting the War Mongers

Deleting the War Mongers.


Deleting the War Mongers

Jeffrey Goldberg was a guard in the largest prison in Israhell where Palestinians are held for years without out due process of law. Kids are even stuck in this jail. Today, Goldberg is an awarding winning mouthpiece for the empire as national correspondent at The Atlantic. In the past, I read his writings to understand the latest ploy used in US of Constant Wars foreign policies. This morning, I un-followed him on Twitter. I cannot take the lies anymore or the upside down inside out non-analysis

IT is not that complicated Jeff; war is unhealthy for all living things.

How do intelligent, articulate men and women writers continue to creep around in the darkened unethical shadows, yet thrive in the limelight? Is not an astute writer’s onus that he or she easily sees through the smoke and mirrors?

My peacenik perspective started the first day my mother taught me how to talk to hummingbirds and continued to forge waves through an adult life where I continue to see zip value in murdering others to acquire land, resources, and/or put one religiosity higher than another.

I NEVER subscribed to violence as a solution to bring about peace. It goes against every gut feeling I know, it goes against every observation I ever witnessed in nature, and it goes against every value and ethic I was taught.

There is some hole, some ungodly, unholy soul sick gap in people like Goldberg. If one was to do a fair psychological assessment of him, I guarantee he has a history perfect for this role as flogger blogger liar for the empire.

Here is an example of his crap (see link at end of this paragraph) – you decide for yourself. Yet, if the American public is to wake to the reality of its govt’s. policies to murder Arabs, then Goldberg has to be removed from his place on the stage of liars. “Compared with violent death rates, the number of dead in Gaza is small . . . Hamas is trying to get Israel to kill as many Palestinians as possible.”

Goldberg’s article =

Moreover, Goldberg goes on, “Dead Palestinians represent a crucial propaganda victory for the nihilists of Hamas . . .”

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#Peace, #War, #Jeffery Goldberg, #Gaza, #The Atlantic, #Hamas, #OpEdwriters

Finalizing Some Drips

Today, Tony the Carpenter managed a ‪#‎miracle‬. For years, the ADA loo in the hut has been cranky and requiring forever to refill its tank.‪#‎ADA‬ stands for American Disability Act – the toilet manufactured taller for those in wheelchairs or suffering from cranky body joints like my husband’s affliction as an aging man of the sea. I procured new loo innards and within minutes Tony installed certain parts, rejected others, and then magically required it to flush faster than the wink of a toucan.

The lame question of the day is why did i wait so long for an expert plumber? Until now, I never knew Tony C was more than a superior tropical hardwood craftsman. The convenience of a loo, be one on land or sea, is a luxury for too many on this ‪#‎planet‬.

My water source is a pristine spring in the creek on the south side of the finca. It is a drip system to a cool looking holding tank tower i designed to look somewhat like a ‪#‎Balinese‬ drum tower.

During torrential rain the entire creek morphs into a highly raucous noisy state cascading with such force one could propel a jetliner. When I first lived here, during and after rain storms the hidden mt. creek with its two waterfalls – short distance below the hut – sounded like living next to the Hollywood Freeway in Studio City (LA) on a Friday night. The south and north quebradas (creeks) occasionally remind me of when i had to fly too regularly to and fro San Francisco (SF) to LA as part of my duties. I was VP of creative services for the Pacific Rim for a behemoth ad agency.

One foggy morning, I walked into my corner office on the 22nd floor in the financial district in ‪#‎SF‬, looked out the windows into the smog ridden pea soup and considered how much I hated cleverly compellingly selling soap, perfume, booze, airlines, and other fortune 500 crap. I picked up my portfolio case, and some other papers, and walked gallantly out of there, to never return.

There have been a few moments in my life, when a spontaneous response panned out, such was this awakening. If you ever watched the TV series ‪#‎MadMen‬, it is too accurate in its depiction of this horrible scam of a business. My fat ego on Scotch and coke (snow, not the beverage) put me in this unethical creative pursuit.
Grins were all around, as I took the elevator to the granite clad lobby. Unbeknown to me a pool was operating on what date I would pull the cord on my paisley parachute. When I sauntered through the immense glass lobby doors of the skyscraper, I put my London Fog raincoat on and I gleefully walked to my design studio at 833 Market Street. There, work apron adorned, inside the camerawork dark room I put Big Brother and the Holding Company on the turntable, turned it up to full volume, and proceeded to reinvent by life.

I have a filter from ‪#‎Murica‬ to keep small pebbles from entering the water line into the hut, yet, this is the jungle, unpredictable, and tough on human made equipment. Tony C cleaned out all the lines to the kitchen sink and faucet over the bird decorated Mexican sink in the loo. If you are not following the linkage in this story, remember, I am more Jungian than literal.

Gee, now i actually have more than a dribble in the three incoming water sources in the hut. It did not bother me to spend too long a time hand washing dishes. A conservationist’s lesson in Zen is my take on such nuances of finca existence?

JWT sued me, natch. Luckily, I never paid for the consumption of cocaine I snorted up my pert WASP nose. My friends were political attorneys and noisy journos. They provided the white powder, free to moi. As a collective of suits, they also represented me. No monetary settlement was required by either parties (me or JWT). It was a push (a gambler’s term).

Getting clean and ‪#‎sober‬ was the utmost responsible act I accomplished during my entire ranking life. I was a a bloody fixer. Today, I remain a recovering fixer. This means I do not enable others be they ‪#‎POTUS‬, or help a close buddy to carry on their madness of self-defeating self-destructing acts. I tell it like it is.

Yes, I practice a program of ‪#‎recovery‬, yet after 30 years, I am barely conscious of its 24/7 ramification. It fits into my remarkable life like an invisible glove. As AA ers say, it works if you work it.

For those who drink glasses of vino, or one or two tumblers of their favorite alcohol based beverage, or slurp down micro brewery beer, and then no more, your responsible imbibing is not a problem for me. Unfortunately, my consumption was not of this ilk, and eventually the chemicals took control of too many elements in my former life. Today, no longer a functional ‪#‎addict‬, I have not one desire to throw away my sobriety. I also am not a walking temperance union solidified into one female on a crusade. It is what it is, phenomenological speaking, of course.

‪#‎JWT‬ remains an even larger international meta-advertising agency selective in its seductions. The network I established working there is either dead or appear as walking Hermes zombies around their elegant pool patios in the ‪#‎Hamptons‬ and/or ‪#‎Napa‬ Valley estates. Those who opened the escape hatch to daylight and freedom from soul corruption are like me, neither wealthy nor poor. Some of these fine folks are friends on Fedbook, not because of ancient allegiance to JWT, rather, apparently, they continue to find my writing mildly amusing, or maybe there is another betting pool afoot.

It is a program of ‪#‎honesty‬. If you trade up or down for some other crutch you are in denial conning yourself. The ‪#‎Creator‬ wants us to be happy, contented souls not tortured by chemicals and other addictions.

Since the ‪#‎ArabSpring‬, I discovered how ‪#‎Muslims‬, men and women, are of a too similar near different weave of cloth. Not drinking and drugging is not a cross to bare, or a mantra to expound, or five prayers a day to offer. The followers of ‪#‎Islam‬ practice a ‘clean’ lifestyle, just like I do. We both rely on faith where ‪#‎independence‬ is valued encircled in a service above self community. My faith by birth, ‪#‎Presbyterianism‬, is slimmed down to the golden rule as the primary premise.

‪#‎Judaism‬, Islam, and ‪#‎Christianity‬ stem from an identical ‪#‎Abrahamic‬ origin. So, could someone soberly explain why we are at each other’s throats?

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Where Do They Go?

While asleep during my nightly slumber dreaming of cool azure waters and taunt sails, my Fedbook (#Facebook, #FB) numbers slightly drop-off in friendships and followers. Loyalty is an attribute i grew up with and continue to honor. Misplaced loyalty is sticking to one’s stubborn attitudes when red flags are dropping on the field. These reality signs belie a change in course is necessary (been there, done that – way too many times).

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What I perceive = these goings and leavings on #FB are shallow pool paddlers seeking refuge by trying to endear folks to them – as in an agenda not fitting what my profile page is daily designed to fulfill. Naturally, if you continue to read my posts, you are either in-line with considerations I present, or you are researching to advance and develop your perspective as regards matters I focus my own brain and heart upon. This is civil discourse, another concept I thump over physical brutality as a way to turn the tide of consciousness.

In all concerns, I am not glued to every post I offer, be it my blabberings, or a report of yours, or a link of interest. Some of you are true and truth tested compassionate friends, who in our unified quest for a better world, touch base to provide support. For these grand human beings, I salute you and thank you for taking the time to reach out with a thumbs-up, and/or make a comment.

The central point of #socialmedia is we interact with each other without malice and work together to remove the barriers and bullshit. Govt. and commerce, at the mega-level, are a crappy stinking failure at bridge building between you and i, our cultures, religions, philosophy, and various formats we devise in our never ending quest to find out stuff.

IF there is a reliable route to one planet, one healthy world, and one family of man/woman – i blare, it is here, in social media. Keep the Net free, and privacy paramount.

Long Shadows of Academia and No Bedside Manners

During my left coast #American university days, sage professors and teachers’ assistants (grad students) were beating drums for independent organic lifestyles, critical thinking as a way of life, and peace as the only solution. Today, except for my lingering buddies from SDS who continue to offer truth in the classroom, I find most of advanced academia unholy dedicated to the rigged system. What happened? How did intelligent, supposedly enlightened and overly published men and women be so easily co-opted?

Recently, my niece left her university teaching position to focus primarily on her own creative endeavors, at her studio, along with her pop-up events and hipster crafts trade shows. We never discussed the specifics, as I received the info second hand (her father). Yet, knowing myself is like knowing our gene pool. I am fairly sure Natalie Davis (see link below), artist and communitarian, decided the drooling jaws were clamping down too tightly from an over reaching administration. Her graduate piece at Cranbrook was a sewn twenty-foot long banner of baby heads and road bombs cleverly made to look like a wallpaper design from the Arts & Crafts movement.

I am also convinced one must dance a jig to achieve tenure selling one’s soul semester by semester until the faux holy water of conformity cements the brain shut and the spirit is on life support. Here safe – residing in a quiet soul bender inside going-no-where’s-ville (on and off campus) is the state of American higher education? The un-sanitized, yet 24/7 watched, animated hall locker is designed for expanding adherence to the status quo, rather than the glory of aesthetically and philosophically pushing the cultural envelope.

Natalie continues to teach with her traveling workshops within the Austin based art scene and inside chic arts communities around Texas and the other western states. Although, her upbringing was in NYC, so she also has a resonance to the city they named twice, traveling there for shows and artsy connections.

Too recently, Natalie spent a day with me, as we survived the crisis of a heart condition I knew – but denied. Hours and hours were spent with me hooked to various body hoses and electro patches sniggering one liners and her humbly working on a Florence Nightingale medal. Later, she told me it was, “a fun day.”

I could have died, so my working theory was if I told funny true to life stories and made comments to make her and me laugh, I would survive western medicine. And, so we did. Learning this snide trick as a field correspondent from Scotch-sopped mentors while reporting the atrocities we do to each other was life giving – if not sustaining.

Spending lifetimes inside news rooms, ad agencies, print shops, production studios, the back room (commercial kitchen) of my espresso cafe, and alone writing or gardening and birding, plus in the wobbly arena of politics for three decades, I grew my inbred humor. IF one can not laugh at the madness of the moment stuck in circumstances beyond our control, one becomes a depressed drunken victim to it. God gifted us humor to remind our soulfully lame species, we are not in charge.

I am a prankster, as a learned survival technique. But, in the midnight hours what wins the day is looking into your cardiologist heart and finding blessed compassion, even if reclarient on both our sides of the here and now.

For me, it is disappointing academia has gone prune-like. Professors have shrunk in social consciousness in favor of consumerism (“we educate you for a societal acceptable career”) and never ending wars? There is Greek triumph to cookie cutter education, if one subscribes to what we call cog-living holding shopping bags.

I am a radical, a free radical. My peg is not round in a square hole. It is fractal within a cosmos so remarkable we barely get a glimpse of it even with the latest optics, eh, Professor Timothy Ferris and Professor Richard Alford? And, so is yours. LOL shot 2015-04-24 at 12.50.20 PM

America is Not Heaven

May I offer this to those who think moving to #America is finding #utopia. What you see in movies – where everyone lives in magnificence and designer surroundings driving the hottie car of the year while buying whatever their heart desires is mostly a cleverly staged falsehood. 30% of kids in America go to bed hungry. The largest jail population on the planet is in America. The Bill of Rights is under assault by the #1%, who control the means of production sprouting war after war. Not all is well in #Murica (America). Yet, I am positive compared to most circumstances in #MENA, it seems the answer to one’s prayers. It may well be, yet, seeker beware.

Now, if you can can live in a small #Murica town or cool urban neighborhood, surrounded by the countryside, and love family, community, integrity, and what you do for a living while not being swallowed up by overt consumerism – then America is wonderful in its ignorance is bliss-ness.

If your rising expectations are to live like a Hollywood star or starlet and forget the roots of your culture and faith, then you are deceiving yourself. This is the immaturity of a child dreaming of a world comprised of sugar plums, magic, and fairy dust where trees shed hundred dollar bills.

Professionals with serious skills will find an easier go living in America to raise their family and pursue their career goals – if one’s education is superior and sponsored for #immigration. Got that? This is the set of keys. Be the best you can be as a human being with peace in your heart and a destiny of paying it forward awaits you.

I prefer to live in #Costa Rica (since 2007) and visit America, mainly because we land banked our wherewithal here, on purpose (no capital gain taxes). Yet, for sure, I relish living in this amazing nature country with no military and CR is not at war with any other country. Ticos are kindly, polite, and HAPPY. Hopefully, Internet access will not screw them up into wannabees where more is never enough.

Last Thursday, I returned from Murica (America) so this is my re-entry assessment. Yes, i shopped and procured items I cannot get here in CR. Yes, i took advantage of a medical system I pay into in Murica and not available here in CR, Yep, my brother’s home and it’s decor is super in elegance and exceedingly larger than my jungle hut. We both have glorious views. In fact, he is adding on and renovating his first floor with superior products (copper clad wood windows, french doors, etc.) not available here in CR. Have you figured out the sibling competitive angle is inherent?

Yet, I am having hardwood floors (direct from the local mill) installed in my hut’s studio not available in Murica – neither in weight, quality, nor price. Retired Bro lives in a beautiful ranch countryside – the Texas Hill Country. One must drive at least 25 miles to shop for a toothbrush, plus the intrusion of development is faster than lightning hitting a prairie dog compound. I live in a decidedly gorgeous remote jungle, no friggin’ doubt about it. Yet, it is 25 minutes to the ‘city’ and it is 20 minutes the other direction to tropical beaches more wild and spectacular than you can imagine. There are no freeways, here. There are barely passable one way bridges instead of overpasses larger than Yankee Stadium (the olde one). And, of course there are no Buckee’s in CR.

Bro railed at me I need to manage my money better and my response was nearly spitting out my molars, but in quiet despair (mine, not his). Of the two of us, my simple, yet loverly pristine lifestyle is doable and exceedingly reasonable. He is the one with the $350 per month utility bill, and I am the one with the $22 per month (all hydro generated off the national CR grid) one. The utility bill for three businesses and my husband’s and our home in the Hamptons, NY, averaged $4 to $5.5 Gs per month without adding cost of propane fuel for heat (we had three 450 gallon tanks buried so we could buy at wholesale at NY docks prices during the summertime).

Bro’s generosity knows no bounds, but then again he is currently my only heir (and not vice a versa).

My cup ‘ranneth’ over with the high style of life. It did not make me measurably happier and generated stress upon stress to sustain; year after year. Not because i was hung up on the lifestyle did I continue, year after year, but because in my blindness and concern i though i could contribute to my community, my country, AND make a creative difference along with a decent living. We each subscribe to our personalized myth and then once entrenched look for exit signs?

Traveling, of course, is greatly appreciated except for the #TSA’s bull dung (see photo attached).

The overt and covert kindness to me by my smarty pants family, while in the states is remarkable. Yet, none come here to visit allowing me to return the favors so these could be divined as guilt gifts? But, probably not – they are too self-assured for such hidden emotive agendas?

My bro was last here at Finca Vigia right after my husband died, to help me. Bro was fantastic. No, Bro is fantastic, as to why he insists on telling me how to live my life is absurd – but i think this is his fear acting out. He is an older brother. His wife also attempts to manage me. They were success junkies who managed others and budgets. Somehow, they see me as someone I am not? I am a strong personality (as they are) with uncured opinions (as they are) who has been through enough pools of burning caca to flood California (as they have not). Most of the time I nod yep, and then not dwell on the fact I can’t stand being told what to do by them, or just about anyone else. God can testify to my inherited character defect.

All creatives ‘no likee’ unsolicited input. The rest of my family also cannot stand the advice rendering – yet, I think Bro and Mrs. Bro Managers have given up on them, so I am the lucky moving target since I arrive for brief interludes.

Each time i return to the homeland, I sense the civil society fear has notched up several more levels coupled to the secure apathy inherent in the upper middle class my family inhabit. In contrast, I operate in an earthy pungent flowery universe. I believe I treat everyone lovingly with a sense of humor – the same for my superior fancy arse cardiologists to the guy banging nails at my bro’s or Tony C working in my hut laying down a floor.

No one in my family is a phony, and for this I am filled with gratitude. Yet, their orientation to time and the here and now is far far different than my own. They fill their days and nights with projects I find counterproductive to Earth’s sustainability. But, then again I am the revolutionary thinker, the writer, the ‘ranter’, and the noisy introvert who lives in the moment, in mindfulness, watching birds, growing ideas, and stirring up shit in social media.

Do i want to spend the reminder of my life as a single in the rainforest with toucans, bugs larger than my face, howling monkeys, and German Shepherds? Nope. I would like to share a partnered life with one more version of a happy brilliant sexy man who possesses little worries and a deep-seated faith in himself, and his God. The ideal candidate loves family, independence, adventure, nature, dogs, and making difference. Ah shit, this sounds like a pity pot ad in a personal column. It is not meant as such.

This is my digital journal. I jot down stuff here, rather than an actual notebook. But, I keep a small real notebook to write down (yes, pens are still circulating as implements) important crap I forget too easily including web links, ideas for articles, rants, names, concepts, and possible dialogue for my latest tome. My birding journal is more scientific and artsy.

Writers write because they have no other choice. You do have a choice. You can read this banality tongue in cheek (as proffered) or pass on by to the next instant gratification feed.

TSA sheet one